Argh,

Argh argh air conditioner must argh air conditioner argh argh house woman argh fever argh argh sweating profusely.

Hold on. Let me take a breath. It might be my last. I'm down in the front yard. The husband pumped me full of buckshot.

I thought the day would be better than this. When I woke up I saw a butterfly.

I was wrong. It was a bat. It bit me. You know what happens when bats bite you? Rabies.

If you were in jail for fraud, would you waste your time on a frivolous lawsuit against a celebrity that you have probably never met?

You would if you were Jonathan Lee Riches, who recently filed a "$63,000,000,000 billion" suit against (that's lots of billions) against Barry Bonds for stealing his dogs, selling them on eBay, and then using the money to buy missiles from Iran. And then, if that got you some publicity and it turned ut you were either mentally deranged or an excellent comedy writer you'd do it again.

Probably your second suit would name Hank Aaron's bat, and it would claim, among other things, that Bonds, on June 22, 2004, bench pressed Riches against his will "to show off in front of his ballbark buddies." He has also "witnessed Mr. Bonds selling steroids to nuns." Oh, also, "Barry Bonds used Hank Aaron's bat to crack the Liberty Bell." And "Mr. Bonds gave mustard gas to Saddam Hussein."

As comic novels go, it's not the worst one of the year by any stretch. When he finds a publisher, I will be happy to give him a blurb.

To recap some highlights:

• Complaint #2 is for "Fraud Against Humanity" and "Batman and Identity Robbin"
• Mr. Riches is doing business as "The White Suge Knight"
• In total, the amount asked for in damages in dollars (and Swiss Francs) amounts to $105,000,000,000.000
• Mr. Bonds and Mr. Selig secretly met at the Steak 'n Shake on I-70, booth #11
• Judith Miller, formerly of the New York Times, has the transcripts of the meetings
• Mr. Riches owns an I-Phone
• Hitmen sent by Mr. Bonds broke into Mr. Riches' home and stole items from his "refrig"

You can read the second complaint in its entirety here.

Dear Mr. Walsh,

The other day I entered a guilty plea to six offences: setting fires at your home, threatening to set more, and intimidating a witness in the case. Why would I do that? Simple. Because I did all those things. I set fires at your home, threatened to set more, and intimidated a witness in the case. Who did it? I did. Are we all clear on the facts here? I hope so, because I have a few more facts. The name of the man who heard my threats regarding burning down your house with petrol was Darren White. The name of the man who heard my threats regarding an elaborate petrol bomb was Robert Thomas. I was then forced to threaten Robert Thomas when it looked like he might give a statement to an inspector. When I threatened Robert Thomas, I was trolleyed.

Dear Bob of Bob's Gifts and Sundries,

You probably know me. I am the woman who comes in most every night to get a pack of smokes. Some nights I'm with Len, a guy I met because he goes to the Beachcomber, the same bar as me. Some nights I'm in with Paul, a guy I met because he goes to the Beachcomber, the same bar as me. Some nights, I'm with George, a guy I met because he goes to the Beachcomber, the same bar as me. We're all the best of friends, if by "best of friends" you mean "people who will routinely get drunk and go home with each other and have the beginnings of sex before falling asleep on the couch." When I'm with Len or Paul, I let them drive. Len can handle his liquor like a pro, and Paul is even better. But when I'm with George, I have to drive. George hasn't had a license since 1998.

Dear Elaine,

I'll remember this forever: When I was a little boy, maybe two or three, my mother, who was a very clever woman, made this remark to me. "Son, when you grow up, if you want things to be nice, listen to me now, and follow this advice." Then she started coughing so hard she almost dropped her cigarette. That wasn't the advice. That was what I like to call a "health problem." Mama was in jail for grand theft auto. I saw her once a week.

Dear Ms. Handy,

Do you remember me? Brian Stokes? When you knew me, I was a short kid with sandy hair. Many others were, but I was funny back then. Of all the kids in your fourth grade class, I was the one who made you laugh the most. One Halloween, I came to school dressed as the Palmer Method, and you said, "Brian Stokes, of all the kids in this class, you make me laugh the most." I remember everything you said. I suppose you could say that I had a little crush on you.

