The Dopple Gang: Smart Humor By Dumb People

Michael J. Weingarth’s New Book: How To Tell a Joke

Telling a joke is as easy as meeting your soul-mate: everything has to go right, the timing has to be perfect, and you can’t be nervous and sweaty, like you always are before first-dates. But still, even with these obstacles, you can now tell a joke with flawless execution thanks to my new simple formula, spread lovingly over 457 pages (with illustrations by Johnny McNulty). That’s right folks, you can learn how to tell a joke just like the kings of hilarity here at the Dopple Gang for only $9.95, plus shipping.

Preview some excerpts and see for yourself!

From Chapter 3: The Delivery

People love to say that a joke is about how you tell it, the timing, the “delivery”. In reality, what makes up a joke is some assumption that you set up during “the set-up”- I know that sounds complex, the set-up happening during the set-up, but stay with me, folks- and then a manipulation of that assumption in the delivery- by contradicting, expanding, or negating it.  That, and not getting stabbed by your arch-nemesis.  In a way, it’s a fake-out.  You go one way, the joke goes another, and in that confusion lies the humor. So how do you delver a joke well?  Timing, as they say.  Good timing is really an art form, and it's extremely important to master if you want to be funny.   And that mastery of timing comes from not getting stabbed by your arch-nemesis in the middle of your punchline. Pacing is also important. If you tell a joke too slowly, people will lose interest. If you tell it too fast, people will not enjoy it as much. A good joke is like a Nickelback song- it’s longer than it needs to be. 

From Chapter 12: The Details

 Details can make or break a great joke. Is that lonely soldier in Berlin tired from a march, or from a march carrying a super heavy bazooka? Saying a word like bazooka adds another element of silliness into an otherwise serious story, and it creates a vivid mental image. In this regard, jokes need to set a place and time as much as any written story, and in order to do this well, you absolutely cannot get stabbed by your arch-nemesis. Some of the best jokes I’ve ever joke have had tons of funny details- a guy gets so mad he digs the hem-lines out of his coat-sleeves, or the farmer lits up a pipe and takes puff at every break point in your set-up- which leads me into the next section: repetition will keep your audience laughing and your arch-nemesis safely tucked away, waiting for another moment to strike.

 

From Chapter 13: Repetition Will Keep Your Audience Laughing And Your Arch-Nemesis Safely Tucked Away, Waiting For Another Moment To Strike

 Get it? Repetition? See I just told you I was going to repeat something, and then I did! Oh man, high five to me! Anyway, repetition is the easiest way to improve your humor portfolio.  Simply revisit what you’ve already said to someone, and by the fourth or fifth time, it’ll be hilarious. Revisiting a simple spoof, like a non sequitur, will add another dimension to laughter, and it also adds in an element of familiarity, so no one feels lost or like the set-up has been a waste of their time. For those of you who don’t know, a non-sequitur is something that has nothing to do with what you just said (non-sequitur is from the latin "stabbed in the neck by your arch-nemesis"). 

From Chapter 21: The Anti-Gross Out

In many ways, the gross-out has become a common theme in humor. Famous scenes from recent movies have characters trumping each other’s insults with bigger, grosser, more loquacious insults and using vocabulary not seen since the first world-war. It’s cheap, easy, and you have to know a lot of ten-dollar words to do it well. Me, I’m lazy, and I know about five ten-dollar words and I’ve used them all already (loquacious being one). So I go the opposite direction and kill them with kindness, or a large blunt object, depending on whether I’m telling the joke to friends or my arch-nemesis. For instance, I love the phrase, “Unicorns farting rainbow sprinkles”, because people are so used to obscene imagery following any bodily function. Additionally, unicorns are very majestic and kinda, well, gay, so it should follow that they also shit glitter. Using words like glitter, sparkles, shiny, fluffy, or other such estrogen heavy bastions of the Hallmark card will allow you to deftly maneuver around the actual grossness of toilet humor and replace it instead of with a fabulous pile of juxtaposition, inciting your audience to laugh and recoil in fear, pointing behind you and screaming “He’s got a knife!”

