Five Univocalists Write about the Superbowl

Five Univocalists Write about the Superbowl
(based on an assignment from my Writing class)

Bad snap. Act fast and balk a sack. A ball falls as a man’s arms arc. All Pats fans gasp as a mass. Hands grab and grasp a ball. What a pass! What a catch! What a play! A dad stands and claps. Crap. A sad man prays at Allah and Martha Kraft, always a class act. “A hand, smart gal?”

Alas. A halfback trap and a crackback attack and abracadabra! Add a mark. Ass backwards and all.

The G-Men best the preferred peer’s seventeen. They let the G-Men get there, extended the secs left, help them get there themselves. We’ll see.

Seven secs left. The perfect-chested, revered expert sends the egg-sphere deep. Defenders merge. Wes Welker stretches, wrestles the defense. The defenders persevere. The end.

The teen peeps tweet “G-Men get revenge!” G-Men center, Snee, texts ESPN press “We deserve the respect. E’s the best ever.” Schlereth types “Well, best except Drew Brees.”

Winning is simplistic with Mississippi’s first pick, insists his kin in pigskin, Nicks. “His instincts is bitchin.” Criticizing nitwits dismiss his childish spirit, indicting him in writing. In hindsight, I think it stinks.

XLVI highlights find in it pick in third with him hitting dirt, mini-flip in first bringing six with it, diving miss in its finishing ticks. “If it is, it is. If it isn’t, it isn’t” sighs Bill, missing his win in his fifth bid.

Poor Tom. Boston’s top sports pro lost. No comfort for Tom’s droop. Boston’s townsfolk boo “Oh no! Son of God!” Mobs scold worth of no good Rob Gronk, old school jock who drops odd oblong orb. No crown for Boston. Not now.

Gongs toll for good crosstown. Joy on York, world’s top dog of now. Photos show Soho’s crowds of morons know how to show off. No gloom or doom on snob town.

Cruz’s run stuns rum drunk fun bunch, thus stung unfun gurus. Gurus dumbstruck, blurt “Shut up, butt-turds! Tuck’s guys such bums.” Turf burn hurts. Lung burn sucks. Dumb luck unfurls. Such fun.

Unfortunate Son

A CCBC student and war veteran was barred from campus after having a violently graphic essay about his time in war published in the school paper. Check out the Baltimore Sun article here: http://articles.baltimoresun.com/2010-11-20/news/bs-md-veteran-suspension-20101121_1_iraq-veteran-war-veteran-campus-violence

Unfortunate Son

I once wore a shirt to middle school that read “See Dick Drink, See Dick Drive, See Dick Die” on the front with three stick figures to represent Dick and his actions. The back of the shirt in big block letters, read “DON’T BE A DICK.” At the principal’s office, I stood behind the First Amendment like it was a shield that could deflect a nuclear bomb. Even then, I knew it wouldn’t work. I was just wearing the shirt to be a dick anyway. There were no social or political motives I was campaigning. At 12, I understood that though a legally binding supplement to our country’s constitution, there were sometimes more important issues which trumped my freedom of speech.

Charles Whittington, a war veteran and community college student in Catonsville, MD, had an essay published in the school paper in which he spoke openly and graphically of his addiction to violent killings and his hate toward “the rag heads that hurt our country.” He was banned from campus pending a psychological evaluation and seems to honestly question why. After a DUI in which I was barely over the limit, I had to have a psychological evaluation before I was able to drive again, which I believe to be completely justified. If I was responsible for a college campus full of potential victims to a person’s admitted addiction, especially any “rag heads” who might press a once-dormant button in an admitted killing machine, I think a psychological evaluation is the least I should require, if for nothing else than to protect my own ass.

I understand why Charles is upset. These writings were recommended by his therapist and he was encouraged by his professor to publish this particular essay. The administration’s reaction was a complete contrast to his professor’s advice. So he is now being punished by his college administrators for carrying out the wishes of another of his college administrators. I hope for the sake of the student that the professor has taken some responsibility for suggesting he publish his essay. Surely, the professor must have imagined this reaction as a possibility.

Maybe Charles is simply voicing the thoughts of most men and women who fight in combat, making public what most people think about in private. If so, he is certainly a hero for that and he wouldn’t be the first writer to be persecuted for his writings. He shines a light on the real issue here, which is the reintegration of these government-made killing machines back into society after being “brain washed” by the military to the point where killing is “something I really need so I can feel like myself.” However, it doesn’t change the bottom line in the eyes of the Community College admins.

In a November 2010 article in the Baltimore Sun, Charles rejected comparisons that had been made of him to Seung-Hui Cho, the Virginia Tech shooter, claiming Cho wasn’t a “veteran or a soldier, and he was mad at the school.” Charles is correct on this subject. His background is much more consistent with John Allen Muhammad, another man who had trouble reintegrating himself into society after war and took his sniper rifle to over 13 people around the DC Beltway in 2002. Whittington likely would not turn into this sniper at all, but no one is a murderer until they are. There’s not a single-file path all serial killers have to follow and his essay is just cause for speculation.