Dear Son,

Among certain bears in the Aleutian mountain range, the arrival of winter is greeted with an ancient ritual. The father bear, strapping and strong, ambles away from the bear-cave into the driving snow. Where is he going? No, guess again. No. No. Okay, son, I'll tell you. He's going to get food for his little ones. Little ones, you say? Why, yes, little ones. They are tiny, these Aleutian bear cubs, huddled in the back of the cave like socks pressed against the rear of the drawer. In the story I am telling, their names are Whitey, Bitey, and Claude (which is a play on "clawed," because when he was little, he ran afoul of Whitey during an aggressive game of tag). Anyway, the three little bears do not hate their father for venturing into the Great White Darkness in search of sustenance. They do not resent him when he returns. They treasure him.

Dear Albert Einstein,

I write to you, or your spirit, from simple befuddlement. I have read general relativity. I even understand it. I mean, gravitational redshift, time dilation, Riemann Curvature Tensor. It's all easy as pi. I made that joke at a meeting of my Gravitational Physics Group, and everyone laughed. It wasn't the quality of the remark so much as the speed with which I deployed it. One woman came up to me afterwards and began making eyes. I said, "I'm flattered, of course, but before we go any further, I need you to know that I have an average organ."

She was taken aback, but something in my expression encouraged her onward. "And?" she said.

"Well," I said, "if we do what we both want to do, I'll make you travel 99 percent the speed of light. It'll take your breath away, but my average organ will contract down to only fifteen percent of its size."

She was willing to try anyway. A brilliant woman is an inquisitive woman, I always say.

I raise the issue of my understanding of general relativity and my ability to use celeritas for both flirtatious and seductive purposes not to boast, though I have much to boast about. I raise it because it increases the mystery. What mystery, you ask? Well, this mystery. It defies easy comprehension.

Yours,
Nicholas Forster

Dear David Blaine,

I know that you are a famous magician and spokesman for all things magical. I have seen those NBA commercials where you sink impossibly long shots with the help of your magic powers. So I know you can understand how excited I was when I first saw trick #319 in your most recent magic catalog. As I'm sure you know, trick #319 is called "The Ear Palm." The description of the trick says that "I" (you) can teach "you" (me) to hide anything behind "your" (my) ear. "With my patented Ear Palm technique, learn to conceal a pen, a pencil, a piece of candy, a rolled-up dollar bill. Even a five-dollar bill. Amaze your friends by saying, 'Yo, where'd that candy go?' Yo: It went behind your ear, where they'll never find it." That's what the description said.

So I bought the trick. I waited until it came. I got the package in the mail and studied the patented Ear Palm technique. I thought I had it down. It looked vicious in the mirror. And then, a few nights later, there I am, late at night, driving around with some weed in my car, and I notice a berry in a convenience store parking lot. I decide it's a perfect time to give the Ear Palm its public debut, and so I tuck a blunt behind my ear just like it says in trick #319, stride right in, and find the cop who's driving that car. "Officer," I say, "can you tell me how to get to Melody Lane in Ft. Pierce." I am cool as a slushee because there is no way he can see the blunt. It is Ear Palmed. He looks at me, this Officer Wood -- I am so calm I actually smile -- and he reaches up and taps me on the ear.

I expect a full refund in the amount of $15.95 for the Ear Palm.

Sincerely,
Maurice Stuckey

Dear Wichita Police,

Ashamed. Blushing. Chagrined. Disconcerted. Embarrassed. That is how I feel, accurately, alphabetically, precisely, and paragraphically after the mortifying incident of Wednesday night.

Yes, it is true that I was pulled over by some of your fine peace officers and that, when they approached my car, they found me choking on what has drolly been described as "a large baggie of marijuana." It is also true that the responding officers attempted the Heimlich maneuver, to no avail, and that one of them had to reach inside my throat and pull the bag out to save my life, after which I was taken to the hospital for treatment and then booked in Sedgwick County Jail. But this is only part of the story.

What this account fails to note is that the officers thwarted my plan, and that I am a genius. The term can be used and is used ironically. It can also be used straightforwardly. If a man is left in a room with a toothpick and a length of wire and he creates from those humble materials an internal combustion engine, then the term is applied straightforwardly. If a man is left in a room with a toothpick and a length of wire and he eats them both, thinking they are candy, then the term is applied ironically. Perhaps this latter example is too close for comfort. But so is the former.