See? You’re already on your way to becoming the funniest guy in the room! So don’t hesitate, and donate $9.95 to the Dopple Gang now to receive your free copy* (after shipping, and the initial down payment of $9.95) of Michael J. Weingarth’s How to Tell a Joke! It’ll make you five times as funny- I GUARANTEE IT! Or my arch-nemesis will finally succeed! That’s not part of the guarantee, just kind of a general statement about my future well-being. 

*Note: Book is not actually a “book” in the traditional** sense of the word, and Michael J. Weingarth is in no way personal responsible for the creation, shipping, packaging, or distribution of said book, which is now out of print due to publication costs rising from nothing to more than nothing.

**Note: Traditional meaning literal.   

By Michael J. Weingarth

Three Line Fraternity Stories

1."Careful, bro: Beer before liquor, never sicker."
2."Beers after beers after beers! I broke the code!"
3."Blargh! Lies! All lies!"

1."Now listen, I want you to all be nice to my sister when she visits."
2."Where's my sister?"
3."Bro! That's my sister! This is the uncoolest kind of incest, bro"

1."Who wants to play Edward 40-Hands tonight?"
2."Wellsh....maybe...ifsh it lookshed more likesh your fashe! ZING! High fivesh!"
3."AAAAAHHH!!! HIGH FIVESH NOT A GOOD IDEA!!!"

1."Tonight is going to be the best night ever, I can feel it!"
2."Oh shit, the party's being busted! Cops!"
3."Oh man, I slept with a dude. Oh. Oh no. And he's a cop."

1."Who's up for some Beirut!"
2."We just got our asses handed to us by those drunk girls!"
3."Those drunk girls want to hand us their asses!"

Cheating On Your Lunch Guy

Ok, so I may have misplaced my drawing tablet, so it's back to basics on this guy. But I think the message is the important thing here. If you can't eat at the truck you love, love the truck you...eat...at.

If you can't make out the cartoon, click on it to be greeted by an absolutely massive version.

By Johnny McNulty

Son, we found your weed and we are very disappointed. Also, we need the number for your dealer.

Jim? Jim! James Winningham get in here right now! Oh I'll tell you what the big deal is young man. Sit down.

Earlier today, your mother was cleaning in your room and she found...well, just show him, Emily. Yep. You know what that is? Of course you do, because it's marijuana. Oh yeah, you're definitely in trouble. Call that girlfriend of yours, Ilana, and tell her you can't make it to her makeout party tonight, because you are grounded. We are going to get on your ass, young man. I want your schedules for classes, homework, tests, and sports because you'll be doing nothing but studying and chores until this summer. And we're going to need your dealer's number as well.

This is not the time for questions, Jim! You are in hot water right now. You know, I can't believe you would take these sorts of risks when you know that college application season is right around the corner and your grades and boards are just borderline. You know what? Just go to your room. I'm so angry I can barely speak to you right now. I didn't even know you COULD get weed in this town! No, Emily! We tried being nice and he turned into a little sneaky pothead. Go to your room! Uh, but before you go, I need you to call the guy who sells you weed and tell him we're cool. Do it!

Well, if we're going to march over there and give him a warning about dealing drugs in our town, we can't have him thinking we're a narc. Otherwise...he won't let us in...to discipline him. Don't take that tone with me, James! You are one tiny hair from getting your Xbox taken away and put in our bedroom. What else have you been hiding from us? Huh? Shrooms? Needles? Men? Well, I don't know, apparently there's a lot we don't know about you.

Okay, fine. You're right, dear. We wouldn't be mad if you were hiding gayness. Unless you were harboring actual gay men in your closet. Although that would be pretty funny. What? I am NOT not high right now! That is NOT funny! Seriously, Emily, stop laughing, cool it.

