Uncle Empire

By Joel Dovev

First off, as my landlord, I want to say that you are a very, very sweet old woman and I can tell you always mean well. I don't mind that the only words you speak in English are "nice day" and your son's name, "Thomas." I think it's cute, and you always have a huge smile on your face. With that said, there are a few things I would like to address.

First off, there's a little game you play every night at exactly 11:15 p.m. Now I am not sure what the official title of this game is but I have started to call it "Furniture Tetris." Considering the fact that your living room is directly above our bedroom, I have often feared that your three-ton grand piano, which you apparently own, will fall directly on my wife and me as we are watching the bonus features of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

Now you keep a very clean apartment building, and I give kudos to you for that. But the eerie children's shoe, that could easily be one-hundred years old, you use as a makeshift door stopper in the laundry room is just the creepiest fucking thing in the world. Seriously, I imagine that that child was horribly maimed in a washing machine accident and haunts our building late at night, coughing up phlegm. Oh wait, that's just you. Now once is OK. Twice is still fine. But after an hour and a half of you hocking loogies, I want to shave my head and put it in an elephant's ass—as they are very quiet creatures and I imagine their rectal cavities follow suit.

However, you are a slave to consistency, and I can always count on the fact that, when I am literally about to fall asleep, you and your son will get into the loudest argument possible.

Every time.

Without fail.

I like to call it the "Rumble in the Jungle." And by "Jungle," I mean the hallway. And by "Rumble," I mean yell at each other in Cantonese.

Still, I would like to humbly thank you for over charging our rent and not letting us park in the completely empty, totally unused, three-car garage.

Sincerely,
Joel D., Apt. 1


P.S. I know my wife has long hair, and ironically so do you, but you don't need to point it out every time we see one another. Just FYI.

By Lev Winters

Jack stood in front of the mirror and his mind raced. It was late—or early, depending on your view. He replayed the evening's events, which already felt like a lifetime ago, through a reel-to-reel player in his mind's eye, desperate to discover where he had gone wrong.

He had picked her up on time, held open his car's passenger door, and even complimented the shade of her eye shadow. At the restaurant he was both witty and attentive, with an air of unassuming confidence. Yet when the date came to its natural conclusion, on the terrace outside of her building, he was refused even a modest kiss.

Jack's thoughts wandered to the gray hairs he had plucked from his scalp that morning—maybe he had missed others. And there was, of course, the small incident at dinner. Jack had requested no onions on his salmon, since he was allergic, and when the dish arrived, with onions, Jack grew somewhat dissatisfied. Perhaps the girl foresaw a future with this man and his uneven temper and was repelled. After all, a man must always keep his cool.

A prisoner of self-awareness, Jack brushed his hand through his hair, ready to resign himself to bed, when a final thought hit him like a revelation: It was none of those things!

He realized then, at this late and lonely hour, that this woman rejected his advances not on account of his blundering ways, but simply because she was repulsed by his hideous facial deformities, the ones he suffered as a child, when he was mauled by an alley cat, and his parents had been too poor to care.

Relieved that things were out of his control, Jack went soundly to sleep.

By John Johnson

I was sitting alone at Applebee's the other night, drinking shirley temples and thinking about a dead horse, looking for a cure for a broken heart. The place was empty, except for a bartender combing her wig, when I kid you not, none other than Dick Cheney walks in. Six shooters and spurs clicking across the floor. A couple of mummy fingers sticking out of the band of his twenty-gallon hat. He loosens his belt and sits down at the bar, looking like the emperor from Star Wars, only handsomer. He rubs some gun powder into his gums and lets out a hoot.

"Gimme a Valvoline and bat blood," he says. "And stir it with a bayonet."

He looks over at me and winks.

"What do you call that?" I ask him.

"Breakfast" he says, wiping his hands on a baby seal skin. I went back to thinking about my horse.

In college, there was a men's dialogue group on campus that I joined briefly. Its mission -- educating other men's groups about harassment and women's issues -- was noble, but they eventually became overrun with members of a certain fraternity. For them, belonging to the group cemented their sensitive-guy reputations with the womenfolk, and eased the concerns of drunk girls they invited up to their rooms during foam parties.

So Russian.

Just last week, a headline in the Huffington Post reminded me of these vodka-soaked frat parties; it proclaimed, "Russian Judge Rules Sexual Harassment Is Okay As It Ensures Survival Of Human Race."

