Gil and Cal Talk Semantics

Gil: OK, Gil, I’m takin’ off. Have a good one.
Cal: What.
Gil: I said “I’m leaving.” Have a good one.
Cal: Have a good what?
Gil: What do you mean?
Cal: You told me to have a good one. A good what?
Gil: A good DAY, Cal.
Cal: Oh. I’ve never heard that expression before.
Gil: You’ve never heard, “Have a good one?”
Cal: No. So, “one” means “day.”
Gil: Yeah.
Cal: That doesn’t make sense. “One” could mean anything. You could be saying, “Have a good ski trip” or “Have a good time filling your bathtub with M&Ms.”
Gil: Do you plan on filling your bathtub with M&Ms any time soon?
Cal: No, why would I do that? That would take forever. And be really expensive. And some would get caught in the drain. And what would you do with them afterwards? Hey, what’s the biggest bag of M—
Gil: Well there you go.
Cal: OK. So “one” means “day.”
Gil: Again, yes.
Cal: Got it. Well you know what they say. You learn something new every one.
Gil: Bye, Cal.

Gil and Cal Discuss Transportation

Gil: Hey Cal, sorry I’m late.
Cal: What happened? I thought you were coming over an hour ago?
Gil: Yeah, I know. Sorry man. The highway traffic was horrible.
Cal: Why didn’t you just take the carpool lane?
Gil: Because I didn’t have anyone else in the car.
Cal: So what?
Gil: Well, that’s the whole point of the carpool lane. It’s the city’s reward for you minimizing the amount of cars on the road by bringing someone with you who otherwise would be driving his own car.
Cal: Or her own car, Gil.
Gil: Yes, you’re right, or her own car. So do we still have time to make the movie? Cal? Cal!
Cal: Oh, sorry, I was just thinking about the carpool lane.
Gil: Ugh. What about it?
Cal: Well, so, if you have anyone in your car with you, you’re allowed to drive in the lane?
Gil: Yup, that’s right.
Cal: What if it’s a 14-year old kid?
Gil: I think that still counts as an extra commuter.
Cal: But that doesn’t make sense. 14-year olds can’t drive, so if the kid wasn’t in the car, it’s not like he would be driving himself.
Gil: Or it’s not like she would be driving herself.
Cal: Very funny, but do you see what I mean?
Gil: Actually I do. I think you’ve found a loophole in the system.
Cal: Nice!
Gil: Congratulations.
Cal: Wait, I just thought of something else. What if it’s just the driver and a baby in a carseat?
Gil: I actually think the baby still technically counts as a commuter.
Cal: Wow! That’s awesome. Why doesn’t everyone just get a baby so they can take the shortcut?
Gil: First, it’s not a shortcut. It’s just a lane with less traffic. And second, you really think someone is going to have a baby just so he can shave a few minutes of his commute?
Cal: Or her commute. I just thought of something else.
Gil: What’s that?
Cal: What if it’s just a pregnant woman driving?
Gil: What do you mean?
Cal: I mean, if a baby in a carseat counts as a commuter, why not a baby inside the mother?
Gil: Um, I think you’ve crossed the line of rational thinking, Cal. It’s not a commuter until it can sit in its own seat.
Cal: What! No way! He’s a commuter the second he exists! Just because he hasn’t been born yet doesn’t mean he doesn’t have the right to a shorter commute! That’s not fair to him!
Gil: Or her.

The Listener

Marvin was a good listener. And he knew it. People told him all the time. His female coworkers would say, “Marvin? You’re a really good listener.” His male colleagues probably thought he was a good listener, too, but men don’t verbalize that kind of thing. Whenever he received this particular compliment, Marvin would smile, because he knew listening was easy. All you had to do was be quiet for a few moments and let every sound fill your head. At this, Marvin was a natural.

If you’ve asked yourself why Marvin is referred to in the past tense, here’s the answer. Marvin is dead. And this is the story of how he died.

