JUMPED

Early Wednesday morning Alex and I got jumped by four guys while walking to our cars in downtown Tempe. Here's what happened:

After an extremely satisfying meal at Hooters, followed by some extended philosophical conversation, Alex and I were making our way back to our respective vehicles, ready to call it a night. We'd parked in the visitor lot just to the west of Hayden Square, and in order to get there, we traveled down Fifth Street. At this time, it was just before 1:30 am.

On our way to the cars, we passed Suite 301. I looked at the club-goers waiting outside, secluded behind velvet ropes, and amongst them I saw four black dudes waiting while talking to one another. "A Milli" was playing inside. "Oh, this song is awesome," I said to Alex.

We reached the parking lot. We stood by Alex's Saturn, summarizing the topics covered during the evening, saying goodbyes. Alex's head turned, acknowledging something behind me, and as I turned, I saw the four black guys who'd been waiting outside Suite 301.

"Hey, do you guys have change for a five?" the guy in front said.

"No, man, I don't carry cash around," Alex said hesitantly.

"No, I don't think-" I began. I was interrupted, however, by a sudden fist to the jaw. One of the four (who was standing in the left field of my peripheral vision) hit me in the jaw hard enough to daze me, to spin me around and drop me to the ground. I believe he was wearing a ring because that initial punch to the jaw opened up a long cut along my jawline that ultimately required ten stitches to close.

Later on, Alex would go on to tell me that from the minute he saw them, he knew something was about to go down. Here's the sad thing: when I saw them striding towards us purposefully, four horsemen in loose jeans and sideways ballcaps, I didn't suspect a thing. In fact, I thought these four guys actually needed change for a five.

I fell to the ground, and as they continued to pummel me, I closed my eyes and attempted to protect my face and chest as effectively as possible. The fact that my eyes were closed (as well as the many, many punches received to the head) makes me a rather unreliable narrator in regards to the remainder of the story, but I remember bits and pieces:

I remember hearing Alex distinctly say, "what the fuck?" I also remember saying something, too, but after the hit to the jaw my quip wasn't even close to being understandable.

From what Alex told me later, two of them continued to beat me while I was down, and two of them started to attack him (Alex). This seems consistent with what I experienced. I could feel one of them punching the right side of my body (arm, back, chest) while the other (the guy with the ring) continued to hit me in the head. He punched me in the neck, in the ear, and on top of my head, but thankfully I managed to protect my face. My beautiful, beautiful face.

During all of this, I did not pass out, but did totally lose track of time. It seemed to go on for a while. Then, it suddenly stopped. I pushed myself off the pavement in time to see three or four of the attackers chasing Alex through the parking structure. Oh shit, I thought. Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit, oh fuck, this isn't real, I thought. I ran and hid behind an electrical box, and then, fearing that the electrical box wasn't sufficient covering, I crawled into a bush behind the electrical box. I was in bad shape.

I could feel blood dripping. Cautiously, I moved my hand up to my face, trying to diagnose my wounds. As I put my hand on my throat, seeking the source of the bleeding, one of my fingers slid into the ragged hole in the skin below my jawline. I thought my throat was cut. I also figured my ear canal was dripping blood. The end? I wondered.

From inside of my bush, I sent Alex a frantic text message: Where are you?! His response was surprisingly cool: In front of Trails. Alright, at least he's able to text, I thought. I quickly called my brother and informed him of the situation; he pledged to drive down to Hayden Square, post haste.

A brief digression: When my brother found out Alex and I had been attacked, he assembled "the crew". By "the crew", I mean, he called some of his less-than-savory friends of friends, including a dude called Lance, who is about as unsavory as they come. Lance is one of those guys who feels more comfortable in jail than he does in the real world; he's also famous for ending a fight by pulling two AK-47's out of his minivan and firing them in the air while screaming in order to frighten the opposition. Anyway, when my brother informed me that he'd be "assembling the crew", I immediately feared for everyone who could possibly be misconstrued as one of our attackers (i.e. "black people").

I slowly walked back into the parking lot, afraid that one of the four would reappear and finish what they started, but by the time I got back a policeman was already on the scene. I spoke to him at great length. In the grand tradition of the Tempe police, the officer was arrogant, patronizing, and a total waste of my time.

Then the paramedics bandaged me up. They informed me that the style of bandage used on my head was called "the Civil War wrap". Apparently, they had not needed to use it in quite some time. "It'll go well with my Civil War beard," I quipped.

I finally got to see Alex, and David arrived shortly after. Soon, the three of us arrived at the hospital. While the doctor was stitching me up, I remarked that I "finally know how the hem of a dress feels." I inquired whether the thread he was using to stitch up my face was flesh-colored; I then requested to be sewn up with turquoise-colored thread instead.

The final injury count was as follows: Alex received a broken nose and a slight concussion for his troubles, and I received multiple lacerations to the scalp and the large cut on my chin. Also, bruises. But that goes without saying.

It wasn't a mugging. They didn't take anything except my pride and my sense of security.

