The Dopple Gang: Smart Humor By Dumb People

How Your History TA Reads Your Papers

My Predictable Ideas About Transportation and the Ante-Bellum Economy

The South skim a bit skim a bit skim a bit skim a bit. Something about slavery, railroads, wagon trails, canals force the South into an inevitable position which I’m copying out of the text. However, I’m so wrong about these three factors being the leading causes of economic tension leading into the Civil War because I’m not a grad student yet and so I have only read two books on the subject, since I don’t know how to do research.

I get 8 hours of sleep a night, and mommy and daddy pay for my education. Wagon trails were blah blah blah, canals boring drone drone drone drone drone, but railroads were better because professor McDoesn’t-Teach said so in lecture. I don’t have the balls to disagree with him, but I’m so dumb I don’t realize that kissing his ass won’t do much for my grade since Ed the Mega-TA is holding the red pen on this one. Sometimes I spell words phonetically. I also love splitting infinitives, and improperly formatting block quotes. Racial tensions were important because I watched the Ken Burns documentary about the Civil War and have no clue what the war was actually about. Jefferson and Hamilton are names I should mention if I want a B-, so here they are: Jefferson was a dude, Hamilton a guy, strong-state, weak-state, democracy, mercantilism.

I totally deserve a B-. Give me a B-. Look at my conclusion, it’s just the ideas you saw before. I sit next to the girl with the rack. I often ask questions that are redundant just to participate in class. It’s five o’ clock, so skim the rest of this paragraph so you can meet that cute Philosophy PHD student for happy hour. I did have something to say in this paper, but it’s not enough to impress anyone or seem like I give a crap, so I’m going to get a B-. Hamilton.

Originally featured on www.CollegeHumor.com

By Michael J. Weingarth

Other People's Stories From My Fiction Workshop And How I Would Make Them Into Movies

For more great humor like this, check out the Dopple Gang's writers on www.CampusWord.com, the best collegiate media site today (this article originally featured on www.CampusWord.com on 4/3/08)

1. Samurai Cowboy, by Jack Takashi, Senior Finance Major

Their Version:  Jack-san, a Japanese orphan, is found on the doorstep of a police station during a blackout.  When the lights come back on, he is awake for the first time and cries. He is taken in by a policeman, but he is eventually confronted by a hardened criminal claiming to be his brother during a summer home from college abroad.  While back home, he re-connects with his Asian roots and is forced to choose the past he wants so he can get his economics degree while still being a righteous, crime-fighting force who honors his adoptive father.

My Version:  In the days of samurai swords and revolvers that needed to be cocked, a lone Japanese samurai is sailing across the seas in search of his daughter.  On his way to San Francisco, he is pushed South into Mexico, where he must make his way through hundreds of armed banditos, who are firing pistoles and having mustachioes.  After a brutally long kung-fu sword-and-gun fight, he leaves a trail of bloody sombreros all the way to the Texas border, where Tommy Lee Jones and Clint Eastwood help him learn how to use guns. Eventually he makes his way to Tombstone, Arizona, and kills Kevin Costner.  At the end, he finds his daughter already knocked up by Clint Eastwood (betrayal and sadness!) and commits ritual suicide, dishonored and disgraced, showing how no one in America really respected the cultural heritage of Kung-fu sword-fighters until the modern era (touching and enlightening). 

2. The Fourth, By Jenna      Tierney, Junior Gender Studies Major

Their Version:  A group of girls from the same small town in Jersey are all at separate colleges. They have a reunion over the Fourth of July, only to find their one friend who didn't go to college is involved with drugs and sexual experimentation.  They soon all got involved in a world of self-delusion and self-medication, searching for enlightenment. They find each other, either as friends, lovers, or enemies.  A surrealist journey into the mind of young people during their most formative years.

My Version:  A neuro-degenerative brain disease, only transmitted by sexual contact, is sweeping across college campuses.  A group of three girls return to their hometown over the Fourth of July weekend…only to start lezzing out and getting high! They find out (gasp!) they're infected, except for their one friend who didn't go to college!  Back in their home town (which is NOT Jersey, but instead outside LA where everyone wears skirts and/or nothing), the non-college friend is totally smokin' and wicked smart.  She wears glasses.  She is reading a book when her three friends try to eat her brains because they have STZDs (Sexually Transmitted Zombie Diseases) and the smart friend has to run.  Eventually, Jeff Goldblum kills her ex-boyfriend and they have to run into the heart of the city to find a cure!  They find it, and totally bone.  Her friends zombie-lezz over the end credits.

