The Forgotten 90's Kick Back

This post rehashes the same ol’ formula as the first – highlighting pop culture of the 1990’s that seemingly got wiped from our memories when our brains made the Y2K update. As the title alludes, I’d like to think of this post as the unnecessary sequel that your teacher made you view on days that she desperately needed some peace and quiet for 1 hour and 33 minutes because your class spent the whole day being terrible. “Hey, stop that! Give Dillon back his X-Brain yo-yo! And quit calling him ‘The Blue Ranger’, you know that’s an insult!...Hey, you with the stirrup pants! Put those Dunkaroos down until snack time! Who poured Mondo all over these Goosebumps books? AAAHHHHHH!!!”

Beakman’s World

This Saturday morning educational show made science cool and interesting – a year before Bill Nye the Science Guy debuted and stole all the thunder. Whereas Bill Nye is still revered today, Beakman’s World vanished into obscurity quicker than that one Winslow daughter, who may or may not still be trapped in Urkel’s basement. It’s sad, really, because Beakman’s World was just as good, or dare I say, even better than Bill Nye. The show was fast paced and slightly irreverent, and receives bonus points for having one of the main characters be a dourly, disgusting man in a rat suit.

This is as dignified as I’ve ever seen a man in a rat suit look

I submitted an experiment I saw on Beakman’s World to my 4^th grade science fair that demonstrated how submarines work by using a plastic cola bottle, a balloon, and a straw. I didn’t win, and from that point on I denounced science as witchcraft and pursued a life of liberal arts…until I also failed at that, denounced it as witchcraft, and ended up in marketing. Still, Beakman’s World was a great source of entertainment even if it was thinly veiled pro-science propaganda for children.

“Did you know earthquakes are caused by the movement of tectonic plates?”

–Beakman, Level 6 Supreme Warlock

  

The Flowbee

Is your hair getting a little too long? Are you desperately lonely and don’t have a single sane friend you would trust with a pair of scissors? Have you always had the uncontrollable urge to stick your head into a Shop-Vac? Well, do I have the product for you!

Act now and the shame and ridicule are free!

The Flowbee is a self-haircut system that attaches to your vacuum cleaner, and the infomercials ran all the time in the early 90’s. I remember thinking even as a child how ridiculous of an idea this was, and how silly everyone in the commercial looked vacuuming their heads. Also, it cut your hair the exact same length unless you were constantly changing out attachments. In retrospect, maybe that’s why so many kids in the 90’s looked like one of the Lawrence brothers.

The family that Flowbees together, uh…snow peas together?

Heck, I dunno. Write your own caption.

The best part about the Flowbee is that you can still buy it on their website for $80, and they have made no effort to update any of the advertising. So there’s always the hope that its popularity can be resurrected by trust-fund hipsters.

I envision a future where every Instagram photo will look exactly like this.

Vending and Change Machines

I am changing the rules up a little bit for this entry, because vending and change machines are not something specific to the 90’s. Clearly they are still around and useful. But have you stopped to think of the advancement this field of technology has gone through the past 20 years? It was near impossible to get a vending machine to take a dollar growing up. If there was the slightest wrinkle, the most microscopic imperfection on the surface, you were better off eating that dollar than expecting to snack on some Now and Laters. To get the machine to actually work your bill had to have been 1) Freshly minted, 2) Blessed on the grave of George Washington by a Tibetan monk, 3) Transported to you by a climate controlled truck, and 4) Steam ironed in front of you by the Treasurer of the United States. Hundreds of years from now scientists will stumble upon a change machine from the 90’s and be baffled as to why we built a primitive robot whose sole, repetitive purpose was to take your dollar and hand it back to you.

“Judging by the words scrawled across it, we think it was trying to evolve.”

So there you have it; this installment is over. But don’t worry, just like your favorite 90’s sequels there will be an even more unnecessary sequel that maybe has a wacky new location or introduces a female character. But in the meantime, please remove the VHS from the VCR, apologize to Dillon for stealing his yo-yo and tell him he is totally ‘The Red Ranger’. And, as always - Be Kind. Rewind.

*whiiirrrrrrrr*…“This post rehashes the same ol’ formula…”

The Kindest Rejection Letter

From the desk of:

Henry Q. Kloutzenheimer

CorporoCorp  

All the bureaucracy, none of the emotion.™

Dear Nathan,

We have received and evaluated your application for employment, and we regret to inform you that you are a sack of monkey butts.

These. You are these in a sack.

I know you may be surprised at being called a container of primate derrieres by a huge corporation such as CorporoCorp. This is not a form letter that we mail out to all applicants. No, I took time out of my busy schedule as hiring manager to compose this personalized letter, Nathan, and to deliver some advice.

