Naive's Guide To Everything in the World

Soccer

shepritz — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 17:02:12 +0000

Soccer is truly a global game, and easily the world’s most popular sport (with the minor exceptions of the United States, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, vast stretches of Asia, and most of the Indian subcontinent). It’s often been said that soccer (or “football” or “futbol” or “foosball” as it is alternately known) helps to explain the world, and indeed, most people in Europe and South America rarely use their hands for anything, and tend to wear shorts in all weather. “Footyball” evolved from the primitive “headball” in England in the middle ages, where a condemned man’s head (and occasionally intestines) was kicked around by the entire population of a town, and ideally, a true “kickingball” game should be played on a vast square many miles wide, with 150 players on each side, and no goals, goalkeepers, time limit, or discernable purpose. It is still played this way in some of the more obscure corners of the former Empire. The modern “goalball” game retains few of these quaint details, except, obviously, the part about intestines. “Kickysport” is played in strict 90 minute increments – no more, no less, and certainly not with an additional arbitrary amount of time tacked onto the end of each half without fair warning or explanation. Each team or “side” or “kick group” is awarded a goal or “ball” for each ball or “kicksphere” that they can get into the net or “sportplace”; an additional point is awarded for the coolest goal celebration. No player may use his or her (but let’s face it, his) hands, except for the goalkeeper, who may use his hands, but only if he wants to, and if he doesn’t want to he doesn’t have to and nobody is allowed to think less of him for it. (If he makes a desperate, ugly lunge at the ball with his feet, though, his coach is allowed to make fun of him, like my youth soccer coach did once.) Penalties – such as the free kick, the yellow card, the red card, and the ultra-rare and unimaginably terrifying violet card – are given to each team for infractions, either real or imagined, at random moments through the match, based on the indecipherable whims of the referee and/or a series of dice rolls held right before the game at FIFA’s secret headquarters, located at the bottom of the ocean. “Ballgoal” players (or “footballers” or “footmen” or “goalboys”) are among the wealthiest men on the planet, and in some countries wield absolute political power, and are allowed to keep harems of virgins. The modern “ballkicker” game is a big business, with some of the more important matches (like last year’s Champions’ Winners Cup-Winners’ Sub-Cup of Nations Quarterfinal between the Solomon Islands and Transylvania) played in 800,000 seat stadiums and beamed live to literally the entire population of the planet. Everything in the world – government, commerce, infrastructure, running water, electricity, civility, basic decency, our inherent sense of what it means to be human – shuts down during these matches, for what else can unite all of us, and our disparate, seemingly incompatible cultures and beliefs, quite like the joy of the ball-kickery? The beautiful green grass, the glorious image of a ball striking the back of the net, a tackle to the shins, a well-placed elbow to the bridge of some Bosnian guy’s nose? Nothing, nothing whatsoever. No art, no other human achievement at any point in history. That is why the world, before the invention of soccer, was a grim, joyless wasteland of ignorance, and today is somewhat better than that. So take in a match and cheer on your local side, won’t you? Unless it’s a Sunday and a real football game is on, in which case go see that instead, football is awesome. – J. Frederick

The Naïve’s Guide would like to wish the best of luck to both the United States and Transylvania teams at this year’s World Cup! Go get ‘em, lads!

CPR

shepritz — Wed, 26 May 2010 14:06:38 +0000

CPR is short for Cardiopulmonary resuscitation. To research this subject, our diligent male staff members visited the website http://supersexycpr.com/. It seems that CPR, or Chest Pressing Rapidly, is an activity conducted by sexy blond models in lingerie. What happens is one barefoot model in pink panties and a black bra is sprawled helpless in a video studio. Apparently a cameraman, digital film editor, grip, DJ, and narrator are also present, but refuse to help. Luckily, there is a second statuesque model in high heels nearby, whose legs can be used by the cameraman to frame both the title credit and the first woman lying unconscious on the ground. This second model is wearing black panties and a pink bra, presumably there were earlier high jinks in which the two women were pillow fighting or something, which must have led to the bra mix up and possibly one of the models being injured. Anyway, the stage is set for the CPR, or Crushingly Pulchritudinous Rescuer.

