William the Retard

Back in Boy Scouts, we had a kid named William. Nobody ever called him Will; it was always William, like we were his parents constantly having to shout his full name to let him know he was doing wrong. He was a year below us, but that was no excuse for his behavior, such as chasing a squirrel with a makeshift club. No, his maladjustment could be blamed squarely on his parents' poor luck: William was a retard.

He was only borderline retarded -- a few points above the line that determined if you were fit for society. Our school accepted him well enough. And he could carry and follow conversations, and didn't have the worst grades in his class. Really, it was only his looks and speech that gave it away, even before you knew he was inclined to occasionally shit on trees in plain sight of the nearest path. A redneck cherub wasn't someone you could easily mistake for intelligent, buckteeth and blotchy dark skin and slow drawl, and glazed eyes and chubby cheeks and all. William had a presence, which, for me, was the nicest thing you could say about him.

I didn't know quite how to treat him back then. Even being in middle and high school, I had enough of a conscience not to make fun of him just for being born unfortunately, even behind his back. (The same couldn't be said of Max and Andy, two of his classmates, who constantly tormented him and made him pitch their tents or throw out their trash. Perhaps because they had to be around him more than we did.) But the fact of the matter was that I did not like dealing with him. None of us did, not even the leaders, who would awkwardly laugh at his jokes, or just say, "yup." I was never unfortunate enough to have to share a tent with him (like Max and Andy did). Sometimes, though, I would end up next to him at a table, and I would try my best to sit in my seat fully, and not scrunched uncomfortably to the side, away from him and his loud, open-mouthed chewing.

One instance stands out in my wasteland of a memory bank. At Camp Massawepie one year, our grueling one-week summer venture in the Adirondacks (made bearable only by the rifles and the bows), we had sat down for lunch in the mess hall, with myself two seats down from William. It was taco day. A bowl of meat laid in the center of the table. After avoiding the prayer and trudging through the pro-boy guttertalk in the announcements (complete with the slapping of tables and Lord of the Flies-esque chanting), I was ready for my midday break from thought. But William, sweet William, grabbed the bowl first. The spoon was large, almost like a ladle, and William took full advantage of its higher functions -- namely, spooning a shitton of meat onto his plate. After fully a third of the bowl had been depleted, he seemingly remembered that there were eleven other people at the table, and instead of scooping some of the meat back into the bowl, he simply passed it down, making his taco. Cries of "William!," the shaking of heads, the dead stares, and the rubbing of temples prompted him not to apologize, but to eat in silence. Not having to hear his voice was enough for me.

The meat would have been no big deal coming from anyone else (I've always been more of a sharer in group meals), but from him I just got sullen and frustrated. Frustrated because he screwed up, again, and sullen because it was never his fault, and he would never learn. He works as a cart retriever at Wegmans now, 20 years old, and I see him sometimes. I wave and smile, and he says, "hi Patrick" as he waddles to a cart he has forgotten. I helped him grab that cart one time, knowing it to be the largest contribution I could make to his day -- leaving the curing of mental incapacity to gold-hearted intellectuals, while I walked barely ten feet, to and from the cart.

Chain of Memories

I have a web of memories. If I think of one, inevitably I will think of five more. And since this process takes place over the course of a couple seconds, my memories end up jumbled and I can't remember which one took place when. It might explain my terrible memory, but I don't wish this memory-web away -- some of these connections are just too fun, and it's more fun to try to figure them out.

Normally the first memory comes from a time of year, or a big event. Let's start with Halloween. When Halloween comes around, several threads appear. The most prominent begins with Bunnicula, an old cartoon about a vampire rabbit. From there we get to Hellsing, an anime about a vampire. Sound enough, right? Not for long -- from Hellsing, it goes to Mardi Gras. An episode of Hellsing took place in some apartment on an empty Spanish street that looked suspiciously like New Orleans. I got it in my head that everybody in Spain was partying it up a few blocks down the road, and this apartment was on the outskirts, where some unlucky victims were looking to enjoy each other's company.

Now, from Mardi Gras we go to Girls Gone Wild. Not too big of a leap, especially if you remember the Girls Gone Wild Mardi Gras special that aired at 3 am years ago. After Girls Gone Wild, Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. All I can think of is that both have scantily clad ladies, GTA typically poking fun at the sex industry. GTA:SA goes to bestiality. A few years ago, at an overnight birthday party, those of us awake at 4 am were taking turns playing San Andreas. Earlier in the night, the friend of mine who gave me my copy of the game was browsing Beast Tube on my Wii. We especially enjoyed the video of a turtle with (what we all saw as) a penis longer than its own body, flopping around on a plastic ball. I still remember the way it repeatedly opened its mouth, as if desperate to explain its horrific growth.

Enough on Beast Tube, time for Spider-Man. Even earlier that night, my friends had gotten me a Spider-Man web shooter that I shot onto my friends' faces. This takes me back to my PS1 days, when I was playing Spider-Man with a friend of mine. With the same friend I often played a demo of Tony Hawk's Pro Skater. That obviously takes me to THPS2, then to Linkin Park's Hybrid Theory, to Howard Stern, to Massawepie, etc. etc.