3. Death to All Robot Grizzly Bears, by Ned Haskins, Freshman Computer Science Engineer 

Their Version:  A bunch of Robot Grizzly Bears from space invade earth.  Only Jason Statham and Clive Owen are British enough to stop them.  Will Smith gets killed in the first five minutes.  Peter O'Toole is governor of England and asks the two badasses to save the world.  They begrudgingly agree and do. At the end, Clive Owne gets back with his ex-wife (Bridget Monahan) who was captured by the bears and forced into bondage and skimpy outfits. Before the credits roll, Statham is really drunk and kicks the Bush twins out of bed, claiming it was the only time he has not enjoyed a threesome.  A giant robot grizzly George W. Bush/Cheney amalgam bursts through his wall, and Statham says, "Crikey!". Fin.

My Version:  This cannot be improved. 

4. The Quest for Firewater, by Georgianna Huntsman, Senior Linguistics Major

Their Version:  A touching tragic-comic tale about the first Indians to attempt fermentation, this story chronicles Winged Hawk as he tries to develop an understanding of chemistry as well as addiction in a culture that views most science as superstition. 

My Version:  Indians, using magic Indian stealth powers, steal all the booze from Spanish conquistadors.  The Spaniards, angry and hungover with nothing to take the edge off, projectile vomit all over the natives' land so nothing can grow (FAMINE!).  Then they charge on their armored horses with gun powder and slaughter the drunk Indians.  Only one survives- the nameless badass who grows up to invent moonshine that is four times as potent as normal moonshine.  He sells it to the Spaniards, who drink too much and get sick and then he single-handedly scalps every last one.  Using the gold on their ships, he buys back Manhattan Island and finds the last of the Mohicans.  He outlaws booze and barter, and Indians prosper, living in peace with the land, using all parts of the still-non-extinct buffalo. Mother Environment blesses them all with the gift of reincarnation and all the Indians come back as Kimono Dragons.  Al Gore never makes An Inconvenient Truth.

By Michael J. Weingarth

How You Might've Avoided Pushing the Big Red Button

1. Not turned “abandoned” missile-silo into roller-rink nightclub
2. Stopped pretending it was opposite day
3. Grooved a little less recklessly when your “Max Booty Groove!” playlist came on  your iPod
4. Found the Big Red Orange Button, which looks the same because it’s in the sun and a little faded
5. Hoped the Russians love their children, too.
6. Seen a counselor after you dressed up as Mad Max for seven Halloween’s running
7. Pushed the big red futon against the wall, like your boss asked.
8. Junked overstock of paintball guns and paintballs immediately, instead of storing in supply closet
9. Stopped filming “War Games” spoof for youtube after Johnson flubbed his lines
10. Not told everyone how they would never find it, even if they wanted to.
    
    By Michael J. Weingarth

John Mayer's Blog: A Translator

by Johnny McNulty

The following is a blow-by-blow parsing and translation of John Mayer's blog entry "From The Heart," a missive against self-obsession and the impact on modern media on our collective psyche. Also, it is about John Mayer being a very boring man who dislikes everyone who thinks they're better than him. All the quotes are in the order the appear in the blog entry, which can be found here.

FROM THE HEART

                    I need to write this. Translation: I want to write this.

I've been traveling alone in Japan for the better part of three weeks now, and It's been so remarkable an experience for me that I can't book a ticket home yet. I haven't spoken very much out loud these days, but I've been thinking to myself in what feels like surround sound. I can see so many things clearly, and feel so connected to myself and the world around me that I need to share the perspective with you. Translation: Study abroad is fucking awesome, dude. Other countries are so spiritual, y'know?

I'm already aware that when I sing, say or write anything, 50 percent of the response will be in support of it and the other 50 will want to discount it. Translation: My manager does not let me read reviews of my albums.

This blog, though, is directed to 100 percent of people reading it. Translation: Yep.

If my blog truly does have any cultural effect, then it should be used for more than just pictures of sneakers and funny youtube videos. Translation: I do not like blogs about sneakers. Why are you writing a blog about sneakers? I don't like sneakers. I mean, I like sneakers, but not enough to write a blog about them. I'm a celebrity. My blog will help the world.