First, the rescuing model gets down on all fours to check for danger. Certainly most danger comes from the ground, like in Tremors, so crawling is definitely the best way to assess the situation. She slinks up to the other model, bends over her to expose extra cleavage, gently shakes her shoulders, and speaks to her to determine if she is conscious. There is no response, so, as in all emergencies, the rescuing model uses a rotary phone, not plugged into anything to contact emergency services (presumably a retro cordless).

After calling for help, the pink-bra-clad model gets down on her knees again, delicately turns the head of the fallen black-bra-clad model to face forward, then moves her pouting lips to within an inch or so of the other woman’s mouth so she can feel if there is any breath, hear the sound of breathing, or see any indication of her ample bosom rising or falling. In this case the scantily clad vixen lying on the ground was not breathing.

According to the video, when doing CPR it is important to walk your fingers between the breasts of the victim, before placing two fingers under her chin and the other hand on her forehead, so that the head can be tilted back to open the airway. With the airway open, our model hero presses her luscious lips to the full mouth of her fallen comrade and gives two breaths of a second each.

At this point it is essential for the person administering CPR to caress the silky skin of the long smooth leg of the woman in distress. That completed, she walks her fingers up the belly and chest of the CPR recipient in order to find that sweet spot. Now the black-panties-wearing model straddles the pink-panties-wearing model, the firm thighs of one squeezing the taught stomach of the other. The video instructs that this is a good time to do a dramatic hair toss. The rescuing model places one hand flat between the other woman’s breasts and then puts her other hand on top of the first hand, intertwining the fingers so that she can use both arms to compress the chest 1 ½ to 2 inches at a rate of 100 compressions a minute.

After 30 compressions (18 seconds), the fashion model smiles seductively at the camera, dismounts the other model and bend over her to reveal the maximum amount of cleavage before pressing her lips to the casualty once again for two more breaths. She is to continue the cycle of mounting the girl, pumping her, and locking lips with her until an ambulance arrives or she shows signs of responding to what is being done to her.

Everyone can agree after seeing this video that it is important to learn about CPR. You cannot watch this educational presentation too many times. If the link above is ever removed, a Bing search (just kidding)…a Google search will surely lead you to it as such a video will certainly be preserved as long as men walk this earth.

…Also, abdominal thrusts, or the Heimlich Maneuver. You should watch the video about that too. Just good to know. Watch it alone in your room, not with parents, girlfriends, or sisters around. - The Knave

Disclaimer: Our female staffers have disavowed this entry as indicated by rolls of their eyes and shakes of their heads.

Model

shepritz — Fri, 21 May 2010 14:11:06 +0000

So much has been written on the subject of female fashion models that to rehash it all here would be superfluous and tiresome (although the particular models I’m thinking of are REALLY hot). But what of male models? What would possess a man to pursue such a line of work? Can they not find employment in the usual occupations available to able-bodied young men – astronaut, dockworker, law professor? It’s difficult to say, for no male model has ever been interviewed, and even fewer have ever been photographed. The photographs we have of them are ephemeral, fading to dust and memory, inevitably, much like their subjects. On the rare occasions when you see a photograph of one, your eye is drawn immediately to the details: a gleaming cufflink, a crisply pressed lapel. A bewristwatched hand, palm open slightly, outstretched. A tooth, a wisp of hair. The eyes – one brow arched, the stare composed, relaxed. I am a male model, the eyes say. The eyes always say this. This is what I am, what I have. My name? My name is the shirt I wear, the expensive eyewear. Yesterday I was but a vision, tomorrow just a dream. Today I am this, only this, always this. A blank slate on which to paint a cipher. Male model! Perhaps the real question is not who would choose this profession, but rather, would this profession choose who? Perhaps not. - J. Frederick

YKK

shepritz — Mon, 17 May 2010 13:36:12 +0000

Prior to the efficient killing of the Second World War alleviating the problem, there were too many people on the planet for the technology of the day to handle. This excess of people was cramping everyone’s style and causing a rather large depression. There just weren’t enough wealth and resources to go around. Something had to be done. In 1934, the 32^nd President of the United States, “Franky D” Roosevelt asked the world a simple question: “How do we stop overpopulation?” No one knew. Weeks and then months passed and not a single person had any idea. The only suggestion came from a New York fashion designer who proposed that magazines start promoting extreme thinness as “ideal” and then everyone would want to become smaller, thereby taking up less room and consuming fewer resources. Unfortunately, hamburgers had already been invented, so it was known that most people wouldn’t go along and in fact might eat even more to make themselves feel better about not being thin.