Of course, that was only one thread. There are sometimes branches that the memories go down instead -- for instance, I didn't have to think of Tony Hawk, I could have thought of Spyro the Dragon, gone to Christmas, then started an entirely new chain of memories. And it doesn't always start with Bunnicula -- it could start with more typical Halloween fare, like cider and donuts, or a haunted hay ride. But inevitably it would end up at something completely different, just a few seconds later. And I would have trouble deciding whether or not I watched bestiality when I was 10.

Jet Set Radio Beard; or, How to Survive a Fashion Apocalypse, feat. Beards (Workshop Essay)

In 2022, Tremendous Beards will be in fashion. ZZ Top, after being the first people on Earth to be revived from the dead, will revive their band as Zombie Zombie Top and go on a world tour. As the first zombie band in history, it will be a smash hit. Nobody will go for the music, “because, like, zombies, yeah?” The initial audience will comprise of Hot Topic kids (known in 2022 as “Ht Tpc””kds”), occultists (“ocltsts”), and necrophiles (“Ptrck Cssd”). But soon, the whole world will swoon over Zombie Zombie Top (shortened in 2022 to “ZZ Top”) and their undead tunes. Sadly, all fads come to an end, and in 2024, after reanimation is considered passé and “something my grandma did, like,” ZZ Top will fade from the public eye. Again.

One legacy, however, will last until the Earth makes its final whimpers – their incredible beards. Even though they will have been dead for three years at the time of their revival, Billy Gibbins and Dusty Hill – their flesh and innards having rotted away – will retain their beards in the grave. Even Frank Beard, the only member of ZZ Top without a beard, will come out of his casket sporting a wicked faceraccoon. This will awe the public even more than their revival itself does. “How can that happen?” they will ask. “Are beards somehow immune to death?” “Does the brain live on in the beard posthumously?” “Can I offer the devil my beard in lieu of my soul so I can play guitar like Robert Johnson?” Questions no one had to ask before.

So to prepare for the future, you must start growing your beard now. By 2022, you might be on par with ZZ Top, and have your beard, along with cockroaches, be the only thing to survive a nuclear explosion (very important in the future, depending on where you live*). And to grow a beard you need a fabulous teacher. A beard professional. You have come to the right place, friend, for I am Beard M.D., MagNeat-O, Dude.

Begin with the crotch. It sounds counterproductive, but stay with me here. In Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla (1993), Mechagodzilla kills Godzilla with the G-Crusher, a giant metal clamp that trapped Godzilla and crushed his second brain, which he was hiding in the small of his back. Now, humans do not have a second brain in the smalls of their backs. As theorized earlier, the “second brain,” or rather, a medium through which the human body may channel the first brain, is the Tremendous Beard. You probably do not have a Tremendous Beard; that is why you are here. So in order to cultivate one, you first must practice using the closest thing your body has to a mass of hair on the small of your back. That’s right – your crotch. Just let its hair grow until nerves form in each strand. You will know it is ready when you zip up and your hair hurts more than your privates. (Women, unfortunately, will have to punch themselves in the crotch to check its readiness.)

After you have a properly mangled pubic exhibit, it is time for step two: transferal. It is exactly as it sounds: you will transfer your nerve-pubes to your face, likely via scissors and glue. I will not lie – the process is more painful than Death taking the form of a grizzly bear and giving you a colonoscopy, sans anesthetic. No, really, it’s quite a burn. Imagine taking thousands of fire ants, clumping them into a ball and attaching them to your crotch. Following the fire ants, imagine you make a deal with God to understand what it feels like to be conscious during a state of unconsciousness, or non-existence. To experience the state of not existing. And upon waking from that mind-rending experience, you realize that you have signed yourself to a state of eternal servitude as a scratching post for hell cats. Anyway. You have to do that.

Don’t worry, you’re almost home free. Your nerve-pubes should be glued to your face to a point that they could not be pulled off by two Hulk Hogans. Keep water and any other liquid away from your face at all costs. Do not shower, do not go outside, do not drink anything. Remain this way for three months. If you feel you are not up to the task of surviving without liquids, you may inject water into yourself using any number of homemade contraptions, such as a wooden, splintery syringe, or an ax/tape combo. However, if you do this, I ask that you brand yourself on your chest “I DO NOT DESERVE THIS BEARD,” thus cursing yourself to a life of never going to beaches and never facing your lover in bed/only doing it doggy style or reverse cowgirl.

Once a period of a quarter-year has passed, your pubes will have merged snugly with the flesh of your face. Thus is born a Tremendous Beard. I hope all of you will take this procedure with pride, as the Tremendous Beard fad will last relatively long – approximately 5 years. And to be trendy, in the year 2022, is everything.†

*spoilers it’s Switzerland

†especially Switzerland because there will be nothing else

The Republic of Seychelles

Nobody better have erased that or DAMN am I gonna serve up a really nasty omelet.