Son, I'm angry and I have to go to work tomorrow, so why don't you just go to your room, think about what you've done and how you can repair the damage, and give me this kid's name. I don't care if we know his parents, tell me who he is! I promise I'm not going to blow anyone's game up, I just need to have a man to man chat with this little miscreant. Kevin?! Kevin Miller, the chess club kid? Figures. His parents are a bunch of hippies. He always struck me as a shifty one. I bet he rips off all the innocent kids around town who don't know any better. Probably charges forty an eighth or something.

Sixty!!! Sixty dollars an eighth for this shit!? What a little fuck! In fucking Westchester!? No I don't know what weed prices are, I'm just...a genius. Son, it's time I told you something. I'm a super genius. Emily! Stop laughing! Ohmigod milk just came out your nose, that is so fucking...hahahahahahahahaHAHAHA...ha...ha...erm.

Go to bed, son.

by Johnny McNulty

OnStar Has Detected That You’re Acting Like a Pussy

A car in a parking lot. A young man in a sport coat and shirt, no tie, sits behind the wheel. An attractive female in a black dress sits next to him. 

Scott: Oh man, that band was great, wasn’t it?

Kat: Yeah, it was really cool. I’ve never heard like, trip-hop mixed with all that Latin stuff before. Thanks so much for taking me. 

Scott: Oh, no problem. I’ve seen them live like, three or four times, it’s a great band.

Kat: Yeah, totally. (Kat crosses her legs and leans over towards Scott) 

Scott: I can totally burn you some of their CDs…if you want.

Kat: Oh, really? That’d be awesome. Hey, put on some music.  

Scott: Oh? Yeah, yeah, sure. Something different than was just on. Don’t want to overdose, hah. (Nervously laughs, Kat also laughs and plays with her hair) So it’s only like, 11:30. There’s a pretty good bar down on 12^th, if you wanna go.

Kat: Um, sure. Yeah, we could do that. (leans over a little more) This is a really nice car. I have a big thing…you know…for cars. 

Scott: Really? I mean, it’s a Civic.

Kat: Oh.

Scott: And it’s kind of old. I mean, jeez. Anyway, let’s go to that bar, yeah? (goes to start car, engine won’t start). What the hell? 

Voice: Hello, OnStar has detected that you’re acting like a pussy. We’ve flooded your engine so you’ll have to make awkward conversation until you make out with the hot chick next to you.

Scott: What? I wasn’t being a pussy. 

OnStar: Since we’ve detected no wingman in sight, we’ve taken measures to ensure your night ends well. We’ll be in touch.

Scott: Oh. Well thanks, I guess. 

OnStar: Why are you still talking to me?

Scott: Right. (Makes out with Kat). 

Later, on the highway

Scott: I fucking hate this highway. Everyone’s always cutting me off. 

Kat: I thought you said it was on 12^th?

Scott: Yeah but it’s quicker just to cut across town like this. 

OnStar: OnStar has detected you’ve got no sense of direction. We’re immediately clogging the right and middle lanes so you have to get off at the next exit.

Scott: What? Why? It only takes like three minutes this way? 

OnStar: You’ve taken seven already, and you’ll get there right as it gets crowded, and she’ll go home with someone who runs a hedge fund or something.

Scott: That’s not true. 

Kat: It’s kinda true. I mean, about the crowded thing.  I hate feeling too crowded.

Scott: That is weak. Fine, I’ll just get off here. Jesus, I’m never gonna be able to cut over, look at those assholes. 

OnStar: OnStar has detected you;'re driving like a little girl. Accelerating to unnecessarily high velocities so you look like you actually have a pair.

Scott: (thrown back against seat by velocity, speaking through gritted teeth) Damn you OnStar! 

Later, after last call, the parking lot of a nightclub.

Scott: Hah, well, what a night. (opens car door) 

Kat: Yeah, seriously, I had such a blast.

Drunk Guy: (angry and drunk, to Scott) Hey faggot, you getting laid tonight? 

Scott: Fuck you, buddy.