Since it happened I've felt very odd. Days have passed with an odd sort of unreality. Sure, things have seemed more vivid now that I realize it all could have been taken away, but in a way, it has. It's like I'm inhabiting a new world now; a place where people don't think twice about breaking bones and skin, and each day is measured successful on the criteria of whether you lived through it or not. I dunno, man. I dunno.

We got lucky. Really lucky. One of them could have easily stabbed me or stomped my head into the pavement. I don't even want to think of what would have happened if one of them would have pulled a gun on us. There's a lesson to be learned, folks: this kind of shit can happen anywhere, anytime; I mean, Mill Fucking Avenue is the last place I'd expect to be jumped. On a Wednesday, no less.

Minimize risk. Don't walk around at night alone. Stick to populated, well lit areas, and try to walk with large groups of people if possible. Be safe. And goddamn, if someone asks you to break a five, run. Just run.

This is the shirt I was wearing at the time. I'm saving it, bloodstains and all, as a souvenir:

MONDAY IS AN ENERGY-DRAINING DAY, SO IT SHALL BE THE DAY THAT I LAZILY POST AMUSING VIDEOS FOR YOU TO WATCH (INSTEAD OF WRITING)

"BRIAN REPORTS THE NEWS"

The following are news headlines found on CNN's homepage. All of them, except one, made me laugh. Read on and become a more informed, intelligent person.

Can extreme life survive on Mars?
New Mountain Dew commercial aims to find out.

Autistic man found alive after week in woods.
"Survival of the Fittest" thrown out the window.

Toilet-paper wedding gowns honored.
"Not cool," says man stuck in bathroom.

Kids fed 'silly pills', made to do sex shows.
FDA issues recall of silly pills in response.

Four feared drowned in party-boat sinking.
Party (boat) foul.

Should I vaccinate my baby?
Yes. Do it yourself. With your eyes closed. After drinking three maragaritas.

Finally, the lone news story that did not make me laugh:

Comedian George Carlin Dies at 71.
Probably the funniest stand-up comedian, ever.
Thank you for making me laugh.
You will be missed.

IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS

I've been close to absolute madness twice during the course of my life. The first close call happened in the wave pool at Big Surf thirteen years ago; the second, less than an hour ago, inside the internet.

A brief prologue. When I say "madness", I am not mincing words. One of my ex-girlfriends used to constantly proclaim that she was "crazy", but this was not true; she, like many people I've known, liked to imagine that she was crazy. She did this to distance herself from the affections of others and to provide justification for certain amounts of inexcusable behavior. This is more common than you'd imagine.

This is not what I mean. I'm not staking a claim of madness to distance myself from others, nor to make myself appear special or unique, nor to provide justification for eccentric behavior. Fuck, I don't need to justify anything. I'm only saying that, quite literally, I feel that I've been very close to full-on madness: compulsions, hallucinations, nonsensical incoherent thoughts...you get the picture.

Anyway, back to the story.

When I was ten, I went to Big Surf for the first time with my family, and immediately fell in love with the wave pool. If you've had the pleasure of visiting the establishment, you know that the wave pool is where it's at: it's enormous (easily the size of a football field), the waves are of a significant size (perhaps six to ten feet in height, and significant enough to catch and ride to the "shore"), plus, surf-themed music is constantly playing (mostly "Wipeout").

Sure, kids have died in the Big Surf wave pool, but that was the furthest thing from my mind. In fact, most rational thoughts had taken a leave of absence from my brainbone because during the course of my marathon seven hour dip in pool, I'd become very, very dehydrated. I don't mean the "oh man, it's warm today, I could sure use a Sierra Mist" kind of dehydration. I refer to the kind of dehydration that sailors face when stranded on a marooned ship; when, after suffering from chapped lips and severe, peeling sunburns, they begin to see hallucinations of golden angels beneath the surface of the water.

Around this time, a product called "Spider-Man SpaghettiO's" existed. It was just like regular SpaghettiO's, except the little pasta pieces were spider-themed. This product was endorsed by a commercial that I now barely remember. I recall that it was set in the SpaghettiO's factory (naturally), and several children were gathered around a huge vat of Spider-Man SpaghettiO's, singing its praises. Suddenly, the real-live Spider-Man shows up and swings over the huge vat, but an errant web-sling causes a bit of his web to fall into the pasta. One of the kids looks into the camera with a look of dismay, and concernedly yells the following haunting phrase: "Webbing?! In the vat?!"

As I was floating on my limp raft in the dirty water of the wave pool, my fevered, dehydrated brain seized upon this commercial like a vice. It seemed to run in a loop through my head, over and over, and eventually settled on that haunting phrase: "Webbing?! In the vat?!", which repeated over and over and over again in my mind. An endless loop. Occasionally I would say it out loud, and fail to see how strange this situation was becoming. I was sunburned and peeling, floating in a wave pool, incessantly chanting a line from a SpaghettiO's commercial in my head. For hours.

And that was the first time I legitimately felt like I was going crazy.