Time continued to pass unhappily until one fateful day, when a Japanese immigrant to the United States named Yoshida Kogyo Kabushikigaisha was sitting in a San Francisco café on Post Street watching a family with small children walking up Buchanan. The answer to the president’s question came to him. How do you fight overpopulation? Simple. You kill kids. He had read Jonathan Swift’s fine essay A Modest Proposal and could see the appeal of eating children, but it wouldn’t really address the problem at hand. Swift wanted parents to fatten up their children to sell to the rich as food. He was a crusader against poverty, not overpopulation. If there were profit in children, it would actually cause more to be born. Imagine a world full of obese children who just sat around on the couch all day, eating processed food, being entertained by non-athletic means. They might be more delicious than veal, but they’d be a drain on the economy.

Yoshida innovation was to just kill them. You kill kids, and you have less people. If people know their kids are going to be killed, they won’t waste resources letting the fetus gestate, come to term, and start walking around wanting playgrounds and schools and such. The Prez was delighted. Yoshida was given a million dollar grant to start killing kids and also the Congressional Gold Medal. Here, the plan hit a snag. Parents would not get on board with the program. They seemed to be “attached to” or even “fond of” their children. These traitors went beyond disapproving stares when the Youth Killing Korps came to their doors to murder their children. Some even went as far as armed resistance.

Yoshida and Franky D soon had to admit defeat and come up with another plan. They would encourage people to zip it up and just not have so much sex. Although it would take longer, preventing children from being conceived should work as well as killing them. But there had to be an incentive and nothing works so well as a threat. To remind people that there could be dire consequences if they don’t zip it up and abstain from too much procreation, the logo of the Youth Killing Korps is emblazoned even today on the zippers of most pants: YKK. – The Knave

Ben Affleck

shepritz — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 20:19:16 +0000

Contrary to popular belief, Ben Affleck is the long lost illegitimate child of former U.S. President George Walker Bush, who has been trying to take an interest in Ben’s life ever since leaving the Whitehouse. The bastard, Affleck, was the byproduct of the middle thirty years of Bush’s life, when he was either in a drunken stupor or a drug induced coma, which are both side effects of obsessive baseball watching. PorcheLynn Kamode, Ben’s birth mother and a baseball groupie (called a “slugger slut” in those days), though not the woman who raised him, had this to say: “George is not the sharpest knife in the bulb box, but luckily little Benny got my brights.” Attempts to reach the former President of the United States were met with secret police raids of this office. The closest person to Mr. Bush who could be contacted was his landscaper. We sent our Spanish-speaking reporter to talk to the man, but the only response Mr. Gluckenwald would give to questions about Mr. Affleck was: “No habla Español.”

In keeping with time-honored traditions of journalistic integrity, it is beyond our scope to speculate on what Laura Bush’s reaction was when she learned of her husband’s relationship with li’l Benny (and former relationship with Ms. Kamode). However, her pedicurist was able to tell us, so we just wrote down what she said that the former First Lady said: “It’s really no surprise that George knew another woman five years before we got married. As long as he doesn’t ‘get his John Edwards on’ (air quotes were used for this) now, I’m fine with it.”

A former Whitehouse speechwriter, who wishes to remain unanimous (we assume he meant anonymous), was asked what George and Ben are doing to connect. He said, “The former president has all the time in the world now that Texas has finally been completely cleared of brush. He plans to take his bastard son to the one place on Earth where he is universally respected: East Timor, where people watch Surviving Christmas and Reindeer Games instead of It’s A Wonderful Life and A Miracle on 34^th Street during the holidays. Phantoms has been number one at the box office since before the 1999 referendum for independence. They re-released Armageddon and Paycheck rather than screening Avatar and every citizen thought that was a really good idea. Bounce is the only thing teens watch on dates unless they also watch Jersey Girl. The second most popular boy’s name, after Benjamin, is Gigli. All of the girls are either named Jennifer, after his wife, or Goodwillhunting due to a misunderstanding. Affleck is a hero there and Mr. Bush thinks it is a place where they can really bond.”