Drunk Guy: You sayin’ something? 

Scott: (to Kat) Let’s just go.

OnStar: OnStar has detected a sudden bitch-out. We’re immediately shouting obscenities back at the drunk guy until you learn to either keep your mouth shut or win a fight. 

Scott: I’m tearing this thing out.

OnStar: (loudly) Hey shithead, you wanna fight or just talk to me all night? 

Scott: Crap. (Drunk guy leaps and tackles Scott)

Back in car, after fight 

Scott: Am I bleeding a lot?

Kat: Not too bad. Let’s get you home and I’ll patch you up. You look kind of hot, all the battle scars,
haha.

Scott: It hurts a lot. 

Kat: Really? Doesn’t look that bad.

Scott: It hurts.  

OnStar: OnStar has detected you are in need of emergency services, since you can’t close with a drunk hot chick. Immediately calling the Wah-mbulance, crybaby.

Scott: I hate this thing (rips out OnStar console, tosses it out window). 

Kat:  Let’s go to my place, it’s really close. (leans over)

Scott: Sure. (she reaches over and puts her hand on his thigh, he smiles) Aren’t you worried I might get distracted?

Kat: Not enough to stop. (she starts kissing his neck) 

OnStar: (from side of road, sniffling) I’m just so damn proud. Contacting all your bros to spread bragging rights, immediately. OnStar signing off.

 

By Michael J. Weingarth

Mike Weingarth’s “Yes We Can’t” Speech Delivered at the Dopple Gang Primaries

Over three weeks ago, we saw the people of Iowa proclaim that our time for change, and possibly dinner, has come. But there were those who doubted this country's desire for something new, like maybe that Chinese place that just opened down the street, who said Iowa, and possibly dinner, was a fluke, not to be repeated again. And yet here we are again, drunk and hungry, on a Tuesday, IMing chicks from my high school who I think still live nearby.

We’ve got people from every walk of life here at the Dopple Gang. We’ve got a libertarian improv-actor who just moved to NYC and will totally write in something unexpected on the ballots. And then there’s Chris, who still thinks the elections are as fake as the moon-landings. But there is a whole nation of young people who have never had a reason to participate until now, and they are hungry for change. And then there’s us three, hungry for pizza. Or booze. Probably both. I’m totally ordering one right now, I don’t care if either of you say you aren’t hungry.

It’s thirty bucks, dudes. Just letting you know. Also, I should let you know that it is more than a change of the party in the White House that this country needs. It’s a change of the status quo. The Dopple Gang needs to get off it’s behind and start implementing some changes, and disrupt that status quo, which is basically  forcing us to sit around all day, screwing around on the internet. It's a status quo that extends beyond any particular party and right now that status quo is fighting back with everything it's got (read: porn), with the same old tactics that divide and distract us (read: porn) from solving the problems people face (read: too much porn), whether those problems are health care that folks can't afford or a mortgage they cannot pay, or other things that none of us care about, because we’re twenty-somethings with supportive parents. In short, I need to get off the internet and stop looking at those kind of sites. But seriously, it’s time for a change. And that time is now.

And what’s first? We’ve gotta get this country out of debt, so you can pay the thirty bucks for this pizza, because you still owe me thirty from last week. And I can totally fix this economy, and you’ll never believe how, because you’re too jaded, cynical, and hungry to ever have thought of it before, worn down by years of the same-old jargon and Ramen. I’m going to magically fix this debt bubble (with fucking MAGIC dude, you won’t believe how easy this is)…by delivering a really inspiring speech about how people have believed in change before making it happen. And then I’m going to say, “Look, in all this time in history, didn’t it make sense that the will for change was there before the change occurred?” And you’ll get all fired up, thinking you now understand how to fix the country. And then I’m going to get drunk and laugh about how poor people are so totally boned for the next five years with this economy, because I’m 23 and have a good job, and you don’t. Well, at least you, Johnny. Chris is gonna be paying off loans for forever, so he’s already Chapter Elevensies. My point is: don’t buy a fucking house when you’re poor, Johnny. You haven’t? Well, I give good advice, don’t I? Vote for me.

