Don't Be Squirrelly

That's going to be the title of my best-selling children's book. It's going to start a whole series of books that will soon replace Aesop's Fables as the leading source of moral education for children nationwide.

Want to hear about the book?

I know you do.

Gather round, children. To the reading rug. Form a circle. Now sit indian-style.* And let's all sing the Story-Time Song.

[Cue music to the tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star"]
Listen, Listen, Little Kids.
Here we are for story time.
What awaits is suspense-soaked,
Like poor Hunter's underpants. . .
Listen, Listen, Little Kids.
Now shut up for story time!
[End music]

There once was a squirrel named Mr. McSquirrel. Mr. McSquirrel was friends with Mr. Squirrelty. They lived in the same tree with a whole bunch of squirrel friends.

But there was one little squirrel who didn't quite fit in. Her name was Ms. Squirrelton. Ms. Squirrelton seemed sad. Her days just never seemed to go as planned. If she wanted to play tag with the other squirrels, they would decide to play with their nuts. If she wanted to go nut-hunting, they would play tag. And thus it became an endless cycle. Ms. Squirrelton became very sad and lonely.

She was not entirely alone, of course. She lived in a tree with lots and lots of other squirrels. And because there were lots and lots of other squirrels, they started to notice that she never played with the other squirrels' nuts, like everyone else did. So Mr. McSquirrel took it upon himself to find out what was going on.

"Hey, Ms. MacSquirrelfy, you're friends with Ms. Squirrelton, aren't you?"

"Why yes, Mr. McSquirrel, I am. Why do you ask?"

"Well, Ms. Squirrelton's seemed kinda down lately. . . do you know if she's alright?"

"Oh, I don't know. . . I thought she seemed out of sorts, too. Do you think we should try to talk to her?"

"That's a great idea, Ms. MacSquirrelfy! In fact, let's get everyone to talk to her!"

"Superdooper! I'll go tell all my squirrel friends!"

"Peachy keen! I'll do the same!"

And so it went. Mr. McSquirrel and Ms. MacSquirrelfy told all of their squirrel friends that Ms. Squirrelton wasn't doing so well. Suddenly, all the little squirrels wanted to be Ms. Squirrelton's friend. But she knew something was going on. The sudden bombardment of requests for friendship was rather obvious.

That was when Mr. McSquirrel got a great idea.

"Hey, Mr. Squirrelty!"

"Oh, hey there, Mr. McSquirrel. How's it goin'?"

"Not so good. Our plan to befriend Ms. Squirrelton backfired. She could tell the squirrels weren't sincere."

"Gee, that's too bad."

"But I have a better idea than before."

"Oh? What is it?"

"Well, here's what I think we should do: I'll gather all the information I can about Ms. Squirrelton and what she likes, and then we'll give all that information to you, and then you can go date her and be her best new friend!"

". . . umm. . . Mr. McSquirrel, have you lost your mind?"

"What?"

"Don't you think that's kinda wrong?"

"No. . . is it?"

"Mr. McSquirrel, I can't just tamper with someone's emotions like that. That's mean."

"I'll pay you. I'll let you eat my nuts."

"Hmm. . ."

"For a whole week!"

"Deal!"

And so Mr. McSquirrel went about, asking all of the squirrel friends about Ms. Squirrelton. He needed to know her favorite games, her favorite types of trees, where she wanted to raise her future baby squirreltons, and so on. After he had gathered the information, he put all of his field notes into a special manila envelope, marked it "Confidential," and then stole into the night to hand it off to Mr. Squirrelty in true James Bond fashion.

Mr. Squirrelty rushed back to his tree-limb abode, where he spent all night poring over the documents. He was determined to begin his mission in the morning. It had been a hard nut-gathering season, so anything he could earn from Mr. McSquirrel would be a great help. With the pay-off in mind, he prepared to woo the distraught Ms. Squirrelton.

That morning, Mr. Squirrelty gathered a tree-warming gift and scrambled up the trunk to see Ms. Squirrelton. She was surprised to see him, being that no one ever visited her. But after the past week's invasion of fake friends, she was understandably skeptical of Mr. Squirrelty.