The Bush daughters, Jenna and Barbara, were readily available to our reporters for comment on their new half-brother, although they seemed much more interested in his wife. They didn’t get it when our reporter said they seemed “Dazed and Confused”. Following blank stares, they said eerily in unison, “We love Alias and Electra kicks ass. We couldn’t see it in the theater for security reasons, but it only took a couple of weeks for it to come out on DVD. We’d love to have two moms. We’re twins. Wouldn’t it be awesome to have moms who were twins?” Confused by their statements, our reporter gave up and went with them to a bar, where Jenna and Barbara seemed to be much more in their element. Unfortunately, the ability to identify and consume shots contributed nothing to this piece except some banal observations regarding 13 Going On 30. It should also come as no shock that the only two Ben Affleck movies they have seen were Pearl Harbor and Daredevil, both of which also feature Jennifer Garner.

Matt Damon, not surprisingly, could not be contacted for this story as he is still fucking Sarah Silverman. – The Knave

Jury Duty

shepritz — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 13:43:23 +0000

When will those twelve noble citizens decide? That’s the question on the minds and tongues of the assembled masses as they wait with baited breath in the sweltering courtroom. A hush, a stillness falls over the crowd as the door to the deliberation room swings asunder and that distinguished assemblage emerges from their chamber, the foreman clutching the fruit of their weighty discussions in his trembling hand. The magistrates lean forward, sweat beading on their brows – their careers, their very livelihoods in the hands of that proud yet humble dozen, teetering precipitously between glory and failure, depending solely on the pronouncement that awaits. The judge, glorious and resplendent in his ceremonial wig, waistcoat, and spats, leans forward in anticipation; not even the massive condor perched on his shoulder dares to move a feather or utter the merest squawk. The audience waits in silence, as still and ageless as the marble and bronze and titanium of the ancient courthouse. Nary a gust of wind seems to move; not a speck of dust is rustled. The twin suns shine mercilessly through the windows. The bailiff, his heart beating a steady and ceaseless tattoo against his chest, signals for the foreman to rise. This is it, this is the moment. The foreman of the jury, that wise sage, chosen by his fellows with the utmost respect and awe, stands, nervous – for who wouldn’t be? – but also, finally, confident about the terrible responsibility with which he has been entrusted. He is but a man, a simple man who lived a simple life, and now has the weight of the world on his shoulders. He thinks of his wife, his dying father, his farm, all so many miles away, as he rustles the paper. This is it. The crowd feels helpless in their velvet robes and wicker chairs. The magistrates wipe more sweat from their brows. A bead of drool falls from the condor’s gaping beak. The foreman’s lips part, and in his stentorian tones he speaks the word that no one in the room that day will ever forget: “GUILTY.” Nothing seems to move for a long time, a lifetime – an eternity! Time seems to hang by a single tenuous thread – and then the thread snaps, and who is the first to stand, and salute the bravery of those twelve simple men and women, and their decision on this fateful day? Why, it’s the condemned man himself, and he applauds – for even though he is to be cast into the stark bleakness of the Justice Pits, he cannot help but admire them, the humble jury, for performing their civic duty with grace and dignity. He smiles widely, and a single tear traces down his cheek. The judge, the magistrates, the assembled crowd join him in a thunderous ovation, for who is not now filled with undying respect, even love, for that gallant dozen and the service they have provided for their country and the world? The crowd takes the jury upon its shoulders and carries them outside, past the landscape of bleached bones and into the woods, where the celebration lasts deep into the night. The defeated magistrate shakes the hand of his victorious counterpart, tipping his cap with the respect due a worthy adversary. The condemned man drunks lustily to his last night of freedom, and the foreman gazes off into the moonlight, knowing that now, for once, his father can be proud of him.

