First Annual Dumb People Celebration Day

The following was transcribed from KMVM’s original broadcast

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DON BLANCMAN (Parade Co-Master): This is Don Blancman coming to you live atop the viewing post on Viking Blvd. in the heart of our beautiful downtown for what we hope to be an exciting display of pride and unity. For those of you just joining us here at the five o’clock hour, we are still waiting for the parade, scheduled to start at noon, to begin. If any of you will remember last year’s event, the parade began six hours early and, consequently, was missed by the media entirely. This year, we thought we’d be smart and show up eight hours early. Once again, we were wrong. As always, joining me here in the booth is the charming Ellyn Magellen.

ELLYN MAGELLEN (Parade Co-Master): Thanks, Don. This is the 35th year KMVM has broadcast live coverage of the First Annual Dumb People Celebration Day. I have to be honest, Don, besides that undercover reporting I did regarding the Society of Amish Gigilos, this is probably my favorite assignment.

Respected newsman Edward R. Murrow once said of KMVM’s Don Blancman, “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

DON BLANCMAN: Mine, too, Ellyn. Which says a lot as I’ve co-hosted dozens of events from the Atheists’ Christmas Parade

Waste Of Ancient Wisdom

The place: Tacoma, WA

Aron Hakone’s dad was someone worth bragging about. He was a black belt in karate, was in really good shape, was really nice and, oh! was a black belt in karate. One day at school, Aron posted a sign-up list in our 4th grade class room. Mr. Hakone was offering karate lessons at his home, free of charge! I was one of the first to sign up, with visions of my throwing ninja stars with unprecedented accuracy and eventually landing a lucrative career in martial arts films running through my mind.

On the day the class started, I was ready a full hour before I was supposed to even leave for the Hakone house. I wore my gray sweatpants, a blank jersey with red, elbow-length sleeves, blue Adidas and the same pair of big-toe-sticking-out-of-a-hole socks I’d been wearing for three days straight. Since no one ever saw my feet, I rarely gave a second thought to their appearance or general lack of hygiene.

“Turns out we read the report wrong, Dave. It was a sign-up sheet for martial arts, not martial law. We, uh, we should probably start cleaning up.”

After being dropped off by my mom, I walked up to the front door where, taped to the knocker, a note read: CLASS IN BACKYARD GO THROUGH GATE LEFT SIDE OF GARAGE 

In the backyard, I found Aron, Clint and Wendell sitting on the grass. Aron had on a karate suit with a blue belt,

Uncorking A Bottle of Whoopass

Pre-game brawls in parking lots. Waves of projectiles hurled at someone wearing a rival jersey. Violence erupting in the grandstands. These acts have become acceptable (and, at times, expected) at any given major league sporting event. And, as a result of our nation’s increasingly nonchalant attitude of ‘boys will be boys’, this behavior has begun to slither its way into other areas of our culture. From small towns to metropolitan sprawls, police nationwide have all reported a disturbing trend: a rise in violence stemming from over-enthusiastic fans.

“Excuse me, young man. I’m sorry to interrupt, but some spectators mentioned you were a &%$# sucking @@$%#@# that eats $%^#@$ by the pound and has $%&*@ and %#$^@#$ for brains. I just wanted to know if that was true.”

Gone are the days when good-natured ribbing over a rival interest was met with a hearty laugh or, perhaps, a friendly wager. The drunken brute attendee of your father’s days (the one whose loud criticisms of outcomes or performances might get him escorted to the nearest exit) has been replaced by the drunken brute with a knife or gun who is willing to risk life in prison on behalf of his brand loyalty.

While media coverage of these events is relatively scarce, one story has emerged out of

Tips On Adulthood

As someone who inhabits the same sphere of influence as pop teen sensations, I believe that I have a responsibility to today’s youth. By the very nature of my being a hero to so many, kids all over the world look up to me for advice. The most common question I receive from my young stalkers is in regards to how I made the transition from the social and physical awkwardness of adolescence to the current social and physical awkwardness of my adulthood.

Growing up: As the term suggests, we as humans all inevitably grow and change as our bodies mature (for those still unclear what this means, please view such helpful films as Billy’s Morning Shame and Womanhood: God’s Punishment).

Members of Ogendville’s Anti-Puberty Club toast to a successful meeting. The following morning, John Deacon (far L) was forced to drop out.