To wit: What if a man, by the time he is twenty, has already used a telephone, a tennis racket, and some sugarless gum to fashion a ramshackle but serviceable time machine, travel back to Paris in the latter decades of the nineteenth century, enter the Ecole Normale Supérieure, write on Montesquieu (is the detestation of all extremism itself a form of extremism?), read extensively in Comte and Spencer, and aggregate in philosophy, all the while wondering whether the social function of religion is not in fact to protect hegemonic institutions? What if that man, having reached the absolute pinnacle of intellectual endeavor at such a tender age, is then returned by his imperfect goddamned time machine (how could anyone know that early industrial toxins would degrade the sorbitol in the gum, rendering the central time-circuit effectively useless?) to early twenty-first century Wichita, at which time he is forced to travel to Taco Bell with his dopey stoner friends and listen to an ongoing debate regarding the relative merits of the Beef Santa Fe Gordita and the Chicken Fiesta Chalupa? I think it has been proven conclusively that such a man, in Wichita again, might pretend to go out driving with his friends, but would eventually try to bring about his own demise by swallowing a bag of pot.

I regret only that I was not brave enough to execute my plan to perfection. I would be floating away on the sweet waters of oblivion, far from Wichita. Instead, I am here, and since I am here, I am nowhere. I have not only dreamed of greatness but I have woken to find that I was not dreaming at all, and the pain of such a recognition is too much to bear. Or, in terms that will be clear even to the simplest rube: How are you going to keep them down on the farm once they've seen Paree?

I live, but I do not live.

Yours,
Kevin

[Ben Greenman's acclaimed new book of fiction, A Circle is a Balloon and Compass Both, is now available. Order it here.]

We are pleased, saddened, proud, and disgusted to announce the end of the first even Inside the Criminal Mind Direct Democracy Spectacular, in which thousands of upon thousands of Americans voted to pick the dumbest criminal in the nation for the month of May.

The four candidates, in case you forgot, were as follows:

1. The unknown man who was arrested for placing a cut-out picture of a cat in the street, which police thought could have caused a traffic accident.
2. Nathan Siebrasse, the man who, while wearing a purple wizard's suit, abandoned his girlfriend's son at a Denny's restaurant.
3. Michael Wiley, the man who, despite the fact that he had no legs and only one arm, led police on a reckless, high-speed chase, just as he had done many times before.
4. The unknown man who broke into, and then out of, a jail in a small New Zealand town.

Americans voted. More than 7,600 in all. And the results were neck and neck. Closer than Bush and Gore. Much closer than Jordin and Blake.

The winner, by a wand, is Dumb Criminal #2, Nathan Siebrasse, the Purple Wizard of Child Abandonment.

Congratulations to Mr. Siebrasse and everyone who made his eccentric behavior possible.


Now, we have a special surprise. Because the first month of Inside the Criminal Mind went so well, we will be starting a spin-off feature. As Mork and Mindy spun off from Happy Days, as Private Practice spun off from Grey's Anatomy, as America spun off from England, we will be showcasing, over the next few weeks, exclusive excerpts from Paris Hilton's Graybar Diaries. This is, of course, a way of paying tribute to Hilton Hotels, the principal sponsor of Inside the Criminal Mind (note -- Hilton Hotels does not actually sponsor Inside the Criminal Mind). News reports suggest that Hilton -- already the author of Confessions of a Heiress -- will keep a diary during her 23-day sentence in the Century Regional Detention Center, which she was ordered to serve after violating probation following a drunk driving arrest.

We have a theme song. It will be sung by Nia Peeples.