(If you don't think my blog has any effect, than you can't by definition be reading this right now and therefore don't have to respond to it in any way. Isn't that tidy?) Translation: I am a fucking genius.

What I'm about to write isn't about fame or success or celebrity or the media. That's my business. Translation: I'm gonna write this because I'm famous and successful in the media.

This is about us all. Translation: This is about me.

This is about a level of self consciousness so high in my generation, that it's actually toxic. Translation: I think I'm 17.

This is about the girl in her bedroom who poses in front of the camera she's awkwardly holding in her outstretched hand. She'll take a hundred photos until coming up with one she's happy with, which inevitably looks nothing like her, and after she's done poring over images of herself, will post one on her myspace page and then write something like " I don't give a f*ck what you think about me." Translation: Melanie, answer my wall posts.

This is about the person trying out for American Idol, who while going off about how confident they are that they were born ready to sing in front of the world, are trembling so badly they can hardly breathe. Translation: Stage fright is for pussies. I'm John Fucking Mayer, bitches.

This is about me, the guy who walks through a throng of photographers into a restaurant like he's Paul Newman, but who leaves a "reject" pile of clothes in his closet so high that his cleaning lady can't figure out how one man can step into so many pairs of pants in a week. Translation: 1.) I told you this was about me. 2.) I'm Paul Newman. 3.) Then I fired her for talking to me.

This is about a young guy who maintains a celebrity blog that subsists on tearing other people down but who has wrestled with a lifelong battle for acceptance as a gay man. Translation: Should I add the word fat? 'as a fat gay man.' No, no. 'as a gay fat man.' That's better. I don't know. I mean Perez Hilton is definitely a big fat gay man, but should I call him that? No, I'll take the high road by slyly referencing him without using his name so I can always deny it later.

This is about us all. Translation: This is about me.
Every one of us. Translation: Specifically me.

Who all seem to know deep down that it's incredibly hard to be alive and interact with the world around us but will try and cover it up at any cost. For as badass and unaffected as we try to come off, we're all just one sentence away from being brought to the edge of tears, if only it was worded right. Translation: That sentence is: "When it comes to boring music, I prefer Jack Johnson."

And I don't want to act immune to that anymore. I took the biggest detour from myself over the past year, since I decided that I wasn't going to care about what people thought about me. I got to the point where I had so much padding on that, sure, I couldn't feel the negativity, but that's because I couldn't feel much of anything. Translation: It was so bad, I was smoking pot every week.

And I think I'm done with that. Translation: People stopped paying attention to me.

I'm not the first person to admit we're all self conscious, Kanye was. Translation: Kanye West was the first person to come up with the concept of being aware of other's perceptions of you. I want Kanye to read this blog. I want to be friends with Kanye.

But what I want to do is to shed a little light on why we're all in the same boat, no matter the shape of the life we lead: because every one of us were told since birth that we were special. Translation: But many of you are still trying to pretend you are as special as me, John Mayer.

We were spoken to by name through a television. Translation: My house was haunted.

We were promised we could be anything that we wanted to be, if only we believed it and then, faster than we saw coming, we were set loose into the world to shake hands with the millions of other people who were told the exact same thing. Translation: Stop making albums on the internet. I have a record deal. Remember "Room For Squares"? That was a breath of fresh air, right? We didn't need Pitchfork to tell you it was good, or bad, or sucked, or that some Weekend Vampires were way better. I GOT HERE FIRST, DAMMIT! NO ONE MAKE NEW MUSIC UNTIL I'M DONE!

And really? Really? It turns out we're just not all that special, when you break it down. Beautifully unspectacular, actually. Translation: I'm NORMAL. Do you hear me?! NORMAL! Normal people are CRUSHED! BY SELF DOUBT!!...RIGHT?!

And that truth is going to catch up with us whether we want to run from it or not. The paparazzo following me to the gym ain't gonna be Herb Ritts and the guy he's following (ME) ain't gonna be Bob Dylan. Translation: Jack Johnson.

It's just a matter of how old you are once you embrace that fact. And for me (ME), 30 sounds about right. Translation: The rest of you should realize right now.

What now, then? I can only really say for myself (ME): Enjoy who I am, the talents and the liabilities. Stop acting careless. In fact, care more. Translation: Get it? Careless...Care Less...Care MORE!