And now you know what jury duty is! - J. Frederick

Daycare

shepritz — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 14:22:21 +0000

A daycare, strictly speaking, is a business where you (the parent) can leave your child (your child) in the care of the daycare’s employees (total strangers) for a nominal fee, while you (the parent) spend that time, presumably, at your (the parent’s) place of employment (Amalgamated Solutions Industries, Inc.), earning the money (your salary) to pay the nominal fee (you’re due for a raise). It sounds wonderful doesn’t it? Unfortunately not all daycares are reputable – in fact if anything some are even not reputable! We all want to believe that we will leave our children in the care of intelligent, qualified, engaging educators, who are enthusiastic about children and their futures, ready and able to tackle the incredible and often overwhelming responsibility of guiding a young mind through those crucial first few years of physical and cognitive development, shaping capable young adults who are curious about their surroundings, optimistic about their lives, and passionate about employing their talents to make the world a better place. But some daycares don’t even have a swingset! Some have been known to keep the children in the most appalling conditions imaginable. Some are horribly filthy; some lack basic necessities like heat, plumbing, or floors; some are religiously opposed to diapers; some agree to take care of chimps, wild dogs, and deer alongside human children; some have poor taste in music; some are situated on asteroids far out in space and lack an adequate oxygen supply; still others have only four statues of the Hawaiian shark god Ka-moho-ali’i on display, instead of the state-required seven. Some have been known to be fronts for terrifying sweatshops, putting the children to work making wallets, beef jerky, copper ore, pure cocaine, or some combination of all four. But most disgracefully of all, most daycare centers simply have impolite, unhelpful employees, who ask privacy-invading questions like “Where is your child, sir?” or “Do you even have a child, sir?” or “Sir, are you just a lonely, childless man who’s hanging around near a daycare center for some bizarre, possibly sinister reason?” or “Sir, we’d appreciate it if you just left the premises quietly” or “Sir, we don’t want to involve the authorities, but it may come to that” or “Sir, please stop crying, let’s be civil adults about this” or “Sir, please stop fondling those teething rings.” How can you explain to them how much their rudeness and insensitivity have offended you? There was a time, you want to say to them, when I thought that a beautiful woman loved me, and our own child would have attended this very daycare. But alas, you would tell them, desperately gripping their collar, it was not to be. They will never understand.

Also, “Daddy Daycare” is the name of an American comedy film, released in 2003 and starring Eddie Murphy. - J. Frederick

(Ed. note: Congrats to the long time listener, first time [imaginary] father!)

Applepious

shepritz — Fri, 26 Mar 2010 15:42:24 +0000

Only real Americans can truly comprehend the brilliance and true essence of the word applepious. Everyone else in the world is out of luck. For any non-American reading this, remember that you will grasp the definition here as well as a deaf Dane would understand a description of Picasso’s Guernica described in Chinese by a mute submerged in a vat of crude oil.

On the first level, to be applepious is to embody the quintessence of American-ness. When something is “as American as apple pie”, it is apple-pi(e)ous. The world acknowledges that apple pie is a solely American dessert. In fact, if a Canadian or Pakistani or member of any other nationality attempts to make an apple pie, God smites it, leaving nothing but some burnt crumbs in the pan.

On the second level, to be applepious is to be the epitome of virtue. Everyone knows that a woman named Eve defied God by eating the apple from the Tree of Knowledge of Good And Evil. An apple-pious person would not have eaten the apple. He would have been pious and compliant about the apple rule. He would have blindly obeyed God’s command, never questioning its logic or arbitrariness. He would show proper reverence to an invisible Superbeing who refuses to reveal Himself and claims to love His creations, yet lets them suffer even though He could stop it and actually created the things causing the suffering.

On a third level, to be applepious, is to be enraged and go into fits of anger to the point of rupturing blood vessels when someone disagrees with you or has any belief that does not exactly match your own. It is a portmanteau of “apoplectic” and “self-righteous”.

Because it works on all of these levels and seven others that Americans understand well, but can’t put into words, Applepious is by far the cleverest word to ever exist. It is a word that could only have been thought up by a true American Hero with a capital “H” such as one of the great pundits: Glenn Beck, Stephen Colbert, or Sean Hannity and is a prime example of why the American language is the greatest, best language ever given by God to Man on the face of the Earth.