I mean, there’s a lot to be depressed about, but we shouldn’t lose hope. When I first came to the Dopple Gang, I saw crumbling mills and shuttered schools and people who can’t afford another four years without health care, because I can see part of a depressed neighborhood from the balcony of my luxury apartment.  And I saw a nation of drunk, hungry kids who didn’t order pizza even after I asked them to, so I called it in myself, and that’s the power of hope- the power to change- the power to seek truth and justice and one half bacon and peppers and the other half pepperoni.  And we’ll make mistakes- there will be false starts, and there will be…well, mistakes. Like…a lot. Some of that pizza might not completely make it into our mouths- maybe it will jab the side of our face and leave a greasy spot which we will then wipe the with the patriotic sleeve of hopefulness and leave a stain of change(which looks a lot like grease). But we need those mistakes, so we can get what everyone needs: Jobs. Everyone needs a job. Jobby Job Job-Job. Anyway, we need to do really obvious things, like tax companies for out-sourcing jobs, so that third-world countries stay poor and under-developed and are used as breeding grounds for rebel armies, drug-runners, and smuggling, instead of tech support and low-wage manual labor, farming things like bananas, and fruit, and rum-cakes, and other island treats. I’m so hungry.

And we need those low-paying jobs to stay in the U.S, so that our poor, jobless, and uneducated masses have enough money to become slightly-less-poor, employed and uneducated masses and clean my office because us young kids like to make a mess when we’re stressed and have to stay past six. We need to make college affordable, so we can have more useless degrees floating around from seventh-tier institutions, so that I can get a much better job with my Ivy-League degree and buy up all the land that’s now so devalued and use it as the basis for my kid’s trust fund. Like I said, it’s all about hope, people. Hope for a better tomorrow for my kids. I mean our kids. Wait, no I don’t.

We’re gonna totally get rid of lobbyists, too, who push for an entire pizza covered in mushrooms and racism. Seriously, who eats mushrooms? The smear campaign of mushroom jingoists must stop- the righteous zealotry of deliciousness must not reply, either. We have to learn to stop dividing ourselves as a nation, and start dividing our pizzas. I don’t see one half of what Johnny wants, and one half of what Chris wants- I see a pizza, able to be split into proportions based on how much you paid me for it, you misers. And we can do this. We can get rid of those lobbyists just by closing our eyes and pretending we matter. See how easy that was? If the people wish hard enough, and really get involved, and send me money, and write to their congressman, and get their story on the 11 o’clock news (conveniently run by the same corporation who pays the lobbyists), then absolutely nothing will happen. But we mustn’t lose hope, because we’ll make mistakes. Wishing things to happen takes, like, at least four years. So you’ll have to elect me twice. Oh my god-starving. When is that pizza getting here? Status-quo, jobs.

And what’s left? I know this is going to sound silly, but it’s a four letter word. It’s hope. Hope on a rope. We need to hang onto our hope, even when its slippery in the cynical shower-stall of doubt, and make sure we don’t drop it, so that the jaded, bitter convicted felon of political bipartisan-ness slips something up our hope-hole. But that’s not going to do it alone. First I’ve got to tell you that this is not false hope, because I actually can restore confidence to this nation and it’s economy simply by telling poor people that life will get better. And I’ve never heard anyone do that before and fail. Ever. But we’ll make mistakes. And we’ll probably make more.