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When Marvin awoke on the day of his death, he did what he always did. He listened. He listened to the alarm and wondered just how reliable roosters really were. He listened to birds squawking, chirping, singing and fighting outside his window and wondered why these particular ones hadn’t headed south for the winter. He listened to the static-y snap-pop of his sheets against his skin as he shifted positions in bed and wondered how much electricity he could create just by rolling around with bare, dry skin.

Marvin shuffled to the bathroom with eyes half open and listened to his bare feet groggily sliding through the dust on his hardwood floor and wondered where he could get a good mop. He listened to the reverberant echo of his piss streaming into the toilet and wondered if he could possibly ever have to pee so badly that he could fill the entire porcelain bowl. Marvin turned on the shower and listened to water spurt intermittently for a moment and then steadily pitter-patter against the tub and wondered if this is what it sounded like when Paul Bunyan urinated. He listened to the deep flickering sound of water on plastic as the water splashed the shower curtain lining.

Fully clean, dressed and standing at the counter, Marvin poured himself a bowl of cereal and listened to whoosh as the crispy flakes filled the cheap ceramic. He listened to the milk flood the bowl, drowning the flakes with a slight crackle and wondered if he could achieve the same effect in his stomach simply by eating dry cereal and then drinking a glass. If rice crispies encounter milk but there’s no one to hear it, do they make a snap, crackle and pop?

Marvin stood at the underground platform waiting for the train and listened to a guitar-strumming man play a song of indecipherable melody and incomprehensible lyrics. He listened as the train arrived and buried the man’s tune under a heap of motorized motion and thought that the words made more sense now that he couldn’t hear them.

He entered the train and found a seat across from an excitable woman and disinterested man and listened to their conversation. The man didn’t look like a very good listener but the woman was either oblivious to his lack of attention or was too accustomed to it to care.

Marvin listened as the pre-recorded voice announced the train’s arrival at his stop and wondered how much money the owner of that voice was paid for his recording session. He listened as the car screeched to a halt and the doors rattled open.

On his way up to street level, Marvin listened to the hum of the escalator and wondered why most people treated it as a ride, and not an expeditor. At the top, he listened to the rush of air that swept into train station’s entrance like an invisible typhoon. As he made his way to up the sidewalk, he listened to the struggled grunts of pedestrians as they strained against the icy wind and he wondered why the entire world didn’t just live in San Diego instead.

Marvin approached the crosswalk, stood and listened as a cop blew his whistle signaling traffic to resume and he wondered why there was an officer directing traffic in an intersection with perfectly functioning lights. The walk signal appeared, Marvin took a few steps into the road and listened as the left side of his body cracked and crumpled against the force of a large white catering truck traveling 40 MPH. As his brain began to shut down, he listened to the oddly irrelevant sound of tires squealing on pavement, and the cop’s feet slapping that same concrete, quickly increasing in volume. He lay there, listening as the cop yelled, “I whistled him to stop!” and an onlooker above consoled the officer, “It’s not your fault, some people just don’t listen.

The Oven’s Commentary on His Coworkers

The Dishwasher is a moron. I don’t mean that in a mean way, I think he seriously has mental problems. He whines, shakes and drools constantly. I mean, he’s like a scared dog. There is a puddle in front of him at all times. It’s just gross. He does work hard and is damn good at his job, though, I gotta give him that. And it’s even more impressive considering he’s always getting loaded. He’s like an idiot savant. He’s like Mozart to The Sink’s Salieri.

Speaking of The Sink, I feel bad for the guy, losing all his business to The Dishwasher, but it’s kinda his own fault. He’s inefficient, slow, constantly complaining of being drained and yet somehow is completely full of himself. However, I’d wager his personality defect is due more to insecurity than conceit. But he should be thankful. He doesn’t face near the pressure of The Dishwasher.

For such a big guy, The Fridge is a little bitch. Any time I’m pissed at anyone and let them know how I feel, he tries to step in as the “cooler head.” That’s his expression, not mine. I’m not that blatant with my metaphors. Anyway, half the time he doesn’t even have a handle on the situation, but he butts his big stainless steel head in like he’s some sort of natural mediator. OK, so you wanna play the good guy, I get it, but here’s some advice, The Fridge, BRUSH YOUR DAMN TEETH. Worst breath ever.