The second time, like I said, happened less than and hour ago. I was browsing myspace (ugh), and playing that game where you first click on a friend's profile, and then a friend of a friend, then a friend of a friend of a friend, seeing where the digression leads. Anyway, I'd just clicked on the profile picture of a stranger, a somewhat attractive girl, and found that her profile was comprised of hundreds of pictures of Ricky Martin.

Ricky Martin, smiling on the red carpet for the paparazzi. Ricky Martin, singing in front of hundreds of screaming fans. Ricky Martin, staring directly at me with eyes the color of battleship steel. Ricky Martin, shirtless and undoubtedly pondering something. Ricky Martin, the look on his face suggesting that even his still photograph is sentient and capable of independent though.

As I vacantly stared at this, my brain formed questions that metastasized into other questions. Why is this woman fixated on Ricky Martin? Isn't Ricky Martin dead? If not, what is Ricky Martin doing right now? My internal monologue quickly became less stable. Is Ricky Martin aware of my existence? If so, is it possible that he's looking at a Brian Street-themed myspace profile while I'm looking at this profile created in his image? Is it possible that Ricky Martin and I are two halves of the same person? If we met, would we merge? Would we cease to exist? Would our lives pop like soap bubbles?

And on and on and on. Ricky Martin, Ricky Martin, Ricky Martin. Webbing in the vat, webbing in the vat. I felt my brain melt, and leak out of my ears. Snakes began to consume their own tails. Oil and water mixed effortlessly. Everything I'd learned in life suddenly became unlearned. Two plus two unquestionably equaled five. Mobius Strips circled behind the eyes of Ricky Martin, and I was afraid.

I immediately pulled the computer's power cord out of the wall and walked outside.

Needless to say, it's been a strange week.

"A (MORE) MODEST PROPOSAL"

If I ever run for office, I will build my entire campaign around one simple idea: I believe that during the course of your life, you should be able to legally kill one person. This will be called "a freebie".

There will be rules and limitations, of course. You can't kill anyone under the age of fifteen; if you do, you're disqualified, and will proceed straight to jail. Also, you can't kill with complicated chemical or machine-based weapons (including guns and explosives); however, simple handmade weapons (like clubs, spears, and cudgels) are totally acceptable. Weapons based upon simple machines (wedges, pulleys) are also encouraged. Killing someone with bare hands would be highly esteemed, and totally something to brag to friends about.

After committing your freebie murder, you'll wait at the scene of the crime for the police to arrive, and once they do you'll present them with your driver's license and tell them that you're "cashing in your freebie". If everything checks out, the police will then punch a hole in your ID (just like they punch a hole in your Subway Club card when you buy a meatball sub), and you'll be free to leave. However, if you've violated any of the previously established rules or if you've already had a hole punched in your ID, the police will call you a doofus, hit you in the jaw with a nightstick, and take you to the clink.

If you fail to kill the intended target with your freebie, you don't get a second chance. You will not subsequently be charged with assault, but you will be the laughing stock of the neighborhood. Also, you'll constantly live in fear of being attacked by your old target in what will be known as a "Retribution Freebie".

This "Freebie Law" would solve so many problems. It would ease the strain on our natural resources caused by overpopulation. It would create more jobs, lower taxes, and stimulate the economy by boosting sales in kevlar and weapon-building materials. It would also "thin the herd", weeding out those who pollute the shallow end of the gene pool.

You'd have to be careful, though. You'd have to choose exactly the right person to use your freebie on, otherwise, you'd spend the rest of your life regretting the decision. "Why the hell did I kill Jeff?" you'd wonder. "I mean, Jeff was a pretty cool guy...he taught me how to play Guitar Hero, he watched my cats when I was on vacation, and he always brought beer over. Sure, Jeff breathed through his mouth, but was that really a good enough reason to beat him to death with that lead pipe?"

You'd have to choose the perfect target. Someone who really deserves it. Someone who's hated by many. I've given it a lot of thought, and I believe I've found the perfect candidate. This guy:

I've already thought it out. Planned it. Imagined all the details and variables. So, dear readers, here's a summary of my involvement in the futuredeath of Carson Daly:

The date is May 11th, 2009.

A gaunt, red-eyed Carson Daly walks into an L.A. bar called "Neon"; an establishment that, much like Daly himself, was popular in the mid-nineties but has since declined into poverty. Daly walks to one of the barstools, sighs, and sits down. He is the only customer.

He orders whiskey, "lots of it", and as the bartender prepares his drink, Daly begins to cry. He hits the sauce heavily over the next half hour, downing five drinks, oblivious to the fact that it is only 9:30.

Over the next few hours, he continues to drink. He wanders to the jukebox, looking for songs he recognizes from his days hosting TRL, but finds only obscure indie artists that he's never heard of. This depresses him, and he puts his fist through the glass of a nearby window. "I'll pay for it," he mumbles to the bartender, but eleven dollars remain in his savings account. He survives on favors and credit, tabs and goodwill, but all goodwill eventually runs out.