Disturbing as this may sound, one must at least consider the Russians' out-of-the-box thinking. In a world where SUVs and oil companies can go "green," isn't anything possible? Benefit of the doubt, people. Some of the world's greatest thinkers have emerged with a Russian accent: Leo Tolstoy, Alexander Herzen, Ivan Turgenev, and Mikhail Bakunin, to name a few. Could this judge be on to something?

According to the article, a Russian woman was locked out of her office after she refused to get biblical with her boss. The judge, who, surely, is in a loving and reciprocal relationship, threw the case out of court, and ruled, "If we had no sexual harassment we would have no children." Had she won, the woman's case would have marked only the third successful sexual harassment case in Russia, ever, even though 100 percent of female professionals in Russia say they have been harassed in the workplace.

It's not hard to imagine what dictums followed the judge's initial statement about where babies come from: "If you untie her, she'll run away," he might have said, knowingly. And, in a hushed warning: "If you feed her, she'll get fat."

Expanding on these Russian models of causality, I have come up with a few rulings of my own:

"Without global warming, there wouldn't be sunshine."

Or

"Without war, there wouldn't be peace."

And, of course,

"Without famine, there wouldn't be birthdays."

The last is admittedly a little sketchy, but I'm working through the fine print. (Come up with a few of your own; it's free!)

I've been thinking about the future lately, too, and I've realized a few things. One, maybe my backyard isn't a feasible host nation for the 2020 Olympics. Two, I may never sit down comfortably. And three, when my unborn daughter takes her junior year abroad to Moscow, I hope the court will keep an open ear after I karate chop the head off of any Russian business man who approaches her in a three-piece suit. My defense will be simple: Without murder, no one would ever die.

After all, by that time, we will need to start thinking about overpopulation. Because with overpopulation, how could we ever have amusement parks?

This Week's Edition: Mom is Getting in the Way

Dear Desperately Single,
My boyfriend and I just celebrated our one year anniversary, and I guess you could say things are getting pretty serious. The only problem is that my mom doesn't like him. She thinks he'll leave me and wants me to break it off before I get hurt. I don't want to break up but I also don't want to disappoint my mom. What's a girl to do?
- Iris, Charlotte, N.C.

Dear Iris,
Whatever you do, do not break up. It sounds like you've been together for a while now, which means this guy either hasn't discovered your creepy, socially alienating anxieties, or he's OK with it. In either case, you've pulled the wool over his eyes and you better ride this puppy until your hips unhinge or the restraining order is notarized. As for your mom, how horribly typical.

One time, my mom stood in between me and my lover, and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive her. His name was Rick; he was a personal trainer. I would wait outside the studio window at my gym while Rick lead Spinning class. It was totally intimate, just me, him, and the tramps in the class that he ignored. The glass was tinted, so I don't think he ever actually saw me, but I know he knew I was there from the way he would look in my general direction. Eventually we stopped seeing each other, when I couldn't afford to renew my membership and my mom refused to loan me money.

Your mom doesn't know what it's like for a gal on the singles scene these days. Back in her times, all she had to do was bake a plate of hot chocolate chip cookies for the boy down the block and then he would take her to the tree house to play Doctor. Nowadays, you can wait for hours in a tree house before anyone notices, and then it's usually the cops.

If you think you'll disappoint your mom now, just wait till it's been six years from your last date and she finds you, drunk and naked, in the vestibule of her condo building begging for $49 dollars a month. Trust me, she'll never look at you the same way again, even when she finally gives you the money.

Setting: 5 P.M. Tuesday. Downtown 6 train – pulling into 68th Street station. People rush off; people rush on.

The bystanders: 50,000 tired New Yorkers and me.

The main characters: A short, stocky, bald, 50-somethings man who looks like he's just left a construction site (we'll call him Mikey); and a tall, thin, ragged denim jacket-clad man (also in his 50s), who seems to have just come from operating an elevator for nine straight hours (Don).

Mikey has been standing next to me for several stops. When the doors open, Don is the first of many to press into the train. Doors try to close. Twice. As they continue to close unsuccessfully…

Mikey (to Don with heat): Hey, guy! I can't go nowhere!

Don (quickly pointing backwards): Hey, guy! It ain't me that's doin' the pushin'!

Mikey: I'm just sayin'…

Don: Don't yell at me! I ain't doin' nothin'!

Mikey: You're doin' somethin'… you're pushin' up on me!

Don: Don't yell at me, Pop!