However, while most of you will grow in the preferred up direction without any trouble, there will be those family members and friends who will find this task insurmountable. Whether it’s your aunt in Arizona who overcompensates for the emotional voids in her life by filling every inch of her apartment with each plate from every series put out by Spinster House Collectibles, or your uncle whose retirement party was attended predominately by surly teenagers he’d met while buying beer at the nearby convenience store, these unfortunate individuals fail to grow up gracefully.

While it may be too late for me to pass along any lasting or influential advice to said aunt or uncle, I do hope that I can successfully steer some of you into the realm of functioning adult with a few tips.

The Girl With The Bowl Cut Hair

The place: Mrs. Dell’s 6th grade classroom, Idlewild Elementary, Tacoma, WA.

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As Valentine’s Day crept up on us like a pink disease, Mrs. Dell read aloud stories of love. Every one of the girls in class were attentive as Mrs. Dell read about love won, love lost, mythical love (both Greek and Roman). We boys, on the other hand, safeguarded our discomfort behind disgusted remarks and inappropriate kissy noises. When I wasn’t busy doing my part to mock the ridiculous concept of love, I kept a clandestine gaze on the chubby-cheeked smile of Kara Pennyday.

Since Day 1 of the fourth grade, I had carried a torch for Kara like an Olympic ceremonial participant on a hamster wheel. She may not have had the girliness of Molly Johnson or the burgeoning A-cup figure of Dotty Curtner, but I found Kara to be the most captivating girl in Idlewild. I was entranced by her bowl cut hair and her uncanny ability to be as well-versed in Star Wars characters as she was in members of boy bands. She was friendly and open-minded. Heck, she was even friendly with Sue Munsen.

It’s debatable whether or not a sixth grader is capable of experiencing actual love–it may be better classified as puppy love or as innocent infatuation. Whatever the correct term was, I was head over heels in it. And maybe the stories that Mrs. Dell read began to sink in because, despite everything my chicken hearted logic told me, I decided that I would try to let Kara know how I felt. The only problem was how to do it.

Phillip’s Coming To Dinner (A Cautionary Tale)

In the years since our time working together in retail hell, Phillip* and I had kept in sporadic contact. Just when I’d start to wonder how he was doing, the phone would ring or an email would arrive. This time, it had been somewhere in the neighborhood of a year without contact when I received a call from him. As usual, Phillip’s voice was its upbeat self (monotone, except for the upward intonation always on the last syllable). He talked of his new job, new house, new car, all of the good turns his life had taken. Phillip was a good guy, but a good guy hounded by demons of which his dominance over waxed and waned like an AA member who is forever re-achieving that 30-day sobriety coin. This is why hearing about the good things in his life was reason to rejoice. So, before hanging up, I invited Phillip to the house for dinner. We’d make gnocchi, it’d be a good time.

It’s just dinner. What could possibly go wrong?

Phillip arrived, had found my directions clear enough, had hit no traffic, etc. Waiting for our guest was a 4-pack of his drink of choice, Guinness. I told him to take home whatever he didn’t finish because neither myself nor my wife are big beer drinkers. “I’ll probably finish ‘em,” he said with a laugh. “I don’t like to leave a Guinness unopened. It’s a crime, Mike. I can’t do it.” And with a click-fwwish, he opened his first can.

A Corporate Bull and an Evangelical Walk Into a Coffeeshop

When this happened, I hurried to get it down while it was still fresh in my mind. There is a maximum 24-hour lifespan for any information stored in my brain. Once that time is up, it’s lost forever and my 20GB brain retains its constant (although, admittedly useless) 19.5GB of free space.

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Having stimulated the nation’s economy with a $2.50 purchase (you’re welcome, America), I sat down at the one free table in the coffeeshop and set to complete a copywriting task. At the next table, a woman spoke to a teenage girl in what sounded like a monologue disguised as advice, sounding somewhat scripted (or, at least, rehearsed), the moments of inflection delivered with the sincerity and spontaneity of a laugh track. The woman’s voice rose and fell in volume, so that sentences that began with, “Once you invite God in…” and “Here’s what God wants for you…” then fell to a low and inaudible tone, the words lost on bespectacled busybody at the next table.

Vivien is pleasantly surprised to learn that we’ve replaced her usual fundamentalist dogma with Folgers Crystals.

At the table behind them sat a man in the middle of an animated discussion. I’d presumed he was talking to someone sitting across from him, but