He calls Dave Holmes, a VJ he used to work with at MTV in "the old days", from a pay phone at the back of the bar. Holmes is busy entertaining guests at his new beachfront home, celebrating a business deal recently completed with Pandora.com. Carson draws the conversation out, stretching seconds into minutes, and Holmes expresses his sympathy for "the Late Night thing". Daly winces, hangs up, and empties his glass.

Suddenly, Daly knows it's time.

He hears the familiar opening theme, and turns his head towards the television just in time to see the "Late Night" title come onscreen. "And here's your host, Jimmy Fallon!" the announcer screams. The crowd roars. The date is May 11th, 2009, and it marks the first episode of "Late Night with Jimmy Fallon".

For the next hour Daly sits at the bar emptying a bottle, watching Fallon enjoy the position that should have been his. The crowd loves Fallon; he's breezy, effortless, self-deprecating. A natural. Fallon enjoys a rapport with the guests that is somehow both serious and casual. Daly constantly shouts at the television during the broadcast. The bartender laughs at one of Fallon's jokes, and Daly throws a salt shaker at him.

Finally, the show ends, but Daly continues to hear the ghostly echo of Fallon's applause. Applause that should have been his. He redoubles his drinking, taking shot after shot by himself. He tries to call Tara Reid, but she doesn't answer.

Hours pass.

Daly catches the attention of the bartender. He demands a bottle of Jack Daniels, but the bartender seems hesitant. "Gimme the bottle, you prick!" he screams. "I need it! Do you have any idea who the fuck I am? I own this town! I built this down! Do you know who I am?!"

"Yes Carson, I know exactly who you are," the bartender quietly replies. The bartender then moves his hands towards his face, pulling his bartender mask off, revealing my face underneath. I drop the mask to the ground and smile.

"Gimme my drink!" Daly pouts. "Give...me...my...DRINK!"

I then reach up, and pull the rope that's connected to the complicated series of pulleys overhead. A sound of squeaking metal is heard, followed by the sound of rope unraveling, and suddenly a baby grand piano drops on Carson's head. He is crushed and killed instantly.

"I'm sorry, I can't give you a drink," I reply, the dust settling. "It's Last Call."

I nonchalantly walk to the still-functioning piano, and play the three-note melody that's become synonymous with NBC. Daly's lifeless body is pinned underneath. I then walk outside, and wait for the police to arrive.

I take his LiveStrong bracelet as a trophy.

(Oh, and if if you're reading this and you're a police officer or a FBI agent, this is fiction. It's inspired by Jonathan Swift's "A Modest Proposal", and is intended as humorous satire not to be taken seriously. I'm not really going to kill Carson Daly (just like Swift didn't really eat human babies), so there's really no need to arrest me or anything. JK, LOLZ, THNX)

FOOT-LONG CHEESE STEAK, SIDE ORDER OF PARANOIA

HAVE YOU EVER HEARD of this place called Jersey Mike's?

It's a sandwich shop/delicatessen based out of Jersey, and it just opened a series of new locations in Phoenix. I was made aware of this by my co-worker Scott, who also informed me that they were "practically giving away free meals" as a part of their grand opening promotion. Only Scott has a speech impediment, so when he says words that end with "-eal", he mispronounces the suffix as "-ill"; therefore, according to Scott, Jersey Mike's was "practically giving away free mills."

"Oh, so they've got some good deals, do they?" I responded, purposefully luring Scott into a conversational trap.

"Yeah, they've got some great dills" he replied.

So, last night when I got out of work early and was in need of some food, I decided to check out these great dills myself.

"Well hey there, welcome to Jersey Mike's!" said one of the location's employees (whom I later found out was named "Azure"). "Have you ever tried one of Jersey Mike's famous subs before, or is this your first time?" When faced with the level of positivity and enthusiasm that Azure was displaying, my first response is to become very sarcastic and cynical. This was no exception.

"This is my first time at Jersey Mike's, but I am familiar with the general concept of sandwiches," I replied. "I think I'll do just fine."

He laughed, and the sound was unnerving. "Well actually, our sandwiches here at Jersey Mike's are a little different from the competition. We use only the freshest, most crisp ingredients, with fresh-baked bread straight from our own ovens! All of our juicy meat is sliced when you order it, and our tasty side-dishes can't be beat!" Each time Azure used an adjective it sounded like he was having an orgasm. My appetite wained.

This had to be a joke. I looked deep into Azure's eyes, searching for some kind of sarcasm, some sign that he was fucking with me. I mean, this guy was acting like Jennifer Aniston's co-worker at the Applebee's knock-off in Office Space, the guy with a grin that's ten miles wide and who, despite every form of rational logic, absolutely loves his shitty, shitty job.

I looked at him, and found no trace of sarcasm. He was being totally serious.

I glanced up at the menu. Normally, on a menu in an establishment such as this, the sandwiches are listed by number. Numerically. Number One, The Turkey Sandwich. Number Two, The Cold-Cut Combo. Number Three, The Veggie Special. However, Jersey Mike's was proving itself to be anything but normal, and the menu was no exception.