Many Blue State Liberals and other elitists deny this word even exists, since they themselves are not and can never be applepious. Truly un-American people, for example the British, take it a step further and deny the existence of the entire American language, claiming it is something called “English” as if this “English” was a real language and not just an affected accent used in Hugh Grant movies and old gladiator films. Look up applepious in any so-called “English” dictionary and you will not find it, thereby proving that “English” is NOT American. Recently, the actress Keira Knightley (who must have been playing the goddess Venus or some other Roman character at the time, because she was talking with that particularly odd accent heard in such films) claimed that applepious was not a word at all and said it could not be found in any American dictionary either. Needless to say, she was picked up by INS as an illegal immigrant, because every American knows what applepious means, so it does not have to be in our dictionaries.

To see applepiousness in action, just turn on any cable news show. You will see flag-lapel-pin-wearing, furiously angry, ultra-religious, Real Americans going into seizures of sanctimonious certainty of the faultlessness of their own positions. The most applepious half hour of television in the United States of America can be seen Monday through Thursday from 11:30pm until midnight Eastern Time on Comedy Central. - The Knave

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

shepritz — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 14:27:47 +0000

[Editor’s Note 1: Certain other online encyclopedias would have you believe that Milwaukee, Wisconsin was founded by French Canadian fur traders in 1846. However, recent research suggests that the fabled Cream City was known to scholars as far back as the medieval ages. The following 13^th century illuminated manuscript – written by an unknown hand but attributed to an obscure Flemish monk – was found in the Naïve’s Guide archives underneath a pile of outdated phone books and catalogs, and provides some fascinating insight into the spell that this mystical metropolis must have held over its author. Most of the first few pages are stained with some horrible caustic substance, but as we join the narrative, two knights have met on a lonely path in a fog-shrouded wood…]

“Who art thou?” vociferated the knight. “How darest thou trespass these woods?”

“’Tis I,” said his foe, “Sir Greg. And I knowest who thou art, Sir Sean.”

“Thou speakest the truth, good sir knight,” Sir Sean said. “Thou art indeed a worthy adversary. Thou art welcome here, but trespass not in these woods again, lest ye be trespassed upon – by mine lance, in thine eye!”

“I heed your warning, good sir knight, and shallest abide by it, respecting thine authority in these woods, and thine most feared and much amir’d skill with thine lance upon thine steed. Indeed, tales of thine travails against thine foes have traveled as near as the fair county of my birth, and as far as Milwaukee, Wisconsin.”

“I have not heard of such a land,” Sir Sean exclaimed, captivated most fully was he by this news. “Tellest me, noble friend, of this place, this Milwaukee thou hast spoken of, lest I despair from curiosity most foul and debased. Aye me, that I should live in such a world that I mightest hear not of Milwaukee. Oh Heavenly Father, wouldest thou send me to the blackest pits of hell, forged by thine fallen lieutenant Lucifer himself, without hearing of the fair and most lovely Milwaukee? For thine own green and goodly creation itself wouldest be but a charr’d and evil gorge of thine most sick and putrid putrescence, were it not for thine own lovely land of Milwaukee, home of thine most noble Lords and fair and chaste Ladies.”

“Thine tongue rarely deigns to seek respite, good sir knight,” Sir Greg replied, after a fashion, “but as thou seemest to have had thine say, I shall tell thee of the fair land of legend. For I too, though mine own land of Knightsville is indeed fair, and wherest I was rais’d from but a yowling whelp, have long desir’d to visit Milwaukee. For, so the tales tell, liest there in Milwaukee are the most fair sights thine own eyes shall ever partake upon. So they say, in their House of Learning, there be a Museum, and therein liest the largest dinosaur skull in the world. So to, tankards of the finest ale and mead thou shall ever deign to imbibe reside there too, and the flagons of beer flow forth most copiously. The most beauteous and mellifluous music thine ears shall ever hear, call’d by them the “Polka”, playest at all moments, at pleasingly loud volumes. Yea, and fine Sportsmen known as the Brewers reside there too, competing most honorably for the pride of their City, and so too their noble friends and cousins, the Bucks. Thou and I both must aspire fully to travel there someday, good sir knight and honor’d friend.”

“Then what sayest thou, my friend, to mine new offer: we shall join together, this very day, and travel there at once. Yea, and our adventures shall be retold throughout the generations, from father to son, until all good peoples of all Nations recall us fondly.”