Be vulnerable but stay away from where it hurts. Translation: Album reviews.
Read. Translation: But not album reviews.
See more shows. Translation: Mine.
Of any kind. Translation: Mine.
Rock shows, Translation: Mine.
art shows, Translation: Did you know I also macrame?
boat shows. Translation: I have a boat I need to sell.
Create more art. Translation: But not music. Enough people do that.
Wear hoodies to dinner. Translation: Badass!
Carry a notebook and hand it to people when they passionately recommend something and ask them to write it down for me. Translation: YOU carry around a book in which to collect recommendations for ME.

Root for others. Translation: For the rest of you, this means me.

Give more and expect the same in return, but over time. Translation: I write blog entries, you buy my albums. Over time.

Act nervous when I'm nervous, puzzled when I don't know what the hell to do, and smile when it all goes my way. And never in any other order than that. Translation: I have no fucking clue.

And when it's all over, whether at the end of this fabulous career or of this life, which I hope takes place at the same time, I should look back and say that I had it good and I made the most of it while I was able. And so should you. Translation: As a quiet, unfamous citizen who won't date Jessica Simpson.

I'm going quiet now. Translation: Sincerely,

John (ME)

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By Michael J. Weingarth

The Lesser Gatsby, Vol 2: Twilight in the Breakfast Nook of Mediocrity

I departed from the Club a little later than usual, stopping only to wave my hand in front of my face a few times, to make sure I was drunk. I drove home slowly, every noise a fearful hint of sirens in my paranoid ear drums, and stumbled back into bed. Naturally, she was calling. It had been a few weeks since I had seen Hallie, quiet, acceptable weeks that were filled with polite distrust and subtle longing for something more than a bologna and cheese sandwich when I got hungry after 10pm.
            So I picked up the phone, and hung it up, knowing she’d call back. I unplugged the line from the jack and stood, starring at the now-neutered telephone, and admired the fact that I could never plug it back in again, an astronaut in space with no line back to the ship. But I was hungry, so I went back out, partially as an excuse to contradict myself, and partially so I could drink more.
            On my way down there was a letter. She was separating from her fiancée. I paused to consider a smile but thought better of it. The Spaniard at the desk smiled his mustachioed silliness and I said hello and passed into the courtyard, where I had parked. I started the car hesitantly, and listened to the spark-plugs begrudgingly accept their orders as the engine roared to life and the pistons jumped at my gas pedal’s every bidding. I commanded my mechanical horses go, and off we rode, half in the saddle, and mostly in the bag.
            I wasn’t in the mood for the Club twice in one night, so I embarked on a cross-county journey to a watering hole by an old opium den that had since been converted into a karaoke bar. The new participants acted mostly the same as the old, and produced eerily similar sounding moans. I parked and walked across the street to the Leaky Buzzard. In taking off my scarf I bumped into a young fellow who immediately wished to rope me into some sort of bawdy horseplay.
            “I’mafuckingkillyou!?” he drunkenly stammered, slouching towards an invisible wall that seemed to hold him up by some act of existential will.
            “I’m terribly sorry. How about I buy you drink?” I smiled, and he seemed to relax.
            “Hah.” He snorted, and walked off.
            “Hrmph,” I half grunted, half-chortled. I walked into the bar and was greeting almost instantaneously by Rodger Chirpling.
            “Ah, my dear old friend! How long has it been?” he asked, waving the bartender down with the kind of gusto that would only encourage sloth and disdain.
            “A week, I believe, Rodger. I was here last Tuesday, as well.”
           “Ah, what sad and lonely days are those without the cheerful company of bright young men, eh? And lasses,” he finished, and laughed like a letch. He had a way of doing that, being 28 and married twice. He was able to slip into some sort of “Old Benevolent Uncle” mode and age rapidly to the point where lechery was harmless, due to impotence or a bad back. Most women found it a turn-off, except for the rich ones, who naturally were reminded of their fathers.
            “Indeed. What do you hear of our dear old friends the Strangles?” I asked. I must’ve said it too eagerly though, for he immediately laughed a knowing laugh and winked a knowing wink and belched an informed burp.
            “Ah, I see someone eagerly anticipates the return of a certain young disgraced ex-patriot.” He smiled to himself.
            “What gave you that impression?” I sipped my Anglo-martini- a gin and gin.
            “Well, I just so happened to hear from a Mr. Hardington, that young fellow you nearly pummeled into oblivion on your way in, that you’ve been exchanging letters with the countess.”
“She’s not a countess anymore. She married out of that. God knows why.”  I sullenly turned towards the window and listened to him chuckle, playing with my strings, attempting to puppeteer his way into some abstract love-triangle.
            “Well, either way, she’s comin’ home soon. And the divorce will be finalized as soon as she cedes over her holdings.” He dropped it calmly, an atom bomb in a mimosa, letting the truth diffuse with all the subtlety of a jackhammer in a chicken coop.
            “She’ll be penniless.” It was fact, so I said it, without any concern who might’ve overheard.
            “Aye, lad. She will. And it looks like little Ms. Hallie will finally have a bit of your attention. That is, unless you’ve suddenly come into some sort of respectability with your office position. Do they call that a job nowadays? Or is it still running errands for your father?” He excused himself to go pee, and correctly, I shouted something about my father being an immature drunk. Then I ripped out some of pubes and put them in his drink, just to show him.
            I tipped the bartender enough for the both of us and walked to the car, where that young Mr. Hardington, drunk as the dickens, was passed out on my car. “What are you doing on my auto?” I demanded to know.
            “Waiting. I’m going to challenge you to a fight, and win. And then you’ll have a reason to marry the countess, and I can marry Hallie.” He stood up and shoved me a few times.
            “Well that will have to wait until tomorrow,” I explained, and went to start my car. He protested when gravity, long growing tired of his insolence, extracted its revenge and forced him to the ground.
            “I’ll find you. Don’t you worry.” He spat out some more noises and explained the rest of his raving theories to the sidewalk in a rather low-class mixture of poorly chosen words and vomit.
            “I most certainly will not,” I replied, starting my car and driving back to my apartment. Halfway there I realized the letter was still in my pocket. I pulled over and tossed it into a sewer, if only to punish myself for having read anything she wrote in the first place. She always was a terrible liar, the albatross of vindictiveness. I returned home and plugged in my telephone, where, on cue, Hallie was still dialing, even though it was past midnight. We exchanged pleasantries, and she parried my excuses with challenges and eventually decided she was coming over but she needed a ride. If anything, Hallie was privileged.
            I poured myself another Anglitini, and watched the darkness grow still, a solitude creeping over the night sky and a peaceful morning on the horizon. Eventually I took out the letters and looked at them, and wondered if my slumber would ever be as sound as before all of this. A lone seagull answered me, cawing gently, “I’d like to eat your garbage, sir” or something of that ilk. The ominous non-sequitur sobered me, and I fell into sleep’s sweet embrace full of curiosities with no cats left to kill.