The numbered menu began with the Number Three. Not One, but Three. As if Three was the first number, as if this blatant disregard for the natural order was no big deal. From Three, the menu preceded to 56, and then to 33. Numbers One and Four were the last numbers presented.

"Azure, I've got a serious question," I somehow said with a straight face. "Why are the numbers on your menu all screwy?"

He laughed again and I winced at the sound. "Oh, that! Well, that makes perfect sense. You see, 1956 is the year that Jersey Mike's was founded! We started out with four locations at first, and in six short years, we'd expanded our simple menu to include more than thirty-three sandwiches! Now does that make sense?"

I absently nodded. "No, Azure, that does not make sense at all," I thought to myself. "You did not explain this fucked-up menu at all. You merely said a series of sentences that contained lots of numbers as if this adequately explained everything."

Even more alarming? Every other employee of Jersey Mike's behaved and spoke exactly like Azure. The woman that assembled my Chipotle Cheese Steak? Her praises regarding the Chipotle Mayo made it sound like the sandwich I'd ordered was capable of curing AIDS. The cashier that rang up my purchase? She claimed that Jersey Mike's is now all she eats, morning, noon, and night, and I actually believe her.

More distressing still is that this unquestioning love of Jersey Mike's seemed to be spreading to the customers, too. The guy that stood next to me in line said that he came in for lunch, and ended up liking his sandwich so much, he came back to have another one for dinner. All of them, the customers, the employees, they acted as if these simple sandwiches were the only sources of warmth and light in the universe. Because of Jersey Mike's, it seemed, these people were wrapping their lips around six-inch sandwiches instead of wrapping their lips around the barrels of handguns.

And I was the lone dissenter.

Azure finished wrapping up my sandwich in foil. In addition to the footlong sandwich, I ordered a large drink and a bag of chips.

"That'll be one dollar" Azure said.

"One dollar? This whole meal costs one dollar?"

"Yes indeed," he said, smiling. "Actually, the meal is free as long as you make a one dollar donation to charity." He then pointed to a glass jar with a generic label reading "CHARITY" in block letters. The jar was stuffed full of dollar bills.

"How can you afford to sell all that stuff for a dollar?" I asked.

"It's for a good cause," he said, still smiling. He did not specify what cause it went toward, nor did this explain his blatant disregard for the bottom line.

Suddenly, my brainbone had an epiphany, and everything added up: the ridiculously cheap food, the relentlessly positive employees and customers, the nonsensical menu...it all pointed to one thing: Jersey Mike's is a company run by either A) a very powerful cult, such as Scientologists or Mormons, or B) aliens. The sandwiches, such as the Chipotle Cheese Steak that I'd just purchased, all contained some sort of mood-altering addictive chemical, and possibly some sort of sinister post-digestive suggestion.

My mind reeled at the possibilities. Maybe after eating a six-inch Classic Italian, I'd inexplicably start to see the wisdom behind the teachings of Joseph Smith. Maybe after consuming a giant Club on white, I'd suddenly feel compelled to send a large sum of money to the estate of L. Ron Hubbard. Maybe after finishing the Chipotle Cheese Steak, I'd suddenly begin to plan the assassination of Mexican President Felipe Calderón.

Azure handed me my sandwich. "Have a great day," he said, and suddenly he didn't seem so friendly anymore.

I went home, and stared at the sandwich for fifteen minutes as if it were a loaded gun that I'd found in my dad's closet: with a mixture of fear and respect. It's currently sitting in my refrigerator, still in it's original foil wrapper, completely untouched.

Great dills, yes. But at what cost?

PHOTOZ: "THINGS WE LIKE ABOUT BRIAN"

Just found this picture today. It looks like it was taken when I was in second grade.

I like to believe that people still like me because I am "super strong and nice" and because I have "wiggly ears!" It's also grim foreshadowing to see what girls liked about me in second grade: the fact that I "talked funny" and that I "colored pretty".

Hell yeah.

CARTER III, BITCHES

I HAVEN'T PURCHASED A CD IN OVER A YEAR.

Kanye's Graduation? Downloaded it. Radiohead's In Rainbows? Also downloaded (for obvious reasons). 50's Curtis? I didn't even waste my time with that shit. Hell, the last album I actually bought was Jurassic 5's Feedback, purchased around a year ago, and it turned out to be really, really disappointing (at least when compared to Power in Numbers). The cause? Greater access to free media via the internet as well as a dwindling supply of exciting, worthwhile new music.

But Tha Carter III dropped this week! And somehow I do not own it yet! I'm going to go buy it tonight, and I'm so excited, I'm using many consecutive exclamation points which is truly a barometer of my excitement because exclamation points are not something I normally use!!!

Recently, for some unknown reason, I found myself almost doubting Weezy. "Is this album going to suck?" I wondered. "It's been pushed back so many times, so much of the music has already been leaked, Wayne seems to be spreading himself so thin...the album could suck."