"Hello. . ."

"Hi! How are you today, Ms. Squirrelton?"

"I'm alright. . . yourself?"

"I'm great! And I can't tell you how wonderful this little alcove is. You've truly done wonders with this color scheme."

"Thanks. . . Did you stop by for any particular reason?"

"Well, no. Is it illegal to want to spend time with a lovely lady like yourself?"

"Please tell me you're leaving now."

"Wait. Okay. I confess--"

"I knew it. Would you all just leave me alone!?"

"--I just got so nervous when I thought about asking you out that I said that stupid line. I knew I shouldn't say it, but it just kinda slipped out. I'm sorry."

"Wait. Did you just say you wanted to ask me out?"

"Yes. . . I mean. . . I'm kind of shy, and it took me a long time to muster up the courage to come here, and. . . oh, this was a stupid mistake. I'll just leave now."

"No, no! Mr. Squirrelty. Stay. Would you care for some almond vanilla tea?"

"That would be lovely."

And so Mr. Squirrelty and Ms. Squirrelton hit it off. They started spending all their time together. They got along famously. They talked, they walked, they ran, they played with nuts, they played in the trees, they did everything together.

As their relationship developed, all the little squirrel friends really seemed to notice a change in Ms. Squirrelton. She was social. She was radiant. She was out and about. She was happy.

Mr. McSquirrel noticed the change more than anyone else. He was extremely proud of Mr. Squirrelty for the good work, in addition to being proud of himself for the seemingly fantastic idea. He even told Mr. Squirrelty that, if he continued to make Ms. Squirrelton happy, all the little squirrel friends would contribute to a special fund of nuts for Mr. Squirrelty. They would call it a sort of tax for the common good.

But the gears in Mr. Squirrelty's head started turning. Did he like Ms. Squirrelton? Was he enjoying their time together just as much as she was? What if they decided to stay together for a long time? He could use the extra nuts, but would it be wrong to take them? He needed to talk to Ms. Squirrelton.

"Honey, I need to talk to you."

"What is it, Mr. Squirrelty?"

"Well, Ms. Squirrelton, there's something I need to tell you."

"Okay. . ."

And so he disclosed everything--how he had been hired to date her because the initial plan failed, how everyone had been worried about her, and how the whole community was so thrilled that she appeared to be happy.

Ms. Squirrelton didn't say a word. She stared at the squirrel she had called her own for the past several months--some of the happiest months of her life--and she couldn't believe what she saw. She didn't see a squirrel who loved her and cared about her. She saw a squirrel who viewed her as a means to an end--a squirrel who was using her for nothing more than a paycheck.

"You did what?"

"Ms. Squirrelton--"

"No. No 'Ms. Squirrelton.' No anything. I don't want to hear from you ever again. You take your extra nuts, and you shove 'em!"

With that she was off and up the tree. But Mr. Squirrelty wasn't going to let her get away that easily. In the midst of his profit-making scheme, he had truly come to care about Ms. Squirrelton. So he chased her up the tree, but she went down the other side, then they were darting toward a different tree, up the trunk, jumping to the limbs of a different tree, and then back down to the ground again, and so on until Ms. Squirrelton reached her humble abode.

Because she was a squirrel, she couldn't slam the door and lock it, but just for cases like these, the squirrels have a special code of honor, that makes them pretend they've just slammed and locked a nonexistent door. So Mr. Squirrelty arrived seconds too late, to find that Ms. Squirrelton was already inside her home and was not coming out.

He shed a few little squirrel tears, and then realized that it was time to move on. He was never getting Ms. Squirrelton back. It was pointless to try. . . unless they would raise his salary for doing so.

Ms. Squirrelton became even more reclusive than ever before, except for all those nights she spent at the ground-level raves, trying to drown her sorrows in amaretto sours.

The two of them would never be the same again.


Now that we've finished our story, what have you kids learned? Did you learn a valuable life lesson? What is the moral of the story?

. . .