“It shall indeed be most difficult to leave mine fair homeland and place of my birth, but I agree to thine request. We shall leave immediately!”

And thus, Sir Greg and Sir Sean deigned to leavest their homelands for the fair Milwaukee. But the tales of their resulting travels are intended for another time, dear reader, and here thine humble chronicler endeth his tale. Peace be with thou and thine friends!

[Editor’s Note 2: Some readers have questioned the authenticity of this document, it being filled with obvious anachronisms, as well as being written in a vague, largely inaccurate, and indeed almost absurdly childish representation of what actual medieval English sounded like. There is, in fact, a perfectly valid and sensible reason for these apparent inconsistencies, and ordinarily we would be happy to provide the document in question to any experts interested in determining its authenticity, but unfortunately, we lost it. It might be in the coat room. In a related story, the Naïve’s Guide is in need of a new archivist; please contact us for an application.] – J. Frederick

St. Patrick’s Day

shepritz — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 16:21:50 +0000

I live in fear every year when St Patrick’s Day comes in March. It started about 3 years ago when I was 5. My dad gets drunk. But he doesn’t just get drunk. I’ll try to explain. Hold on, he’s calling….

This sucks. Daddy claims that St Patrick’s Day is all about the Irish, leprechauns, clovers and daddy’s favorite alcohol: beer. So even through we’re not Irish, he claims that it’s their gift to all of us: a one day pass to drink as much beer as possible.

In the beginning it’s not so bad (before he gets really drunk). After he’s had his first 6 beers by 8am, he forcefully makes me stay home from school. He locks the doors, and only allows me to stay downstairs where the living room and kitchen are. I tried to fight it last year, but…that’s not a good idea.

We both sit downstairs in silence, watching whatever is on TV. After beer 10 or 12, he grabs me by the arm, drags me to his chair, and tells me the “Irish Tale” that if a person catches a leprechaun, that leprechaun will grant him 3 wishes. So he stumbles upstairs only to return with my green lantern t-shirt, a pair of green shorts of mine, and a green bandana to dress me up like a Leprechaun. “Since you’re so small” he mutters, “you’re the leprechaun”. He then say “run away leprechaun, and I’m gonna get ya.”

The first year I hid, thinking it was a game: a fun St. Patrick’s Day game of hide-and-go-seek. So even though I was downstairs, I hid good behind the dog food in the kitchen closet. By now he was up to beer 16, and he stumbled around the rooms. It’s not a big house, so he did not have too much trouble finding me. When he did, he grabbed me by the hair through the bandana and dragged me out. Still holding my hair & bandana, he took off his belt and “punished” me for being a bad leprechaun, hiding like that.

Last year, I thought I hid better, but he still got me. So this year, I did not hide. I just sat on the couch near him, my knees tucked up against my chest, and my arms tightly interlocking around my legs. When he woke up from his 18^th beer or so, he found me sitting on the couch across the room, and STILL “punished” me for hiding! Darn it, he’s calling again…

So anyway, I keep leaving because of his first wish. I have to continuously bring beers to his chair. But the catch is that he binds my hands together in the front with the belt. So I can still grab (and type) and bring him beer. Drunk as he is, I have to be careful; he’s still very agile and accurate. He drifts in and out of his drunken stupor, stirred awake by the sound of applause and whooting on Maury. At this point he throws whatever is closest to him at me. This is my alert that he needs another beer. Sometimes the thing he throws is his last unfinished can of beer, which sprays around the room as he chucks it. As drunk as he is, it always seems to hit me and I get him another can.

The second wish has been different every year: a bigger house, a boat, a better job, and he expects me to get it for him. Luckily at this point, we’ve already passed his most dangerous point, and he’s more asleep than awake. He’s drunk enough that he forgets the wish, and I’ve only had to act like I’m working on his wish for a little while.

So that brings us to where he is now. He’s been out for about 30 minutes and I’m gonna try to leave. Last year I left too early. I tried to open the window, and he awoke shaking and yelled “Come back here leprechaun! Grant me my third wish!” to which he added “Bring your mom back!” He threw his mostly full beer at me, which struck my head hard and ricocheted to shatter the window. Then he started to cry. I hate St Patrick’s Day. - Da Ritzenator