But then I heard two new tracks ("A Milli" and "Dr. Carter") and realized that I am an idiot for doubting, as brief as my doubts might have been. These songs are so sick. I'll be posting a song-by-song review of the album sometime this weekend, and I'll also try to embed the songs in the post. STAY TUNED.

The best part? I'm leaving to buy the whole album right now.

P.S. Best album cover ever.

COMPANY-WIDE WALK TO STOMP OUT OBESITY

Since my job is rather unenjoyable and the pay is meager at best, upper-management has been introducing a series of asinine contests which are designed to prove that work is hip and fun, and totally not a form of indentured servitude! This, however, is a lie: work by it's very nature will never be fun, and said contests have only served to alienate me further.

Case in point: I've won all of the contests without trying whatsoever. By this time, my co-workers are well aware that I don't give a shit about the job: I regularly take 90-minute lunch breaks, I casually insult clients on a daily basis, I've been the cause of two accidents involving the golf carts, and on average I am the perpetrator of one mean-spirited prank a week. These facts do not make me very popular at work, and my recent hotstreak regarding these contests is just salt in my co-workers proverbial wounds.

The prize for the contests? Always a gift card. Usually a gift card to Target. Which is good, because Target sells alcohol.

But the most recent contest, oh God is it hilarious. It's called the "StayFit Challenge" (I swear I'm not making any of this up), and it's designed to promote better health in the workplace. I'm assuming this contest came about because roughly seventy-five percent of my co-workers are obese.

Here's the best part: after you agree to participate in the "StayFit Challenge" (which I quickly did), you're issued a goddamn pedometer in order to record both the number of steps and the general mileage you walk during the workday. After learning about this, I sent an email to everyone I work with encouraging them to participate so "we can all stomp out obesity together". I then quickly scotch-taped my pedometer to the back of a pendulum in a clock in the office, let it swing for an hour and a half, and then took it down and put it back on my hip like nothing ever happened.

So yeah, according to my StayFit pedometer, I walked one hundred and eighty-two miles today.

Hello, Target gift card.

"IN SEARCH OF VENTURE WASHINGTON"

I first stumbled upon his myth years ago.

At the time, I was nearing the end of a rather brief tenure spent as Visiting Professor at Brymar Regional School for Boys in rural Rhode Island. My time spent at the school was the result of an unfortunate bet I'd wagered against Dr. Jonas Reese (who, at the time, served as Dean of Students at Brymar). Dr. Reese and I agreed to forgo the typical monetary compensation of such bets, and I became indebted to him. As a result of this obligation (and much to my chagrin), I was forced into a yearlong stint as Visiting Professor.

At this point in my literary career, I'd been lackadaisically traveling the lecture circuit, still riding the dwindling crest of an outdated novel I'd released three years prior. Interest in my next project had long-since began to wane. In fact, I'd jet to commit anything of erudite worth to paper.

On of my colleagues, who is also an established author, once confided to me that writer's block simply exists as an excuse for writers to drink alcohol. I'd love to believe that the majority of my time at Brymar was spent under the influence of writer's block, but most of it was merely spent under the influence of cheap spirits, much as my friend had previously surmised. In fact, I would often stumble into my lectures reeking of blackberry brandy and cannabis smoke, usually thirty to forty-five minutes late. The lectures would wander, bordering on incoherency and flim-flam. Yet this rambling drivel was usually mistaken for brilliance and insight by my naive, wide-eyed students.

A majority of my courses covered material I was by no means well versed in. One of the previous professors had left behind a folio of detailed lectures and course-plans; I immediately stole them and passed them off as my own. I was an out-of-work author masquerading as a distinguished professor, already more than halfway through my life with only a series of hack dime-novels and a chronic cough to show for it, trapped in my miserable academic situation as the result of an ill-planned Mexican cockfight.

Needless to say, my time at Brymar passed quite slowly, and I slipped into a deep depression.

Autumn hardened into a sharp Rhode Island winter. The sycamore trees bowed and withered beneath the weight of the crisp snowfall, and subsequently straightened again on the first day of spring thaw. My days were spent wading through the ever-deepening quagmire of oncoming examinations while my nights were viewed through clouds of smoke and the amber glass of whiskey bottles. My depression deepened.

Around this time I gave my one of my previously purloined assignments to my students, challenging them to write a composition investigating a regional tall-tale or legend, taking into account the recollections of several members of the general populace. Many of my thirty-two students researched and reported on the same legend, although no two of my student's recollections or research matched entirely. They all wrote of a mythical woodsman who resided deep inside Rhode Island's darkest forest. Some spoke of his enormous size and physical prowess, while others detailed his rich life and the dozens of children he was believed to have sired in all manner of townships and municipalities up and down the state of Rhode Island. Many spoke of perhaps the strangest aspect of this man: that he possessed a long, flowing beard, not made of hair as most beards tend to be, but instead comprised entirely of hundreds and hundreds of swirling honeybees attached firmly to his chin. These fables all agreed on one name for this monumental man: Henry "Venture" Washington, the legendary bee-bearded woodsman.