But first, allow me to clear up any misconceptions and questions you may have about being called a sack of monkey butts. This letter is sadly devoid of witchcraft, so physically you are still a human. A human that will never pass through an office door of CorporoCorp or any of its many subsidiaries without being billy-clubbed by a gang of portly security guards. I envision you reading this right now thinking, “But isn’t ‘sack of monkey butts’ a compliment? Everybody loves monkeys, especially with their ornately colored butts, right?” I assure you, the sense of approval and pride you are feeling right now is unintentional and entirely misconstrued on your part. I trust once I clarify the true meaning of the phrase that you will rightly feel a sense of shame and rejection at the direct comparison.

Shall I compare thee to a monkey’s bottom?

Thou art more hairy and more useless.

  

You see, Nathan, I was using a metaphor to explain that your desirability to an employer is equal to, or possibly less than, a bundle of monkey butts. Now, whether those butts are attached to the rest of the animal, I did not originally state. Let me say here that those butts are indeed severed from the bodies, making each individual butt possess less intrinsic value, as an attached butt at least gives utility to its monkey owner, such as built-in seat cushions and storehouse for projectiles.

You are now thinking, “Well, at least I’m a whole sack of monkey butts, and not just one!” Again, the sense of accomplishment you have gleaned from that deduction is in some ways inspiring, but in all ways tragically wrong. Monkey butts suffer from rapidly diminishing returns, so that one monkey butt is pretty awful, and that the addition of the next monkey butt makes the group one power worse than the previous set.

I did not specify in my opening sentence exactly how many butts were in the sack. After careful analysis of your resume and some mathematical calculations…

…Divide by thirteen, carry the cheek…

I have concluded that there are precisely seven monkey butts in the sack. That means if I were forced to hire either an inanimate sack containing the bottoms of six baboons or you, I would choose the sack. However, if you promised to work for half pay and accept the office in the boiler room, I might consider you over a sack of eight detached pairs of monkey cheeks. But before you start searching for that hypothetical sack to laugh in its butt-filled face, let me once again tell you that no compliment or advance, be it platonic or otherwise, should be inferred from that statement. Especially otherwise.

"Is this thing on? Testing one, two...testing one, two...

THIS LETTER DOES NOT CONTAIN ROMANTIC UNDERTONES"

Frankly, your optimism and goofy grin you have on your face right now at this letter’s perceived praise both baffles and enrages me. Had I known my pejoratives would not have been bold enough, I would have called you something different, maybe ‘a receptacle of yak lips’ or ‘a vase of distastefully arranged rat tails’. Luckily for you I am a very busy man and only have time to write in stream-of-consciousness without revisions, and for some reason I keep thinking of insults with animal parts in them.

Anyway, I promised you some advice somewhere near the top of this letter. I think. May you take it in the spirit in which it is intended and use it to further your career elsewhere. I am confident that should you apply this advice to your resume and cover letters, as well as greatly lowering your life goals and expectations, you will find employment as a VCR repairman or ventriloquist’s dummy. And that advice is:

Stop being a sack of monkey butts.

Sincerely,

Henry Q. Kloutzenheimer

Executive Hiring Manager, Department of Rejections

CorporoCorp

(and its related subsidiaries Apple, Chevrolet,

Coca-Cola, The U.S. Government, etc.)

P.S. Seriously, why are you still smiling?

Romance is Dead

The following are carefully selected excerpts from my latest entry into the teen romance genre, Romance is Dead, to be found at the discount bin or garage sale nearest you.

With a foreword by Stephanie Meyer's cease and desist letter.

From Chapter One: A Rose is Still a Rose Unless It's Dead

Jane sat in her desk in third period English, but couldn't concentrate on the teacher going on and on about Romeo and Juliet. All her attention, every ounce of focus her ADD-riddled mind could muster, was channeled onto the boy sitting next to her. His scraggly hair; his soft, dark skin; his piercing eyes that stared with an intensity Jane had never seen before. They never dared to blink. Never dared to waste a fraction of a second not taking in the world around him. “There's something different about him,” Jane thought. “Something my need for affection and juvenile, misguided love can't quite put a finger on.”

“Clearly, he is a zombie,” Mr. Teach said. “The 'something different' is that he has been dead for months and is rotting. You should probably stay away from him.”

Jane broke her longing gaze and looked up at her teacher. “You...you can read my thoughts!?”

“No,” Mr. Teach replied. “You've been talking out loud for the past minute. And, frankly, I don't see how you haven't noticed that he is a zombie. Just look at him!”