And there’s three words that will echo across this great nation, from coast to coast-well more like five. Can we have some pizza? Yes, I will say. Yes, you can’t.  You will call me a dick, the cry of a nation in need of moral sustenance and finding only your own lack of foresight and pizza to blame  And I will laugh, heartily, with a mouth full of fresh mozzarella, sauce, hope, and oven-baked dough, Chris and Johnny, because you owe me thirty bucks from last week. We want change, you will say, if you hand me a fifty.  Can you give us change?   Yes, the pizza-delivery guy and I will say.  And i will repeat those same words, or similar words that are maybe not that precise phrase but still words none the less:  Yes we can, but you owe me 30, so you're still ten short- why did you buy a house on 22k a year?  Oh, you're not being driven into bankruptcy by an adjustable rate mortgage?  WELL THEN GIVE ME MY TEN BUCKS, DUDES.  God.  Fine, then i'm eating the whole pizza.  Fine, you can have two slices if you vote for me. 

By Michael J. Weingarth

 

Post-Apocalyptic Civics Lesson 1 - The Legislative Branch

The Legislative Branch:

INTRODUCTION - What Have We Become?:
  Although most of the attention is lavished on the Executive, and the most controversy occurs over the decisions of the Judicial branch, the Constitution has invested by far the most power in the Legislative branch. Being the representatives of those who can still be called people, the members of Congress decree the laws of the land. In effect, the laws they make describe the kind of country we wish to be as a people. And the process by which they do this is among the greatest dramas in American politics: Gladiatorial death-matches.

THE MAKEUP OF CONGRESS - From Melting Pot to Blast Furnace:
  The members of Congress are a true cross-section of what's left of America. Today's Congress is more diverse than ever; some Congresspersons are actually several individuals of different races and genders melded together, like Rep. O'Hara-Takufu-Jefferson (D, R, D - CA). But while Congress is a house of many races and creeds, all are united by their loyalty to their districts and their country, as well as their ability to bash in the heads of those who oppose them.

  In the House of Representatives, congressmen come from districts ranging from the smallest, most backward village to neighborhoods of the largest megalopolises. In the glowing back country of America, where constituents are concerned largely with subsidies for farming and for fighting off 1,300 lb. coyotes, Representatives are usually just the largest or strongest farmer's son in the village, so it is a tradition to send four or five backup congressmen, due to the high fatality rate of freshmen Representatives.

  However, in the huge rival city-states of New-York-Also-Starring-Philadelphia-And-Boston and Los-Angeles-Featuring-Mexico, as well as Chicago and the other cities on the North Coast, Congresspersons can grow to be 15-18 feet tall, often sport broadswords in place of hands, and (their greatest weapon) rely on the old-boys club connections of their Ivy League schools. In order to imbue deliberations with some measure of sportsmanship, however, cyborgs are not permitted to be members of the House of Representatives.

  This is not true, however, of the Senate. Short of the President, no figures command the sheer terror and dread of millions the way Senators can. Barely deserving of the mantle of humanity, they have nonetheless blasted their way to the top by sheer violence. It should be noted that none but the richest citizens can pay for the weaponry and electronics built into even the most minor Senator, and so most are beholden to large lobbies and corporations who maintain and fuel these legislative Leviathans, for example Joe Coca-Cola Biden (D-DE).

THE LEGISLATIVE PROCESS - We Who Are About To Die Support H.R. 101:
   We all remember the popular "How A Bill Becomes A Law" cartoon from the children's series "Indoctrination-Facility Rock" from when we were suspended in  the jelly baths of our subterranean population-generators, but in case you need a refresher, here's a basic primer on the legislative process:

    - While anyone can come up with an idea for a law, only a Member of Congress can sponsor it. This is done by forging a suit of armor in the Hell-Chasm of Washington, the still-hot core of the first (and second through 20th) nuclear blast which almost destroyed this country. Once the suit of armor has been crafted, the Member of Congress painstakingly inscribes the resolution onto the breastplate. When the Member of Congress dons the armor and steps into the Chamber of Valor, that armor becomes a Bill.

    - First, the Bill is tested by the appropriate Committee: generally a pit of bears or feral but intelligent dogs who specialize in Intelligence, Health Care, etc. Although if the Bill (or Congressperson) seems especially unready, they will have to brave the Subcommittee of Truth, a lightless black void where the sponsors must face their most implacable enemy: themselves.