From what I could ascertain, he existed in the same sub-group of American mythology populated by the likes of Paul Bunyan, John Henry, and Pecos Bill; tall-tales intended to bewilder and bamboozle a naive populace by explaining away natural phenomenon, and to make them believe that miracles were commonplace and achievable.

And yet, these yarns regarding Venture Washington invigorated me, reigniting the curious academic ember buried deep within the chambers of my heart. I soon discovered a widespread knowledge regarding the subject deeply ingrained within the common people; they all seemed to possess meandering recollections of anecdotes and stories centered around the days and ways of Washington. He seemed to exist as some sort of central nexus for all manner of myth, and I became enamored with it all. Finally, I felt release from the banality of my days at Brymar.

I dove into the historic literature of Ol' Rhode Isle with gusto. Yet, maddeningly, my search proved fruitless. A great void existed within the literature where detailed accounts of Venture Washington should have been.

"Could it be? I exclaimed to myself aloud. "Could I be the first scholar to stumble upon such a rich area of folklore as this?"

My head spun with the dazzling possibility that had seemingly fallen into my lap. I immediately regarded it as a blessing; a golden one-way ticket away from stagnant, backwater Brymar and back into the rush of the academic lecture circuit. I'd be the toast of the literary world, traveling amongst the most selective cliques of disillusioned expatriated American authors. I'd be the center of a movable feast, leaving legions of imitators hungry in my wake.

Without further thought, I seized this opportunity and set off to follow the legend to it's source. I severed my limited ties to Brymar (not without shrill criticism from Dr. Reese, I might add) and set forth upon my course.


Months passed.

I traveled hither and thither within the boundaries of rural Rhode Isle, conducting informational interviews and surveys in every town and village. I lived and breathed his legend, bathed in it, soaked it in, viewing my world thought peculiarly colored lens of American folklore.

Consulting my various topographical maps, I traveled up streams and tributaries feeding into the great Pasequah River, wandering up the sylvan glens of Irving Valley. It was there I stumbled upon what I believed to be Dunham Forest, the fabled "dark forest" of a Rhode Island long ago. It seemed at the time as if I was leaving the tangible boundaries of my contour maps behind and crossing firmly into the annals of legend.

Dunham forest cast and imposing shadow over the northeastern corner of Rhode Island. Violent thunderstorms had been rumored to appear in minutes, catching the casual traveler off guard, sometimes dropping pieces of hail the size of a man's clenched fist. Incredible gales were known to arise suddenly and to mysteriously change direction without rhyme or reason.

It was within this tangled woodland that Venture Washington was said to reside. Old spinsters claimed he lived within an enormous log cabin, large enough to comfortably house hundreds of men. I'd been told that the exact location of the cabin somehow changed depending upon the phase of the moon and the location of the stars in the night sky. Lesser men had been known to seek the fabled cabin of Venture Washington, finding only madness instead.

I wandered through Dunham Forest for innumerable hours. The wind whipped across my solemn frame, threatening to tear the canvas knapsack away from my tired shoulders. Temperatures dipped and rose without warning. At times it seemed as if I could hear the haunted moans of Kansas cyclones wailing far-off beyond the horizon. Stinging nettles and Witchroot scratched deep gouges across my fragile academic wrists and forearms. Yet, I drove on, compelled by some unforeseen impetus to venture further.

It was then that the broad forest canopy seemed to draw back, parting like a velvet curtain. I was sure that I was plagued by fever or madness because before me stood the cabin, his cabin, hewn from broad oaken beams and river mud; a legend come to life. My physique trembled at the sight. Suddenly, the wooden door swung open on rusty iron hinges, revealing a legend in the flesh.

Venture Washington stood before me, returning my gaze with eyes chiseled from ethereal fire.

I swiftly fainted.

Upon awakening several hours later, I found myself within the fabled walls of Washington's cabin. You see, according to legend, Washington held a soft spot within his massive heart for weary travelers such as I. This aspect of Washington's mythology is certainly true; he took me in, taking pity on my tattered clothing and poor state of affairs. Washington gave me a soft bed of goose down to sleep upon and a meal of hot onion soup. As I ate, he spoke to me at large regarding his legend as well as his opinion of it, detailing the various inaccuracies passed down from generation to generation. Not all of the legends were true, he explained.

It is here that I pass my discoveries on to you.

First, I must address Washington's cabin. Many tales have been traded back and forth about it over decanters of brandy and pints of ale regarding its enormous size. As I mentioned previously, spinsters tell stories of this huge structure towering over the Rhode Island landscape, able to house hundreds of men.

However, this aspect of the Washington mythology is certainly false. It is a large log cabin, one can be certain of that, but at most it would only be able to house perhaps three dozen men at a time. However, once within the fabled cabin, I made a most startling discovery: the interior of Washinton's seemingly normal cabin contains no right angles. This (as anyone well-versed in either architecture or mathematics is sure to know) is a structural impossibility, and still continues to bewilder my psyche to this day.