I got in trouble for
Drinking doubles and
Driving a series of cars
Now for three weeks
No cafés or boutiques
Because I will be living behind bars
But never fear
While I'm in here
My life will have a reason
I'm taking note
And the diary I wrote
Will be in stores for the holiday season

And now, without further adieu, here is the first entry of the Graybar Diaries:

Dear Diary,

Last night I got to jail. did you know that they used to call it gaol? I didn't, but then I learned about that by reading lots of things about jail, including the Ballad of Reading Gaol, which is a poem by a guy named Oscar Wilde. No, no, not the Oscar from Sesame Street. He didn't go to jail, even though he was homeless. This Oscar went to gaol (jail) because he kissed other guys, and when he was in gaol (jail) a man he met was hanged, and that made him think about the unfairness of the world and how we all do bad things and we all need forgiveness. Well, I think that guy whose name I have forgotten who kissed other guys -- I am on a new page now and I can't turn it back because I'm too tired from thinking of gaol (jail) -- is right. We all need forgiveness.

That is the first of many thoughts I will hopefully have in this diary, which is being written longhand in a notebook that has a picture of Justin Hawkins from the Darkness on the cover. When I bought it, I thought I was being ironic, then I started to think he was hot, then I thought I was being ironic again. These things settle slowly. Good thing I have time.

Stay strong,
Paris

P.S. Someone here just told me that the word in the title of the poem is pronounced "Redding." I shanked that bitch.


[Ben Greenman's acclaimed new book of fiction, A Circle is a Balloon and Compass Both, is now available. Order it here.]

As 'American Idol' ends, another contest begins, this one arguably even more gripping...

For the last month, we here at News Bloggers have run a series called Inside the Criminal Mind. It began altruistically, as a public service to show kids that crime doesn't pay. That was our initial our mission. Cross to the wrong side of the law, kids, and the law will cross to the wrong side of you. We had a simple method: to isolate some of the stupidest crimes in America, and then use the techniques of fiction (character development, plot, pacing) to speculate on the motives of the would-be perpetrators.

So we did it. And we did it again. And again and again. Now we have four criminals, and it occurs to us that maybe we should throw the series open to America. Of the first set of scoundrels, scofflaws, and scumbags, who is the stupidest?

We even have a theme song. Joey Scarbury will sing it.

Senseless schemes
And disreputable dreams
Plots that the law has to stop
Shady plans
That end in police vans
Have you ever seen a laughing cop?
If you seek, that's what you'll find
Inside the Criminal Mind

So, who will it be? The four candidates are below (and you can read the full, original posts here if you want to refresh your memory).

1. The unknown man who was arrested for placing a cut-out picture of a cat in the street, which police thought could have caused a traffic accident.
2. Nathan Siebrasse, the man who, while wearing a purple wizard's suit, abandoned his girlfriend's son at a Denny's restaurant.
3. Michael Wiley, the man who, despite the fact that he had no legs and only one arm, led police on a reckless, high-speed chase, just as he had done many times before.
4. The unknown man who broke into, and then out of, a jail in a small New Zealand town.

America, you decide.























[Ben Greenman's acclaimed new book of fiction, A Circle is a Balloon and Compass Both, is now available. Order it here.]

Dear Sgt. Graham McGurk of the Matamata, New Zealand, Police Force,

Hello, McGurk. We meet again. And yet, we have never met. I imagine you look puzzled, McGurk, assuming you have not balled this letter up and thrown it away. Have you, McGurk? If so, retrieve if from the bin and keep reading. That's a good man, McGurk. Listen now, McGurk. I have something to tell you.

Last night, as you know, a man broke into your jail and then broke out again. None of the three officers on duty were present, and yet this man – this creature of boundless, fiendish brilliance – somehow snuck into the building, made for the cell block, got stuck in a cell, set off the alarm, and then vanished. This puzzled you, McGurk, and you said so to the press. "There was no one working, no one in the cells, no attempt to get at the station firearms and no damage apart from what they caused getting in and out."

That's right, McGurk. There was no damage. Damage makes the universe smaller. What there was, in this case, was art. Art makes the universe larger. And existential art of this fashion, McGurk, makes the universe absolutely obese. Do you remember the incident of the painted tree in Domain Park? One morning last year, the fine people of Matamata woke to see that it had been painted a ghostly white. Confusion ensued. The local television did a report on it that evening-though, to be honest, the report was kind of condescending, especially the way that Katherine Parker, the newslady, kept saying that it was "probably the work of kids." It was not the work of kids. It was a work of art, as should have been clear then, and as was definitely clear the very next morning, when the tree was just as mysteriously returned to its original state. Park authorities shrugged the entire incident off, but there was speculation that they had no choice, as the man responsible left no trace.