That reminds me, have you met The Coffeemaker? Oh man, that guy STINKS. I don’t know what the hell he does while he’s sleeping but every morning he smells like he rolled all over the dirty ground outside. That actually wouldn’t surprise me since he sleeps all day. 10 minutes of work when he gets up, then he gets the rest of the day off. Must be nice.

But I don’t hate everyone. The Toaster Oven just started here and she is unbelievably hot. She’s compact, she has an amazing rack (two of them actually), and she gets turned on so easily. It’s like flipping a switch with her. It’s cool because she’s sorta my assistant. She can’t handle much, but I give her the smaller jobs I don’t have time for.

As for me? Contrary to what my name might suggest, I like to think of myself as unconventional. The others cry about my temper, but that’s just because they can’t take the heat. In which case, they should just get out of here.

MLB Bailout Program for NY Mets Fails

September 30, 2008 - A proposed plan to rescue Major League Baseball’s New York Mets from another pennant race collapse has been rejected by commissioner Bud Selig. The controversial program would have changed the National League playoffs from a 4- to 6-team format, allowing both the Mets and Arizona Diamondbacks to participate in the 2008 post season.

The Mets’ season ended in familiarly embarrassing fashion Sunday, September 28 with a 4-2 loss to the Florida Marlins, eerily reminiscent of the playoff-eliminating 8-1 defeat to the same Marlins one year ago.

Hope was resurrected, if briefly, in the hearts of those supporting the big-market New York franchise, when Mets general manager Omar Minaya proposed a plan that would allow the team to participate in the 2008 post-season, while also providing for $400 million of relief to the organization. According to Minaya, the program would give Mets fans the confidence they needed to continue to attend games, while enabling the organization to sign marquee free agents CC Sabathia and Francisco Rodriguez in the off-season.

Selig, a Wisconsin native and former Milwaukee Brewers owner/president dismissed the bill, saying, “Why should we bail out these huge market teams when they’re the ones who created this overpriced free agent mess in the first place?”

So the Mets faithful once again continue to wait and cling to the taught rope of confidence that keeps them dangling over the pit of mediocrity.

Gil and Cal Talk Sports and Entertainment

Gil: Hey Cal, what’s up? Watching SportsCenter?
Cal: Yeah. I wanted to see the highlights from the Sox game last night.
Gil: Cool. How many Brett Favre stories have they run so far?
Cal: A lot. Apparently Favre accidentally mixed his colors with his whites last night and now his undershirts are all pink.
Gil: Man, I’m so sick of this whole saga. I’d rather hear a million more stories about Barbaro dying.
Cal: Who’s Barbaro?
Gil: You know, Barbaro the horse.
Cal: Oh. Is he related to Barbaro Seville?
Gil: Um, no. First of all, Barbaro is dead. Second, it’s not Barbaro Seville, it’s The Barber OF Seville. And that’s not a person, or even a horse, it’s an opera.
Cal: Oh yeah, an opera horse. I know I’ve heard that term before.
Gil: Ugh. It’s not “opera horse” it’s “opera house.”
Cal: Ohhhhhhhh. That makes more sense. I always pictured Mr. Ed singing Inflator Mouse. Always made me laugh, a horse singing a song about a giant mouse.
Gil: Cal, I don’t even know where to start with that one.
Cal: What do you mean?
Gil: You really want to get into it?
Cal: Yeah, let’s get into it, Mr. Knowitall. I wanna get into it. Let’s get right into it. RIGHT. INTO. IT. You and me. Into it.
Gil: Are you through?
Cal: Yes.
Gil: OK, first of all, Mr. Ed isn’t real.
Cal: Yes he is, I watch his show on TV Land all the time.
Gil: Well, yeah, there’s a real horse in the show, but he can’t really talk.
Cal: But you can see his lips move!
Gil: Supposedly they jammed a carrot up his ass to make his lips move like that.
Cal: Wow, how much do you think he got paid?
Gil: Mr. Ed? Pretty sure nothing.
Cal: No, the guy whose job it was to stick the carrot up Mr. Ed’s ass.
Gil: I have no idea, Cal. Not much.
Cal: Yeah, you’re right, they probably just had an intern do it. Can you imagine filling out your intern diary if that was your summer job? “Day 1. Shoved a carrot up Mr. Ed’s ass. Day 2. Shoved a carrot up Mr. Ed’s ass. Day 3. Tried to shove a carrot up Mr. Ed’s ass but Mr. Ed kicked me in the face.”
Gil: I doubt they had interns on the Mr. Ed show, Cal. So anyway, back to the opera thing—
Cal: Wait, I just thought of something. Do you think they used the same carrot every day? I mean, why waste a good carrot if it’s just going in his ass?
Gil: I would be very surprised if they didn’t throw it away immediately after using it. So Die Fledermaus—
Cal: Hey Gil?
Gil: Ugh. Yes, Cal?
Cal: Do you think Mr. Ed had really good eyesight?
Gil: Goodbye Cal.
Cal: OK, I’ll look it up.