Mikey: I'm not the one who's yellin'! And I ain't your Pop!

Don: You are yelling! You're yellin' at me!

Mikey: I ain't the one who started yellin'! Stop yellin' at me!

Don: Hey! Look, we all pay two bucks for this crap.

Mikey (with avid agreement): That's right!

Don (bordering on camaraderie): You know it's right!

Mikey (with certain camaraderie): Yeah!

I stood dumbfounded.

In a mere 30 seconds, these two men had just undergone a complete interpersonal evolution — from strangers to mortal enemies to best friends.

And they say chivalry is dead.

- Submitted by Duke Rodda

Some Jewish friends of mine were very excited the other day to hear that a baseball player they both hated was a member of the Tribe. Maybe he wasn't that bad after all. Sure, he looked like a longshoreman, but if he could hit homers and celebrate Hanukah, then he was all right in their book of life.

They started counting all the Jewish players they knew, and, including the halfies, they almost had enough to field a team. And, oy vey, if they had a time machine to bring Sandy Koufax back, he could be the pitcher! And if there was a surprise Jew in the NHL who was athletic enough to play second base, they concurred, the Chosen People could put together a mighty fine
squad.

"Back in the day," one friend alerted me, "all the best athletes were Jews."

"Yeah, they all grew up playing stickball on the stoop and stuff," the other one said, repeating what he'd heard in Shul.

"No offense, guys," I said, "But I have a hard time envisioning Woody Allen playing linebacker."

They called me a racist. And while I wondered if and how racism applied, they skipped over the NBA and guestimated how many Jewish players were involved in major league soccer, not counting managers.

This Week's Edition: More Than Just Friends

Dear Desperately Single,
I have a friend and I'd like to see if there is potential to be more than friends. I don't want to make any sudden movements and mess up our friendship, but I also don't want to wait around and do nothing. What should I do?
-Lana, LES

Dear Lana,
This happens to me all the time. Whatever you do, do not take it slow. Rush in and lay it all on the line, hoping to catch him off guard and force this friend into an odd, romantic encounter before he's prepared to tell you no. If this doesn't work, then you should try and make him jealous by going after one or all of his friends. Jealousy is the key to true love, and true love is the key to seduction (which is the key to feeling good about myself for a fleeting moment in this cruel, cold world.)

Two months ago, I was auditing a cooking elective at the high school. In between garlic knots, I met the captain of the JV tennis team and, in thirty seconds, we were best friends. After ten minutes of friendship, I invited him to the locker room to watch while three gym teachers went wild, pegging my bare rump with dodgeballs. But Jason was not initially smitten. I intend to let him know how I really feel this weekend at the junior prom. I have a feeling that, after I climb through the science lab window, "All My Life" by K-Ci and JoJo will come on, and just like in the movies, we'll meet in the middle of the dance floor. I'll let my extensions down and we'll start grinding. And then we will be together forever, living happily in a mansion filled with tons of really cool stuff.

This Week's Edition: Letting Him Know

Dear Desperately Single,
It was a weird weekend. A guy tried to come on to me, and I am a guy. How do I let dudes know that I am not into that without being rude?
Sincerely,
Anthony S., Greenpoint, NY

Dear Anthony,
Who do you think you are? This guy bears his heart to you, possibly while softly tickling your arm, and all you can think about is your own feelings. Poor you, you selfish, selfish beast! Over this "weird weekend," as you put it, this friend risked rejection, social ostracism, embarrassment, and, if your town is anything like mine, possible battery peltings. And yet, here you are, cocky as the day you were born, pretending not to be interested in another man. There are no two ways about it, Anthony, rejection is always rude. Trust me, I know. Oh, dear God, do I know.

I've tried coming out of the closet, and it's not easy. Most of your friends probably won't believe that you play for the other team. Maybe your roommate Lisa will tell you that you're just cripplingly lonely and will do anything for human affection of any kind, even if it means walking around a pet store dressed up as a cocker spaniel and chasing tennis balls for anyone who wants to play. Well, you can tell Lisa that loneliness is the first symptom of homosexuality -- and I read that in a book.

People are people, and you shouldn't limit finding a soul mate to half the population. But despite all this, I like you Anthony. A lot. What are you doing this weekend? I think you should come over to my apartment. I promise things won't get weird. (Unless you want them to.)

As you may have feared, Pakistani cab drivers are banding together to take back the mustache. You have dragged their turmeric push brooms through your soft, fashionable grime for long enough. Furthermore.