That is true. He left no trace. Or should I say "I left no trace."

Do you understand me, McGurk? The man responsible for the tree is the same man responsible for breaking into your jail and breaking out again. He is me. It is I. We are one. I cannot give you my name. That would be foolish. But I can give you an image to work with. You can think of me as a kind of phantom, a barely corporeal presence, who floats through the day upending all of your fondly held beliefs about the way the world operates, and then vanishing before you can even know if your doubts are real. Poof! Do you know what my model for this kind of thing is? I will tell you. Years ago in Barcelona, there was a master thief nicknamed El Halcón. He committed only one theft, but it was the greatest theft in history. On the night of a great masked ball, the city's richest citizens returned home to find, in their bedrooms, next to their jewelry boxes, typed notes that said "It could have been much worse." Nothing was taken, and yet what was taken was everything: dignity, safety, rational order. To me, El Halcón is a hero--a painter, a philosopher, a great romancer--and that is why I broke into your jail and broke out. If I had not been drunk off my rear, I might have even left a note that said, "No one was here."

Boo,
The Phantom

Dear Kids of America,

Hello. My name is Michael Wiley. I am forty years old, but I look older. But I feel younger. This strange set of circumstances is the result of a life lived hard, good, and with no shortage of enthusiasm. Some people call me Speed Demon, because I love driving fast. Others call me Psycho, because I have always had what a series of court-appointed psychiatrists have called "an equivocal relationship to authority and convention." One ex-girlfriend liked to call me Wiley Coyote. At first I thought that was the ultimate compliment – to be named after the supergenius who caught the Road Runner, the world's fastest bird! Then I watched the cartoons more closely and realized that the bird never gets caught, and that the whole supergenius thing is a little bit, well, sarcastic. I got a little mad at that girlfriend, but I didn't hold a grudge. I moved on like I always move on - fast!

Kids, if someone says something to hurt you or get you down, don't let it. It's as simple as that. In my years on earth, I have learned to endure the worst kinds of pain and indignity. When I was a teenager, I was in a terrible accident. I was riding on top of a trolley car and I grabbed the wire overhead. It was a daredevil move, I'll admit. I think I was trying to impress a girl. And if the ear-piercing shriek and the way I crumpled to the ground, my body smoking, didn't impress her, well, then I don't know girls. After days of surgery and months of physical therapy, I emerged a different man-specifically, a man with no arms and one leg. I say man, even though I was a teenager, because that experience aged me. I was less but in other ways I was more. I had passed through fire, or rather fire had passed through me, and I had lived to tell the tale. (That's the tale, up there – the part about the trolley.)

After the accident, I taught myself to drive. And when I say drive, I don't mean the kind of wussy commuting behavior your father exhibits on his way to the Wussy Corporation every morning. In 1998 I led police on a mid-speed chase. The newspapers said high-speed, but it was only a hundred and thirty. High speed starts around one fifty five. Over the years, my license has been suspended or revoked more than twenty times. And yet, I still drive.

Do you see my point, Kids of America? I hope you do. My point is that no matter how many times someone tells you that you can't do something, the only one who can ever really decide is you. Your fate is in your own hands, even if – like me – you don't have hands. So be brave. Believe in yourself. Never give up. I will tell you a true story about persistence and overcoming adversity. In 1996 I was pulled over after an accident. You know what I did? I kicked the policeman. I have only one limb, and I used it to kick a policeman! Then I jumped in the car and sped off. The law may consider me disabled, but if that's not abled, I don't know what is. Earlier this week, as you may have heard, I got away again. Eat my dust, coppers! I'm the Speed Demon! That is exactly what I shouted out the window as I brought my Explorer up into triple digits.

Okay, kids. I hope that my inspirational message has sunk in. Gotta go. I've been writing this on a notepad with a pen clenched between my teeth-while I've been driving. But don't worry. I'm only going about one twenty.

A friend in speed is a friend indeed,
Michael Wiley

[Ben Greenman's acclaimed new book of fiction, A Circle is a Balloon And Compass Both: Stories About Human Love, is now available at bookstores.]