That's right. It's wrong to use people as a means to an end. That means you can't sell people, and you can't date someone just to win money on a bet, and you can't pay someone to woo someone else. You get the idea.

Don't be squirrelly.

*"Indian-style." Is this term still used by elementary school teachers? It hardly seems politically correct any more. . . interesting. . .

The Secret Recipe

Ever thought, "Hey, the world sucks, and I want to make a movie about it"?

Well, if you've considered bringing important issues to light via film, I have just the formula for you. After sitting through nineteen independent films in two days' time, I think I have found the secret ingredients necessary for an underground hit.

Keep in mind, though: By definition, an underground hit may gain you cult fame and a tiny following of hot and idealistic teenage girls, but it will not get you money, and it will not get you anything but ridicule in the mainstream. So be prepared.

You need five (5) key ingredients.

1) Start with a social problem. You've got to have something that will grab people's attention. Be creative here. Don't just go for the rights of the GLBT community. (That's Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender, for the less PC among you.) Add in something about immigration, then make the people poor too. You've got to appeal to a broad audience. If at all possible, be sure you always throw in someone with a disability or terminal illness. (Stay away from AIDS unless your movie focuses on AIDS. No one likes it when the gay person in the movie always ends up with AIDS. It's predictable.)

2) SEX. Your movie is going to be shown at independent film festivals nationwide. It's not going to be rated. Even if it is, an "R" rating doesn't hurt you because kids aren't interested in your topics of choice. So go for sex. We know it sells. America reinforces that knowledge with every new pop star to hit the big time. Don't just stick to one sex scene, or multiple sex scenes with the same couple. You need at least two different sex triangles going on, and you need both homosexual and heterosexual sex scenes. If you really want to push the envelope and make a name for yourself, get a threesome going. Make it interracial while you're at it. The most important thing to remember: this cannot look fake. Let us hear the fat slapping. Let us hear realistic moaning (or the lack thereof). Make 'em sweaty in that realistic gross way. No Hollywood here. Remember: if you're making an indy film, then you have to hate Hollywood. Never imitate it.

3) Because you're aiming to piss off anyone who is at all conservative, throw in some drugs. This could be seen as falling within the social problem category, but it's worth mentioning on its own. Someone's gotta be high. Let 'em spaz out. Let 'em kill someone. At least give 'em a gun. You gotta keep things interesting here.

4) Subtitles are a must. Having the characters speak in English? Hmm. . . that's risky. . . Doesn't matter though. Use subtitles anyway. Don't believe me? Here's what you do: Title the movie "Liquid Soap," then at random points throughout the movie, flash an ingredient of liquid soap at the bottom of the screen. It counts as a subtitle. Trust me. And don't worry that it doesn't make sense. We're talking about indy films here.

5) The most important thing you can do. Choose a title that makes absolutely no sense until the person has watched the whole movie. If the title still doesn't make sense afterwards, congratulations. You've just supplied graduate students nationwide with a topic for their theses and dissertations. Want to make a movie about poverty? Call it The Grand Explorations of Mr. McGee. Don't have a character named Mr. McGee? Don't worry. No one cares. It gives them a chance to sound philosophical when they come up with an explanation.

With these five rules in mind, I've decided to make an independent film.

My social problems of choice? Poverty, affluence, the widening income gap, workplace power relations, immigration, language barriers, sexism, xenophobia, GLBT rights, rights of persons with disabilities, drug use, drug trafficking, conservatives, and the president. Don't think I can tackle all that in one movie? Watch me.

It will feature five main characters: Jerry, who is hopped up on cocaine the entire time; Sherita, a bisexual Latina who also has Terrett's syndrome; Shaniqua, a Voodoo goddess who sells heroin part-time; Henry, a white middle-class stock broker who hires Sherita to clean his house; and little Osama, an Afghan street child who has but one hand.

Jerry wants Henry, but Henry wants Sherita, but Sherita is too preoccupied with rescuing little Osama to worry about how badly she wants Shaniqua, who tries to put a spell on Henry because she wants Henry and Jerry, but Jerry wants Henry all to himself.