Under My Skin

The last thing I remember was her crying.

I had shown her parts of myself no one had ever seen, both literally and figuratively. But man, I went too damn far. I offered her a piece of gum, but she dismissed it as an empty gesture. Of course she did. I make her cry and my only condolence is a piece of Double Bubble. I am an idiot. Well, I WAS an idiot. I don’t know if you can still be characterized as an idiot when you’re dead. I may have been an idiot when I was alive, but you get to start fresh when you die, right?

So here’s how it happened.

I met this girl in the grocery store. In the grocery store! I mean, how often does that shit happen? It’s the kind of scenario that goes down so infrequently that desperate, aging women use it as an excuse for online dating: “I have no choice. Where am I going to meet someone, the grocery store?” Well I did just that. I was standing there, she walked up to me, checked out a couple of my friends and before I knew it she swept me off my feet and we were on our way back to her place.

Now, before I continue, let me just explain something. I am NOT nuts. I’m not impulsive. I’ve always considered myself very grounded, with an attitude firmly rooted in common sense. But there was just something about this girl. I’d seen hundreds of them come and go, but no one looked at me quite like her. And I knew—I just KNEW—I was part of her plan. Whatever that plan was.

So anyway, we got home and I sat playfully on the counter while she went about her business. I waited anxiously in the kitchen as she ran back outside to grab something from her car. I remember my mind racing through attractive thoughts. Maybe she bought some kind of sexy outfit that day and she was getting it from the car to model it for me.

I heard the car door slam and my heart leapt. Maybe even skipped a beat. Whatever it was, my heart did something it didn’t normally do. I felt like I needed a drink of water or a deep breath. I took the latter.

But what I should have taken was the 326 back to the grocery store. When she re-entered the kitchen, she looked no longer like the curious girl I met just minutes ago. She looked more like a woman on a mission. From the purposeful ponytail on her head to the shimmering blade in her right hand.

I didn’t fight the thoughts. This was the end. And it’s a good thing I didn’t fight those thoughts. Because before I could think one more, she plunged her newly purchased knife inside, nearly bisecting me. With a ruthlessly quick movement, she brought the knife up and let it fall with her weight behind it, finishing the job.

Looking up as the last drops of life left me, I noticed her eyes. Tears filled him, making her look, well, not vulnerable, but human again. Maybe that movement wasn’t as cold and heartless as I thought.

And that’s the last thing I saw before dying.

I remember hearing a lot of my friends talk about what happens when you die. One of my friends used to say that you never really die, you just come back as the thing you most wanted to be in your previous life. I think he was full of shit. But if he was right, I’m definitely coming back as a hawk or a coyote, or something that runs around free of any concern other than the location of its next meal. I don’t know for sure, but whatever I choose, I’m sure as hell not going to be an onion again.