By Michael J. Weingarth

Everything I Know I Learned From "10,000 B.C."

1.) Prophesy, Prophesy, Prophesy

          When your entire existence depends on repeating the same routine every year or starving to death, there is some understandable skepticism when some dude in a loincloth walks up and says "maybe we should shove some shit in the ground and wait 5 months for food" or "we should form a government of some sort" or "we should stop letting these big dudes whip us all the time." However, there is one simple end run around every argument in the ancient world: "Do you see how my leg is all fucked up? Many moons ago, a wise blind, butt-ugly man once foretold that he who walks on a gnarled stump would come to this village and lead you to greatness. I am that gnarled stump. Also, it was foretold that I would wed your most beautiful virgin. Hey, it's not me, I'm just telling you the prophesy."

          Because of the preponderance of prophesy, it is always a good idea in the ancient world to:

                        A.) Cover yourself in scars

                        B.) Be albino (note - this could also get you instantly killed, and it won't help if you have to lead an army across a desert under the blazing sun. A risky choice, but a bold one.)

                        C.) Make friends with the oldest, ugliest person in your tiny society, so they make sure you get a fair share of the prophesizing they will undoubtedly be doing. Does that old crone talking to herself keep asking for a foot massage? Get down there and work on those corns, bunions, and embedded mammoth bones, and while you're doing that, mention how you've been noticing that beautiful blue-eyed orphan girl your nomadic tribe just picked up. Sure enough, when the village elders decide she is to be wed, Old Mother (at the unheard-of age of 42) will mumble something about "Oh, um, the stars say that that nice young man who rubs my feet was destined to marry her. What's that? Eaten by wolves, you say? That's a shame. Let the tall guy have her then."