The movie will be divided into chapters, which will be completely noticeable because of the subtitles: Chapter One; The Ratification; Chapter Three; The Young Guns; Chapter Six; Chapter Nine; The Bastard; and The End.

And there will be extra subtitles because each character is going to speak a different language. I think I want the subtitles to scroll around the outside of the screen as well. Gotta keep the audience on their toes.

The Shrine of Defense Counsel

Coming to Indy Film Festivals this Fall

(Maybe)

Am I a nice person, or what?

I could have hyped the upcoming post and just made you all wait in anticipation for days, even weeks. I could have told everyone, "Look for the upcoming post to Anaerobic Exercises in Futility. It's going to be fantastic." And then I could have just waited. Not writing. Not thinking about what this supposedly promising piece of writing would be. Just leave you all hanging.

That would have been fun.

But, sadly, I am excited about what follows. I want to write this.

And so I shall.



Ladies and Gents, avid readers and fans of Anaerobic Exercises in Futility, I present to you:

Mock Trial '06

The Best of Allison's Trial Notes

Straight from the Legal Pad

To the judge,

Get off your power trip. Stupid bitch.

That's not our fucking job.

Of the judges,

He thinks she's cute.

These judges are dipshits.

Wow. Ethics abound.

HA!

These comments never change. The judges never get smarter. EVER.

Someone who follows the Rules is an objectionist?

She's bright and listens well. [All crossed out moments after it was written.] Nevermind.

Think of judges as ninth-grade graduates.

Ignore that.

How interesting that he said intelligent juries are defense juries.

Of the opposing team,

He's inventing shit out the ass.

He's fucking boring and an ass.

Burden shifting, asshole.

Wow, she's ugly.

MUMBLER.

You're a JACKASS.

Those aren't legal elements, bitch.

Wow that sucks. She blows.

She-beast. Wow.

Gay!

HOE.

You didn't show otherwise, jackass.

You didn't prove her wrong, moron.

She's a royal bitch.

Grammar, moron.

IDIOT BITCHES ON WHEELS.

She looks half-dead. If she doesn't wake up, I'm golden.

You're not 14, but you're definitely gay.

YOU'RE JUST A SCHMUCK.

Serious crime -- No shit.

A copy editor who says "seeked"?

GOD she's unfriendly. GODDAMN she's scary--like she's going to attack.

God that's annoying. She sounds like a goat.

Does he mean dam as in damn or dam as in beavers build dams?

Her VOICE IS AWFUL.

YOU SUCK!

CONTEXT Motherfucker!

"Arrove."

Those shoes don't work.

"Present tense expressions."

Good god it doesn't end.

Jackasses. Blargh. He's gotta be retarded.

KENTUCKYANS SHOULD DIE. FUCK FUCK FUCK KENTUCKY.

GODDAMN THEM ALL. HILLBILLY FUCKWITS.

What a horrid use of stripes.

"Alibaih."

The KY retard accent.

He's lethally boring.

To co-counsel,

She's your bitch. Impeach.

Tell Alicia to kick his ass. He's nervous.

He IS a dick. That's for sure.

To myself,

Damn me.

This tournament fucking sucks ass and I want to go.

Getting away with murder.

Leave more rebuttal time, dipshit.

This oaf will not intimidate me.

803(3) + P/O --> fuckin weird.

Ass. Damn. Shit. Fuck.

GRRR!

POWER POWER POWER

JN-Impeach that bitch.

Let me see you one, two step!

Shoot me.

I'm going to kill him. Argh.

This is absolutely terrible. omg she's awful.

These chairs suck.

I probably shouldn't flat-out accuse her of lying.

My eye is twitching.

La de da. I blow. Ha la la. Cigarette.

I'm a bumbling fool. Must redeem self with objections and direct.

WTF did I just do? I forgot which side I was on. He's going to fuck me up the ass with that one.

From co-counsel,

You want his penis, like the judges.

"You're smart. You critically think things. You crunch numbers. You've probably got statistics on how to walk through water."

"Yall."