Next, I must address Washington himself. He was a large man, but not mythically large. Cords of muscle stretched taunt beneath his bronze skin; he was certainly a man accustomed to labor and exertion. Each of his individual words struck me like a clap of thunder, and his booming laughter sounded like a great granite boulder rolling down a steep foothill at great velocity.

And yes, Washington did indeed possess a beard made entirely of bees. He confided in me that he'd read tales of the pirate Blackbeard; more specifically, his penchant of weaving lit fuses into his massive beard prior to battles. His burning, tangled beard struck fear into the hearts of others, who mistook him for a demon as a result of the flames and lingering smell of sulfur.

And so, much in the manner of Blackbeard, Venture Washington set forth to fashion a fearsome beard to terrify his many foes. But his beard was not a result of magiks or something of the sort; he merely used the principles of operant and classical conditioning to teach a hive of bees in a similar manner to which a mutt is taught to perform tricks. Before long, he'd trained an entire hive of bees to swarm into a cohesive mass, and hang from the tip of his chin; a cruel mockery of facial hair. At any time he wished, Washington could dispatch his beard of bees upon anyone he wished. Truly this was a menacing weapon, and I must admit that thinking of it at such great length has set my heart aflutter. However, aside from this single macabre aspect of his character, Washington was a kind and gentle man.

Many Rhode Islanders swap stories regarding the dozens of children he was believed to have sired; I am happy to report that this fable is wholeheartedly true. At the time of our meeting, Venture Washington had fathered twenty-four and a half children. All of them were boys, and all came from different mothers, as all of the twenty-five mothers had died in childbirth, tragically widowing Washington twenty-five times over. The reason for this, unknown; perhaps carrying the child of a man such as Washington is too much for any mortal woman to take.

I met many of the Washington boys during my brief stay at the cabin. All of them were named Roger, every single last one of them, and yet miraculously this caused no confusion. When Venture addressed one of the Rogers by name, only the desired Roger responded. It was quite the unbelievable sight to behold.

And yet I have skipped over perhaps the most enigmatic question regarding the Washington boys: how is it possible for Washington to have fathered twenty-four and a half children? What manner of boy is this "half-child"? Is he merely in utero, developing comfortably in his mother's womb?

I'm happy to report that this half-child, affectionately dubbed "Roger Jr.", exists far more in the realm of mythology than reality. The boy is quite literally half a child; the lower half, to be more specific. He's simply a pair of legs, capable of motion and rational thought, able to walk, dance, and roller-skate, communicating through a series of stomps and taps in Morse code. The mere existence of this half-child, this "Roger Jr." seems to spit in the face of every modern scientific notion. However, one cannot argue with the reality one is presented with, and I stopped doubting the existence of Roger Jr. shortly after he served me another bowl of onion soup like a walking, sentient table, spilling not a drop on the ground.

My afternoon with Venture Washington passed rather pleasantly. He and I spoke of the previous topics, as well of dozens of matters that are simply too voluminous to hope to contain in writing. But as the golden sun began to take its leave beneath the westernmost horizon, I knew it was time to bid Washington farewell. I kindly thanked him for the many bowls of soup, and began to ready myself for the long road back to Brymar and my awaiting intellectual fame.

Yet before I left, Washington stopped me and spoke one final time. "Speak to no one of what you have seen here today," he loudly exclaimed. "I only wish to live in peace, raising my boys while teaching them the way of the woods. You must never reveal what you have witnessed; if you do, your world will come crashing down before your very eyes. This is the eternal promise of Venture Washington."

I was crestfallen. The walk back to Brymar was a solemn affair. I wouldn't be able to publish my firsthand account. I wouldn't be able to repay my looming cockfight debts. I would be forced to continue teaching at Brymar. My life was ruined. As I left the fringes of Dunham forest, it seemed as if the very magic and color faded.

And yet, did I have any other recourse? No. For Venture Washington exists more as a force of nature than an ordinary man. It seems paradoxical that America's largest legend resides in its littlest state, ensconced in the triteness and triviality of everyday life. Perhaps this is what gives the legend such vivid strength; when compared to all of us, to the naive, wide-eyed American multitudes, it really isn't that difficult to be extraordinary.

It has been years since I encountered Venture Washington face-to-face, yet I cannot seem to rid it from memory. I cannot help but wonder what my life would have been like had I managed to expose Venture Washington to the world.

My time on this earth is drawing to a close, much as the amber sun sank beneath the westernmost horizon on that faithful day. As of late I have begun to feel the rekindled burn of that persistent academic ember buried deep inside, and I cannot ignore it any longer.

I've written out this entire account of my meeting with Washington, and in mere minutes I shall seal it inside my trunk. If you discover this manuscript after my eventual demise, it is my wish that any profit or academic recognition be awarded to Dr. Jonas Reese, in repayment of my debt that went unpaid all those years ago.

However, if Dr. Reese perishes as a result of a beard-sized cloud of bees, or if he drowns in a shallow bowl of hot onion soup, only you and I shall know the truth of the matter.