2.) Civilization is evil and stupid.

          HEAD PRIEST: "Sire, sire! We have discovered a way of transferring messages over distance and time by inscribing them on rock!"

          KING: "Excellent, write down the following: I am a god. You are all my slaves. Build me some pyramids."

          HEAD PRIEST: "Um...ok. Shouldn't we maybe write down some maxims for good behavior and elevate the people..."

          KING: "Does anyone else know how to write in this kingdom?"

          HEAD PRIEST: "Yes, I taught it to all the other priests."

          KING: "Guards! Kill this man! You there! You are now the head priest. Write down what happens to those who question me."

          NEW HEAD PRIEST: "Yes your majesty. Where should we put the pyramids?"

          KING: "I want them right across the street from my palace."

          NEW HEAD PRIEST: "Are you sure, your majesty? This could take decades, and it will require thousands upon thousands of slaves and beasts, who could revolt at any time. We will not have time to gather the army to protect you, plus it will be kind of messy while we construct it."

          KING: "Guards! Kill this man! You! You are now the head priest."

          NEWEST HEAD PRIEST: "Excellent idea about the pyramids, your majesty. May I recommend diverting the gold we planned on spending on bread for the people to creating a giant gilded cap for the pyramid?"

          KING: "I like the cut of your jib, young man. I have a feeling this is going to be the start of a beautiful civilization."

3.) Walking from the steppes of Central Asia, over the Himalayas, through the jungles of India/Sub-Saharan Africa, through the Sahara to the Nile Delta takes roughly 2 weeks, a bag of mastodon jerky and a canteen. Also, sabertooth tigers make good pets.

Easter Bunny Demands Worship

Hello faithful internet,
The Dopple Gang is on temporary vacation while we prostrate ourselves before our respective gods, catch up on our laundry and make some serious inroads on our Netflix queue. However, if any unbelievers would still like a good chuckle, check out our Archives!

Thanks,
The Gang

What Does Your SleepNumber Say About You?

Select Comfort presents: What does your SleepNumber say about you?

1 - You enjoy the finer things in life, and a fluffy bed sure is one of them. Highly intelligent and refined, you enjoy your authors Russian, your wines French, and your lovers Italian. After a bath filled with the finest bubbles, you climb into your Select Comfort bed and lower the number until the bed itself is almost imperceptible, just a cloud with sheets. Is there a pea under this mattress? You would know, after all - you are a princess.

19 - A military man, you've had enough nights holed up in a foxhole trying to sleep with your back against hard-packed dirt and just your kit for a pillow. You've slept next to dead men, and once you had to try to look just as dead as they did when the enemy advanced past your position. Finally, you arose in the dead of night to seize a German troop truck and make a daring escape back to Allied territory. You got a Medal of Honor for your efforts and the intelligence you recovered, but during the ceremony you saw not the eyes of President Truman, but rather that young chubby German man, a boy really, dozing by the truck before you snapped his neck. You could have just let him be but the risk was too great. Sure, he was a Nazi but he was also just a kid. A soft bed can't remove that guilt, but it sure does feel great at night.

50 - Unable to make decisions, you straddle the line between hard and soft and call it living. You know, here at Select Comfort, half the engineers wanted to leave 50 off the menu, because only a total fucking pussy would ever pick such a lame fucking number. PICK A SIDE, YOU ASSHOLE! Are you with the cushies or the firmies? This is a question you must answer, Steve Hendrickson. We know who you are. All our beds radio home and tell us the most popular numbers. You know how many beds are set to 50? One. Yours. Yes, technically this makes you the most individualistic Sleep Number user, but it also makes you a dickwad. Get off your high horse and pick a real number, or we will detonate your bed without warning.

93 - Relaxed, almost subservient, you avoid confrontation and prefer to work by consensus or alone. Well-suited to the life of a researcher or engineer, you work well in teams, as long as you are not the leader of said team. Also, you like to sleep on a pretty firm bed.

95 - You are a fiery, almost criminal lover. You fuck with wild abandon whenever the opportunity arises and will often be late to work due to your incessant fucking. Life outside the pursuit and conquest of a new sexual partner seems dull and gray. You care little for your work and seek out jobs that don't require thought after the end of the day. Instead, your real day begins afterwards, when you head to a bar or gallery opening to seduce any attractive, lonely figure you see separated from the pack. Once in your sights, you pursue your mark with ferocious tenacity until your raw animal energy overcomes them in wave after wave of pleasure. All that fucking, however, has thrown out your back something serious and you need a firmer mattress to avoid chronic pain.