Jane returned her gaze to the boy sitting next to her. It all made sense. She could see now that his scraggly hair was because most of his scalp was missing. His soft, dark skin actually looked like it was composed of month-old bananas, and his intense eyes were just the product of having no eyelids. Also, it explained why he had been drooling and making rude gurgling noises.

“What do you know!?” Jane burst. “You just don't understand him like I do! So, what if he is a zombie?” She lowered her voice and squinted her eyes for effect. “Why don't you just go on teaching about Romeo and Juliet, or whatever, and stay out of my personal life!”

“Perhaps that is a good idea,” Mr. Teach sighed. “Maybe you could learn something from this cautionary tale.”

“What could I possibly have to learn from some stupid Shakespeare story?” Jane questioned.

Mr. Teach looked perplexed. “You mean you don't see the parallels here? Dramatic and ridiculous young girl. Forbidden love. Ends in death....” He trailed off as he saw Jane was too busy doodling hearts with “Jane + Zombie 4 Eva” written inside to pay attention.

“Well,” Mr. Teach said as he walked to the chalkboard. “Now we are going to study foreshadowing. Say it with me, class. Foooreshaaadooowing.”

From Chapter Three: Denial

“Eeew, gross. If it isn't Zombie and his stupid girlfriend, Jane.” Sherry, the snarky head cheerleader, leaned against Jane's locker. “Don't you know that the only reason Zombie is dating you is because he wants to eat you?” Jane grabbed Zombie's hand tighter and spoke up.

“That's not true, Sherry! Zombie loves me for me. Honey, tell Sherry why you love me.” Jane turned her doe eyes at her love. His jaw was mostly detached, and his lips had eroded, but he tried to gargle a response. “Come on, spit it out, Baby,” Jane encouraged as she dusted off a couple of maggots from his shoulder.

“B..bb...brains.” He spoke quietly, but the stench of his breath was like a barrel of dead skunks.

“See!” Jane exclaimed. “He loves me for my intellect. Zombie doesn't care if I'm the head cheerleader or not. He wants a woman who can have a deep conversation.”

Sherry twirled her hair through her fingers and smacked her gum loudly. “No, you idiot. He wants to eat your brains. He wants to crack your head open with a spoon and gobble it like bread pudding.”

Jane was noticeably shaken. “Tell me it's not true, Baby!”

Zombie replied with the only word he knew. “BRRRRAAAAAIIINSSSS!!!!!”

From Chapter Nineteen: Acceptance (Kind of)

“I see things clearly now, Zombie.” Jane was running her hands through Zombie's remaining hair as he jerked and chomped at her fingers. “Haha, stop playing, Silly! Your love for me is only rivaled by your insatiable desire to eat my flesh. But that's what makes our love so intense! Every time you don't bash my head on a rock and slurp up my brains like soup, I know that's your way of expressing your love for me.”

Zombie looked at her with his cold, dead eyes and stretched his arms straight out from his body. He moaned and sputtered as he wrapped his putrid hands around her throat.

“Oh, Zombie,” Jane cooed as she playfully slapped his hands away. “You don't have to measure me for a necklace. All I want is you. Let's go spend time alone deep in the woods.”

From Chapter Twenty-Seven: Not in Kansas Anymore

“Welcome back from Christmas break, class,” Mr. Teach said cheerfully. “This semester we are going to study convenient endings in literature, but first, a pop quiz on your vacation reading assignment. In The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, what is the Scarecrow missing?”

The class was silent. Students looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.

“No one?” Mr. Teach paced the floor as he spoke. “No one knows what the Scarecrow was traveling to the Wizard to receive?”

Then, from somewhere in the back row, a familiar, raspy voice echoed through the class room. “BRRRAAAAIIINSSSS!!!!”

Mr. Teach was amazed. “Yes, Zombie, you finally got one right!”

“But Mr. Teach!” Sherry interrupted. “That wasn't Zombie!” She pointed to the girl sitting next to Zombie in the back row.

Every student in the class turned around and stared in horror at Jane, her skin now a dark, sickly green and her eyes lifeless and unflinching. She gurgled something unintelligible as she reached across the aisle and grabbed Zombie's hand. They were two star-crossed lovers who defied the odds...and the grave.