    - After successfully making it out of Committee, the Bill goes to the floor of the House. At this point, Congresspersons choose which side they will battle for, Yea or Nay. However, some on the Yea side may arrive with amendments to the bill inscribed on their armor. If the amendments cannot be agreed on, often the Bill, and its wearer, dies before reaching a full vote.

    - Finally, the House votes until either the Bill-wearer or the highest-ranking member of the opposition has been disarmed. Although the victor has the Constitutional right to kill his opponent, tradition holds that the defeated may appeal to the Vice-President. The Vice-President almost always votes for death.

    - Having passed the House, the armor is passed on to the Senate, where a new champion will wear it. Again, the specters of Committee or Subcommittee await it. The final battle in the Senate, although involving far fewer participants (112 to the House's 1,337), is in fact far more dangerous to the public at large as the Senate, unlike the House, permits cyborgs to be elected, and the battle is often taken to the streets before it ends, sometimes after days or months.

(Note: Although Senate votes are still reasons to flee the countryside around Washington, far fewer die today than in the terrifying reign of "The Dread Triumvirate" of Daniel Webstron, Henry Clayborg ("The Great Decapitator") and John C(omputer) Calhoun.

Pictured: Senator Diebold (R-WA) argues in favor of school vouchers.

The Lesser Gatsby, Vol 1. Summer in Late January, Why Can’t I Burn These iTunes Songs to an MP3 CD?

The sun had long ceased to cordially hang in the sky and rejuvenate our weary spirits when the last of us left the office for the day.
            “Won’t you join us for a round, Richard?” John had asked. I politely declined and used my habitual excuse-that I was to have dinner with a fine young lady, but I was beginning to suspect that my lies to my friends were as obvious as the ones I told myself.
            I started my automobile and returned to my apartment, saying hello to the doorman, a polite older Spaniard with a flair for mustaches, and checked the mail. Sure enough, she had written, but it had been too long and the past was already stuffed and on display in my living room, something to contemplate before a gin and tonic, or to show friends and laugh about. I threw the letter in the pile with the others, and sat down at my desk to read something old. For seclusion, there’s nothing quite like antiquity to make you feel alone. But it was not enough-the telephone rang and eventually it occurred to that I had to answer.
            “Hello, Richard,” a female voice said. It was a pleasant voice, warm, something scratchy and it reminded of the vinyl records I used to play against my father’s will, who insisted on maintaining a perfect collection of untouched collectibles.
             “Hello, Hallie,” I responded. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your calling?”
             “My father has just canceled for dinner, and I thought you should invite me out.” I thought I could hear her smiling, but you could never tell, and I often never cared to find out. But it was a Tuesday. And I couldn’t burn an MP3 CD of the latest Panic! At the Disco release-there wasn’t much of a point to anything,anymore.
            “As fate has it, Hallie, I have no plans this evening. How does the Club sound?”
            “Dreadful but whatever you like, Richard. You know how I hate planning.”
            “Well, somewhere else then. I’ll pick you up at 8. Or whenever you feel like, since you seem to so object to punctuality.” I started to hang up, and she said delightful in a half-excited voice that leaned towards sarcasm and then lost its balance and tumbled, syllable after syllable into a pit of cynicism that only an unmarried 28 year old could inhabit.

 