Johnny McNulty's "Just-In-Case" Presidential Acceptance Speech

Wow.

(Applause)

Thank you.

(Applause)

Thank you. Thank you.

(Applause)

First of all. First of all, I would like to congratulate Senators McCain and Obama for their hard-fought campaigns.

(Boos)

Now, now, let’s be fair. They both conducted themselves superbly, and they are both admirable Americans: a true war hero and a dedicated community leader. They both embody the civil virtues that make America great.

(scattered claps)

Now, to be fair, unlike the Senators, I never actually ran for the presidency.

(Raucous cheering)

I understand this, to a large degree, was part of my appeal. When the newspapers and the pollsters asked you “Why do you like Johnny so much,” you responded, in a loud, clear voice, with answers like: “his humility”

(Applause)

“He’s an outsider who can change Washington”

(Applause)

“He’s not running for President”

(Applause)

“He’s Constitutionally unable to serve due to his age.”

(Applause)

“He doesn’t want to be President at all.”

(Wild, savage cheering)

Now, if I could focus on that point for a just a second. I understand your hunger for someone who isn’t craving power…

(Applause)

…please, if you’d just let me get through a thought…anyway, a man who isn’t craving power, or hasn’t been turned into a cunning political animal

(Applause)

…Yes, thank you, I appreciate it, but if you could just hold off for a second… I understand, furthermore, that desire to elect someone who isn’t part of, or an instrument of, the left- and right- wing crazies who think because they speak the loudest, they speak the truest.

(Applause)

And I understand that I must have seemed like that man.

(Applause)

STOP APPLAUDING! Thank you. Sorry for making your baby cry. That’s because I’m just a normal man.

(Isolated claps)

Honestly, I’m sorry for yelling before, but stop it. I don’t want to be president.

(Silence)

Ok, this is awkward, you can start applauding again.

(Applause)

Thank you. I look out on this crowd today, and I see men and women of all backgrounds, united. I see America as I have too few times in my life: united with purpose, united with hope, secure in our ideals. I just have no idea what any of this has to do with me.

(Applause)

I don’t have any experience, policy positions, or ideas for my cabinet. Let’s face it, though, that hasn’t stopped anyone before. But outside of my public life, which just started today, I have a lot of stuff going on that I can’t just drop and become President for.

(Some dude: “Like what?”)

I just started seeing this girl, and I think she’s really cool, and I’d like to see where that is heading.

(Girlfriend in crowd: “Hey sweetie! It’s me! I’m totally fine with you being President!” - Applause)

Thank you, Emily. Ladies and gentlemen, my girlfriend Emily, without whom I could never have not run for President. But c’mon, I’m 22, what if I mess everything up?

(New dude: “What if McCain or Obama messes everything up?”)

Um. Okay. Well you’ve got me there.

(Applause)

Our Founding Fathers knew that the ambition of men was a dangerous but powerful force. So they wrote the Constitution, which harnessed that power in the federal system of checks and balances. Among their smarter ideas was a little one saying you had to be 35 to be President. So, you see, I’m afraid I have you there: I can’t be President, it’s Constitutionally impossible until I’m 35. Again, thank you very much, but go home now, and drive safe.

(“Johnny! It’s me, Antonin Scalia! The Court rules that we’re cool with it. Whooo!! Johnny!!!” – Scalia flashes crowd)

Thank you. Antonin Scalia everybody. Say what you will about his opinions, he’s a terrific public speaker. Okay. Well. Let’s just say, hypothetically, that I refused to serve? What would happen then?

(“You would pick a Vice President and he would be President”)

Well, I don’t want to just pick a President, that’s rather undemocratic.

(Applause – “So then the Speaker of the House would be President”)

Huh….eh. No. That would just lead to a lot of people being pissed off at me, I think.

(“We could have another election at a massive cost to the public and the risk that they pick someone worse.”)

My fellow Americans, I am honored to serve as your President.

(Applause)

And I will hold this against each and every one of you as long as I live.

by Johnny McNulty
(this piece also appeared on The Foghorn - a great writing site you should check out.)