10 year old girls are taking back their jeans.

Deadbeat dads are taking back PBR. You'll drink Natty Light from now on and like it.

Scooby Doo is taking your bowl-cutted girlfriends. They'll solve mysteries from now on, rather than flopping around like frumpy jellyfish to flash in the pan music. Muffin people, straight bran.

Brian Boitano's summer figure skating camp is taking back your boyfriends. What? He needs counselors.

Rednecks are taking back their t-shirts. They've caught on to your tricks and are repurposing them for their original purpose - to express a perverted love for killing animals.

Greyhounds are taking back their ribs and Barilla is taking your limbs. How long have you been adrift at sea?

Bums want their jobs back. Sitting around uselessly and buying beer with a fistful of dimes is their thing. You can't have it anymore.

The junkyards want the crap you sell on the street back in their dumpsters. Broken faucets and treasure troll heads belong on garbage island, not for sale on your dirty blankets. Living like a crab does not make you an artist.

Eighth graders are taking back their guitars. Your band sucks and an annoying haircut does not make you a rock star.

Put your clothes back in the nursing home burn pile. Return your books to Nancy Drew's library. It's ova, Rock! The act is tired. Give me something new.

Dear High School Basketball Hall of Fame,

Yesterday, while meeting in my Tuesday night dodge ball league, I heard the dismaying news that a teenage werewolf was being considered to enter the sacred hall. As the head coach of the Indians – Canton, Indiana’s most tenacious freshman boys basketball team – trust me when I tell you that I know high school basketball. And as a former high school basketball player myself (center, team MVP my senior year), and a person, I can also tell quite plainly that Scott Howard/Teen Wolf is not a human. He is a werewolf.



Good sirs, I am a Christian and a firm believer in acceptance of all people, but, as demonstrated by the string of six consecutive backflips he pulled off while recklessly surfing on the roof of Styles’ WolfMobile, Mr. Wolf clearly is no such thing. His vertical leap and wolfish agility alone put him at a considerable athletic advantage. Not to mention the competitive psychological edge he unfairly gains by going up for jump balls with glowing red eyes, fangs, and a body covered in sweat-matted fur (his headband is not enough!). What if he’s contagious? You think I want my son, Toby, spending the rest of his life chasing Frisbees?

As Americans, it is our duty to draw the line somewhere, and somewhere things have gotten
terribly out of hand. Just yesterday I was talking to Old Man Wilson, who owns a liquor store
the town over, and he said Mr. Howard came in the night before the big kegger and wanted
to be served alcohol, even though he was clearly underage. As a law-abiding citizen, Old
Man Wilson refused him service, only to have Mr. Howard/Mr. Wolf let loose a menacing werewolf growl and demand a keg of beer. Old Man Wilson is a veteran, and that wolf bastard is lucky he caught him off-guard that day. Otherwise, I assure you, that animal would’ve
been sent to the taxidermist right then and there.

If that wasn’t enough, my wife has spent the last ten years raising a brood of prized peahens.
And last night, two of them went missing! I may not have proof that Mr. Wolf burrowed un-
der the fence in my backyard and callously drank the blood of two innocent hens beneath
the light of a full moon, but I have my suspicions! All over town, I’ve heard horrible stories
about this monster breakdancing, fornicating with the prom queen, and thinking he’s really
somethin’ else wearing sunglasses indoors. Quite frankly, I am just plain sick of the whole
mess. I haven’t been this riled up since the day my Indians scalped the Avon Warthogs and
took home the conference trophy. Regretfully, I must warn you, if there is no decency left in
this great country, and a teenage werewolf is inducted into the High School Basketball Hall
of Fame, it will put a stain on the memory of the best four years of my life playing high school
ball. It will also put a stain on the hall itself – to such an extent, in fact, that I would request
any nominations I may have personally received over the years for induction be immediately
doused with gasoline and set ablaze.

This situation, gentlemen, is a very slippery slope, and I for one would rather die than know
that maybe someday, even if I’m dead, my picture might be seen in the same building as that of a no-good, red-eyed, binge-drinking, chicken-stealing, werewolf! If we let him in, we have lost a battle of all things holy. What’s next – Magilla Gorilla on the district court?

I thank you for your time and consideration, and pray that you will not lead high school basketball down a path of disgrace and ungodly ruin.

Sincerely,
Whitey Beigeface
Head Coach
Canton Indians, 9th Grade Boys