Be tough. grrrrr.

The best part:

In approximately 35 pages, I wrote damn 13 times, fuck 31 times, shit 15 times, ass 19 times, and bitch 12 times. That's an average of 2.57 cursewords per page.* That's way down from last year. Go me!

And there you have it. The highly anticipated review of Allison's legal pad.

Disappointed?

Go fuck yourself.

Impressed?

I know. No need to bow down before me. It's pretty obvious that I rock.

*This average does not include all of the words hiding under blacked out areas. You see, when I'm writing an internal rant about how much my co-counsel suck, I have to scratch it out or write over it before they sit back down and see it. I wouldn't be a good team captain if I allowed them to see how much I hate them when they're losing us points. :-)

I'm such a bad blogger.

Time and again, when the going gets tough, I neglect you guys. All you people out there who allow me to continue thinking that I'm the least bit amusing or entertaining. . . *sigh* My apologies.

I can honestly say that I have a real treat for you all. It's going to be a hall-of-famer, so to speak. I mean, really. I'm going to out-do myself. It's going to be something so magnificent that you will all be telling your friends. I'll be the talk of the town for the next month.

Watch for it, folks. It's coming soon. And when it does, . . . well. . . it's gonna be good.




Pineapples and penguins.

Another Classic Moment, Courtesy the Kid

My mom took my little brother to Burger King for lunch. They were out running errands and decided to stop between Target and Kroger.

Once there, the kid decided he wanted chicken, because he had always ordered hamburgers before. Upon receiving the chicken, the following conversation took place:

"Zach, is something wrong?"

"These are shaped funny."

"I know. Just eat them."

"They smell funny."

"What do they smell like?"

"They. . . they. . . they smell like a lady's privates."

"Zach."

"Smell!"

Sure enough, they smelled fishy, but how the hell does a five-year-old come to associate that with feminine odor?

There must be some nasty-ass women working at his preschool. That's all I gotta say.

A Lesson in International Relations

My mother teaches people to be nursing assistants. Tonight she told me about one of her former students. The conversation started because my little sister took the nursing aide classes and was told numerous times that she looked like the kind of girl who would date black guys. We were laughing about this when she told me about another student.

He was standing at her desk, smiling as he talked to her. He was looking at the pictures on my mom's desk.

"Would you let your daughters date a black man?"

"Yes."

"A black man from Africa?"

"Yes."

"Okay. *Pointing to my picture* I'll take that one."

So I've been crazy busy.

And as a result I've neglected you. But fear not, for I have returned. And I have returned with stories in tow.


STORY ONE

I was walking to work on Friday, March 3rd. It was between 9:30 and 10:00AM, and I was feeling good. All of my midterm papers were done. All of my classes had met. I was home free. All I had to do was go to work for a few hours, then I could be headed home for spring break.

As I was happily walking down the sidewalk by the Math/Science Building, a big white Cadillac SUV pulled up. Three good-looking gentlemen inside. Passenger rolled down the window and said, "Excuse me. Do you have a lighter?"

I was smoking a cigarette. Of course I had a lighter.

"Yes."

"Can I use it?"

Now you all know how I feel about smokers. We're like one big outcast community. If we won't stick together and share lighters, who will look out for us?

"Sure."

So I walked up to the SUV--which, mind you, was now pretty much blocking the entire road due to its placement--and handed the young man my lighter. He proceeded to pull out a rillo and pre-light the end. (For those of you less involved in the illegal drug culture, a rillo is pretty much a marijuana cigar. And you generally have to burn the end of the rillo (or joint or blunt) before you can actually light it.)

The look on my face said it all. Roughly translated it would have been, "I can't laugh right now because I don't want to get shot, but this is really fucking hilarious. People have no shame. Not even 10AM and they're already rollin' down the street borrowing strangers' lighters to get their smoke on. . ."

After seeing this look, the gentleman lighting the rillo decided to strike up a conversation. After all, a casual (translate: weird as hell) situation deserves a casual (translate: awkward as hell) conversation. "How's your day goin'? Goin' good? That's good."