THE END

From the back cover

“I haven't read something so riveting since the back of my Froot Loops box this morning at breakfast.” Amy Harper, The New York Times

“This is the worst zombie book I've ever read. It is also the worst romance book I've ever read. However, it is only the second worst pop-up book I've ever read.” Jonathan Gillman, Newsweek

“I've scheduled an operation to graft several hands onto my body, so that when the film version comes out I can officially give it nine thumbs down.” -Roger Ebert

Don't miss the next volume – Romance is Dead: 2 Deaths Don't Make a Life

Dear Taylor, Nothing Gold Can Stay

Dear Taylor,

I am writing you this open letter, posted on my blog, to discuss something that will be difficult for you to digest. I didn’t want to make this a public matter, but according to the legally binding directives issued on your behalf from a federal court, I am not allowed to contact you through “phone calls, text messages, the U.S. Postal Service, the Canadian Postal Service, email, smoke signals, standing under your window with Peter Gabriel playing out of a boombox, American Sign Language, Canadian Sign Language, relaying messages through your hair stylist’s roommate’s cousin, arranging your AlphaBits cereal, or shaving love notes into the side of your dog.”

A dog this size takes lots of tranquilizers.

You see, Taylor, you have left me with no choice but to tack these hurtful words onto the internet and hope you somehow see it. You might want to take a seat, preferably in a sturdy, comfortable chair with hand rests in case you slump over from the shock. No, not that one. Sturdier…ok, now we’re ready.

Taylor, I am leaving you.

Now, I know you must be inconsolable at this point, so I hope you have a guitar nearby to absorb your tears. I never understood why you didn’t simply wipe your face with tissue like everyone else, but we all have our little quirks, and that is not why I’m leaving.

And it’s not because you’re more famous than I am, you being an international music sensation that has sold 20 million albums worldwide and me being best known for my gripping portrayal of Johnnycakes in Emma Sansom High School’s production of The Outsiders. Because I know that if smartphones and YouTube had existed in 2004 that I would have been the first actor to ever win an Oscar for an internet video, and that I would now be starring in highly acclaimed blockbusters with Hugh Jackman, instead of what I’m currently doing in my free time, which is starring in an off-Broadway Pig Latin musical called “Les Iserablesmay”.

And it’s not because of the disparity in our income. Sure, you made $30 million dollars last year, which, if you include assets from birthday and Christmas gifts, is $29,998,273 more than me. But, I quite enjoyed basking in the riches of your chateau before you kept changing the security code and forgetting to tell me, or before your security guards grabbed the butter knife out of my hand and yelled at me for being an “obsessed lunatic” and told me to “get out of here before we call the police.” They must have been new, and did not recognize me from the macaroni art I made of myself and hung above your fireplace. I was just in the kitchen making you a sandwich, Taylor. Because that’s what kind of guy I am. (This may not be the right time, but as a side note, you are all out of peanut butter.)

Seriously, how did they not recognize me?

  

Heck, it’s not even because your hair shines more majestically than mine or that you are a foot taller than me when you wear heels. No, none of these things mattered, and, in fact, I found them endearing, at least when they weren’t igniting crippling waves of jealousy.

What it all boils down to is that, well…you’ve changed. And I’m not saying it’s for the worse, although if it were for the better one would have to assume I wouldn’t be leaving. It’s just that in the beginning you were so full of real-worldedness and down-to-earthitude. We used to stay up all night talking about Romeo and Juliet and how hard it was being fifteen years old. I mean, they might not have been actual conversations so much as they were me falling asleep by myself while hugging my iPod, but I know those songs were meant for me. But now…now our conversations have grown tiresome, and I feel our connection waning. It’s just hard to relate to you now. Crashing Kennedy family yacht parties? Hanging out with One Direction? Forgiving Kanye West!? I’m just a simple marketing professional with a revolving grasp on reality, Taylor. And I’m afraid that the simple Tennessee girl whose heart I was guaranteed from a surprisingly expensive back alley voodoo priest is gone forever – lost to the glitz and glam of Hollywood. Well today I am deeding you back your heart, Taylor, and you can give it to the Justin Bieber of your choosing.

I would like to arrange a meeting with you to exchange our belongings. I’ll take back the aforementioned macaroni portrait of myself, along with the scarf I gave you last Valentine’s that I knitted out of my beard trimmings. And you can have the collection of your used q-tips that you probably didn’t know I had and the book of letters you wrote me titled “Taylor’s Diary: Do Not Read!”.

I am sorry things didn’t work out, but I should really not be surprised. Innocence and optimism are often qualities of youth, and age tends to kill those charms. And although our lives have taken us in different directions, it doesn’t mean that our paths won’t converge again. I’ll think of you every time I turn on the radio, if you promise to think of me every time you hear bushes rustling outside of your window.

To paraphrase myself quoting Johnnycakes referencing Robert Frost – “Stay Gold, Taylor”.

Sincerely,

Nathan