I ran a well-respected day camp for 7 years and if one of the kids had chicken pox, he or she wasn’t allowed back until they had a note from the doctor saying they were no longer contagious. If another child contracted the disease, I could at least show the parents –in writing – that I did what I could to avoid that. If a trained killer – who could likely snap someone’s neck without thinking about it – were to take out his pent-up aggressions on a “rag head” classmate of his after this essay was published and the administration hadn’t done anything about it, there would likely be a big pile of bricks and a skate park where a college campus once was. If this murder still happens after a passing psychological evaluation, the college has a legal leg to stand on. A psychological evaluation isn’t a brain sample and these administrators have a business to protect. Like it or not, that’s the bottom line. Hopefully one day, Charles, for everything he’s been through, will be able to see it through their eyes, just like I’m sure the admins are trying to see through his.

Counterintuition

Counterintuition

So I know I haven’t been attending to this website the way I promised all of you many times over. And the reason is because I’ve been busy with my writing class. Sound counterintuitive? I know. But it’s true. Kinda. I still watch football 42 hours a week, but this class – just like the last class I took – has fucked with my head about writing. I no longer want to publish anything I haven’t perfected. Well that ends today. With this exact piece of nothing. I hope you liked it.

Inside the Head of a Writer

Inside the Head of a Writer

(Ed note: This was originally titled “Inside the Head of a Performer,” but Dustin went a little too long about writing the damn thing. He does that. You should hear him leave a voice message. JEEZ! Anyway, that will probably follow this soon enough. In the meantime, enjoy.)

Let me start by saying that I am an extreme amateur and anything you read should be with that caveat. You are not going inside the mind of Steve Martin or Steve Carrel. Or even Steve from Blue’s Clues. I will probably never make it big as a performer of any sort and that’s fine with me. It’s just nice to have a creative outlet that will likely reach more people than this does (Hi Tom. And Cheryl. And Jen when I make you read it).

Last night was another Speakeasy Performance, and this one was coming on the heels of last weekend’s Sucker for Love show. That was an ensemble performance that I was paid for and last night was another open mic. What I mean by “ensemble” insofar as you need to know, it means I was picked to do that show because they like me – whereas almost anyone could sign up for the open mic, as evident by the drunk guy who tried to pretend he was stoned (or vice versa if you like). So I had put all my time and energy into making sure that was as great a show as possible, so after it was over on Sunday, I breathed a sigh of relief on Monday and woke up Tuesday to the tune of “Crap! That other thing is tomorrow!”

Thankfully, I had chosen to do a story which I had told many times before. It’s the Dominos Pizza Story. I know that story like the palm of my hand (hehe). BUT, the part that I know is only about 2 minutes long. The spot was supposed to be 7 minutes. So I wasn’t out of the woods yet. My selection of the story was a little different than usual. Originally, I had convinced Meatwad into doing his story about getting kicked out of the bar, which I thought would have been awesome. But when he punked out, Stephanie (from the Speakeasy) offered me the spot to fill in for the Meatman. Stephanie is what I call my stage coach, because not only does she coach my stories that I’ll be telling on the stage, but she also used to bring people back and forth from Philly to New York in the 1700s in a covered wagon.

The theme was “After Hours: Stories about things that happen at night,” which encompasses everything I’ve ever done. Rather than having a pre-determined story and going to Stephanie with that in mind, I pitched 3 ideas to her of things I’d already written since I knew I’d have little time to focus on this with that Sucker for Love Show in the rear view. They were the Dominoes Pizza Story (which won), the Cicada Party and a Brick Street compilation culminating in Paul getting taken to the police station across the street. Well, she liked the pizza story. Now I just had to figure out how to frame it to have something to do with the night.

I tried at first to make it seem like the night was scary and play up the concept of fear. That watered down the story like a happy hour long island ice tea. Stephanie suggested I try to take more of a customer service angle before she headed out to California for the gold rush. This was a better fit with the Dominos Pizza part, but not the theme. But at this point, I didn’t care. This eventually led to the frame it currently sits in: the difference between Corporate America and the Ma and Pa stores and their relation to my hometown of Bridgeport, PA.

Somewhere along the line, I decided it would be fun to try to play up the angle of my irritation. This involved the inclusion of a couple well placed rants, which would intentionally veer from the topic to other things that angered me to indicate my level of irritation. So what I’ve basically done at this point, is I’ve taken the Dominoes Pizza story – one of the easiest lay-ups already in my comedic story-telling format – and I’ve made it into the most complicated performance I’ve possibly ever given. And on only one day’s preparation. Dustin Fisher, Comedy Masochist.


Still Standing Right Here...

QOTD credits: Derek Hills – ("or vice versa if you like")