Momentarily, he was inhaling his first puff of potty goodness and handing back the lighter. "You have a great day. And thank you."

With that, they were off. I put the lighter back in my pocket and proceeded to walk to work with a huge, stupid grin on my face.

Bizarreness abounds.


STORY TWO

IMPACT went to Chicago a week and a half ago. We saw three plays, a movie, and the release of the butterflies at a museum. But the real adventure took place in the hotel.

Bethamini and I had a suite to ourselves. It was beautiful. Everything our dorm rooms should be. Really. Not kidding. Universities, go visit the Marriot Suites at Chicago O'Hare. (Now!)

So anyway, we were staying in this wonderfully decorated room (with the exception of that damn red lamp). A couple of feet from our room was a door marked "Employees Only." Every time we walked by the door, we would hear the weirdest sounds.

I'm not talking about your typical hotel sounds: snoring, television, alarm clocks, showers, fucking like there's no tomorrow, fucking like your wife has no idea what you're doing, fucking like your wife still thinks you're straight, etc.

These sounds were more similar to. . . hmm. . . it's hard to describe. It was a combination of chainsaws, whips cracking, horses neighing, fucking while being handcuffed to a pipe, and making your own mayonnaise in the blender.

Then we started seeing things when we walked by. First it was a silk scarf tied to the doorknob. Then it was a spatula on the floor, partially under the door. Next it was an ice bucket full of egg whites. And on and on it went, iPod earbuds, barbeque lighter fluid, kitchen shears, and I don't even know what.

(We walked by the door a lot.)

Well, once when I went out there, the curiosity was just too much. As my fingers took hold of the doorknob and I prepared to peer inside, Bethamini came rushing out of our room (call it woman's intuition that her timing was that good) and grabbed me by the arm.

"Allison! What do you think you're doing?! That sign says 'Employees Only.' You can't violate the rules. You might get in trouble."

And with that my plans for adventure were foiled. Bethamini and her rule-abiding ways kept me from ever know what was behind that door. From ever discovering why someone would need silk scarves and an ice bucket of egg whites at the same time. From ever knowing why hotel employees would play with chainsaws on the tenth floor, with guests staying next door. Perhaps most importantly, I will never understand why I decided while staying in the hotel that I was going to make up an adventure about that door simply for the purpose of recording it in this, my humble blog.


STORY THREE

I've worked three times since my arrival home for break. All three times, I have been called in when the business volume does not warrant my presence. It is extremely frustrating to go into work and just stand around being bored, and then leave four hours later with fifteen dollars in my pocket. It just sucks.

So the other day we decided to play a game. It's our favorite game. It's the sexual harrassment game. Here's how it works: you make unwanted sexual advances toward your coworkers--these can be verbal or physical--and if you are on the receiving end of these advances, you play along by flirting back. The payoff? Cooperation when you get busy and need help doing your job. (Remember the time I made only two shakes on a Saturday night? Yeah.)

Anyway, the game. My manager decided that it would be the running joke that he and I were going home together and that we were going to have a fling. I quickly informed him that he was too young (he got a kick out of that because he's four years older than I am) and that I would only hurt him. From there, we turned to the more physical aspect of the game.

Here's how it went down.

"Hey, Jackson. . . I have to go back to dry stock in a minute. . ."

"Oh?"

"Oh."

I walked back to dry stock to retrieve coffee for the service station, and before I knew it, my manager was walking back toward dry stock. As he approached he pulled two chairs in front of the door to dry stock, closed the door, and pushed another chair against the door. Then, he walked up and stood in front me, trapping me in between two shelves.

"So. . ."

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing after work tonight?"

"What are you doing right now?"

"What the hell are you guys doing back there!?" Another employee had approached and was most confused. Apparently he didn't understand the game.

"Jackson, what are you doing? Why did you put those chairs there? Do I need to file a sexual harrassment suit?"

"You know you would never do that to me."

A few more provocative glances and we were back to work.

Restaurants would never survive without the power of sexual harrassment. Employees wouldn't know how to communicate.

Seriously.