We drove to the club in relative silence, the occasional Dadaist revival shouted at random from the passenger seat. I pulled up and tipped the valet five bucks to stop starring at my girl. He didn’t speak English, but nodded anyway. We walked in. Sure enough, Scott was there, and invited us to sit down.
            “I do love to see Scott here,” she said.
            “I’d rather not dawdle. There’s not much to say.” I looked around the room. I knew she would be here, on a Wednesday. After all, that’s why I came to the Club.
             “Oh don’t be such a haberdasher, Richard. Scott’s absolutely delightful!” She walked up to him and they had a large hello that begged for as much attention as possible in polite society.
             “Hello Scott.” We shook hands.
             “Glad to see you out, Richard. How long have you and Ms. Nottingshire been seeing each other?” He grinned and reddened- he was drunk and probably already embarrassed at it. But in case he wasn’t, I prayed my fly wasn’t open.
             “Not long,” I replied.
             “Not long enough, he means. He thinks I’m a dreadful bore.” She put her arm around me.
             “She used the word delightful twice already.” I laughed, and we all did. It was a strange thing to laugh about. But you laugh at strange things when you can’t burn the latest Panic! At the Disco release onto an MP3 CD with 47 other great songs that would totally run together and make your morning drive fun and your evening drive relaxing.
             We ordered dinner and ate, repartee soaring over the heads of the surrounding tables and shooting past the wine glasses as they rose and fell, constellations of social grace and inebriation, things that make me gassy.

 

            “I do wish you’d stop being so morose, Richard,” she said, unraveling whatever was left of her clothing.
            “Well, I wish you’d stop getting drunk at the club and taking your clothes off in front of Scott, god damnit.” I accelerated, taking corners are mildly unsafe speeds. Sometimes, adrenaline is the only sedative you have, and it doesn’t take a lot to work after four gin and tonics at the Club with Hallie Nottingshire and Scott Haddalastname.
            “It was only a dance. Besides, you were so enthralled with Kitty Lindh I should suspect it didn’t bother you at all.” She tossed off the last two words with a drunken concoction of accents, confusing England and 1940’s Hollywood.
          “You sound like a high-school actress, now cease your prattling. I don’t have any music to drown the sound of you out, and you sound like a sea lioness trying to play the trumpet with its vaginal lips.” The comment hung in the air, a brilliant image that only the vividest of painters could capture, and sure as it was said, Dali’s estranged heirs would one day paint it. In the present, however, it seemed to suffice as a mood-killer, and Hallie was quiet for a good thirty seconds.
            “You don't have any music, Richard? I should like to hear some.” Her voice had changed, the gravity of the situation had sucked it in and now she was also upset, if only to have some company by way of mood.

            “No. And I’d rather not talk about music.”
            “She wrote to you again. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” I turned to look at her for a half second, and smiled.
            “I can’t…” I started. I turned back to the wheel and accelerated more.
            “Can’t what, Richard? It’s alright, dear, I won’t ask about her again.”
            “No, I’m afraid it’s not about that at all,” I said.
            “Well, just be careful, you may lose me. And then all you’ll have is your music.”
            “Very well,” I choked out, and tried to hold back whatever it was I felt-rage, anger, a desperate need to flip though all 47 tracks of an MP3 CD to hear how amazingly even the first five seconds of each track transitioned into one another and to ride the peaks and troughs of divinity as the rush from the sonic momentum built and dissipated, leaving only joy and passive enlightenment.  “Very well.”
             We ariived at her apartment.
             “Would you like to come up? I’d like you to come up, Richard.”
             “No, I’m afraid I shouldn’t, Hallie. But thank you for a lovely evening. I expect I should call on you sometime this week.” We were soul-crushing in our formalities, implicit in the coldness of our hospitality, estranged in the insistence of friendship, engendered in the estrangement of our genders.
              “Well, I should like that very much. Goodnight, Dick.”
              “Goodnight.”
              I drove home, said a quiet goodnight to the doorman, and prepared myself for another week’s worth of reading, solitude, and company, the three things that competed for the attention of my social hours. I checked the mail, and tomorrow's letter hadn’t come. I suddenly realized I was looking forward to it, if only to have some constancy of annoyance. And so I went to my room, endlessly borne back into the past through the roads weaved by a month’s worth opened letters, and had the drunk munchies. While the soundtrack of an entire bag's worth of Doritos Cool Ranch is no Panic! album, the familiarity of it was a haven for my conscious mind, and I escaped into sleep, feeling kind of like a fatty for eating the whole bag.

 

By Michael J. Weingarth