Tag Archive for Humor


Muse, O Muse, edumacate

me, so I can write a poem:

Maybe those dead gods from across the sea can inspire me.

Set can set me up

With Isis in the back seat, and Osiris in the trunk,

Then I can learn me the arts of erotion.

And with Minerva I can cloak the emotion

In erudition and write like Pound.

Anubis can teach me to write like Plath,

Or maybe Byron in a bad mood.

Old Tlaloc can bathe me in blood, but he’s from Mexico

And all that’s come out of there is One Trillion Years of Aloneitude, or


Maybe Si Wang-mu, Royal Mother of the West, can teach me to create like Li Po,

But he’s a little dry for my taste: only the wind of the immortals and

bones of the Tao.

No meat on him.

Hey, there’s a god who’s worth looking to: Thor.

He can smash stuff…

…Well, maybe he’s not such a poet after all.

Visnu could come to me, and I could be Arjuna,

Or I might end up like his uncles.

Those Hindu gods are poets, but mean.

I think I’ll stay away from them.

Gilgamesh was ⅓ god, but couldn’t stay awake to catch infinity.

Utnapishtim judged him right:

He would probably fall asleep in the middle of inspiring me.

Dead Cthulhu, sleeping in his house at R’yleh,

Now there’s a god worth volumes of poems:

He gets in your head and drains your sanity.

Maybe Dutch Schultz was an aquaintance of his,

But I rather like the order I impose on the universe.

The Bear of old Rus might give me some rhymes,

But I hear he’s in cahoots with a witch.

Lament, O ye masses:

The Gods are dead!

And the Orisises ain’t risin’.


My goldfish is dead.

I took a leak in his tank,

maybe that killed him…



Oh God help us all!

I mixed gas and orange juice.

I made some napalm.



The chow mein is old.

I tried to microwave it,

it’s now on the wall.



I dropped a hammer.

It fell on my fucking foot.

Ouch! Goddammit all!

Blind Love

The moment we met

was everlasting.

I never knew any secrets you kept from me.

You always seemed

so absent, so prevalent,

when we shared our thoughts


You told me

you were in love with me

But you turned your gaze

from me

and started to go off alone.

Don’t ya know

That I will always love you

Till I die.


I sigh and lift the covers

over my head

the rain pours down outside it stopped

then I wonder to my amazement my surprise

I see a familiar face standing in the doorway

grinning I rise and shine and sort through my underwear

Misplaced underwear perfumed socks and so much yes

much more I can hardly wait to open your present from

last year’s Christmas

Lo*ve (it’s Spanish)

“Love.” There’s an odd word. Well, as far as I can tell there are two popular ways of starting out a speech. The first is to check Webster’s Dictionary for a definition, then repeat what you found.

“Webster’s Dictionary defines love as: You stupid moron. How dense are you to be looking in a book for a description of one of mankind’s deepest, most important feelings? Do the world a favor and stick your head in the center of this book and slam it shut as hard as you can.”

After three days of intensive therapy I was ready to begin writing again, this time using the second most popular way to start a piece of writing: Word dissection. That wasn’t much help either…

“Love.” Well “Love” can be split up into two words, lo and ve. Lo, as in lo and behold, is a word used to attract attention or show surprise. And ve isn’t in the dictionary. However, in Spanish, lo and ve, used in a sentence means “to see.” To see? Actually kinda neat, really. From what I’ve heard people in love see each other for what they are, so it fits quite nicely. Although it could also mean to see the years of bitterness and resentment that are bound to follow, it’s really all in the interpretation.

And now I’m confused. People should need a license to use the word “love” in a sentence. And a diploma to use it in a body of writing. Or at least some type of certification class.

What was I talking about again? Ah yes, love. Well, I’m not sure that I’m the best person to even attempt an explanation of the feeling, because I’ve really never successfully completed the whole “in love” cycle. In fact, I’m pretty certain that I haven’t even started the whole “in love” cycle, despite numerous attempts with several different girls. The cycle usually involves two people, and stuff. And the stuff is different depending on the people.

You know, I can’t really describe the “in love” cycle. A writer should have at least a little experience in what he’s going to write about; like they always say, “Write what you know.” I, however, do have extensive experience in the ‘trying and failing’ cycle.

Imagine two people, Frank and Perl. Frank is a sweet guy with a bit of an eccentric streak, which, quite frankly, is what makes Frank Frank. Perl is a quietly beautiful woman who is content to sit back and take life in. She hates it when people spell her name P-E-A-R-L, because that’s just not how you spell her name. These are qualities that are irresistible to Frank. Frank waits in the shadows for a chance to strike up a conversation. After much watching and waiting a window of opportunity opens. Frank is armed only with a wavering confidence and a small glimmer of hope. His only companion is Joel, his personality.

Joel does the same job all personalities do. He makes judgment calls, devises life strategies, thinks of clever things to say, and basically does everything not directly related to primary life functions. As Frank is approaching Perl, something goes wrong. All the lights at his station go out. By the time Joel realizes that foul play is afoot, it’s too late. Someone storms in the room.

“Clayton, how did you get past security?!”

“Oh, I have my ways. Surrender control of Frank to me or accept the consequences.”

“You fool! We’re about to attempt contact with Perl, if you take over now…”

“Exactly. Mwahahaha!”

Clayton, Frank’s other personality, assumes control of Frank just as he approaches Perl. Within seconds Frank says something bizarre and inappropriate. Perl, confused and disgusted, runs back to her circle of friends with a new story to tell. Clayton escapes so he can seize control at an inappropriate moment another day. Joel eventually comes to and tries to perform some damage control by reminding Frank that there will be other chances, but Frank doesn’t care. In a week or so the feelings of defeat lessen, but not by much.

And that’s what makes life odd. You can be completely normal one second, but throw something in that upsets the balance and all hell breaks loose. Here’s what happened when I called up this one girl to try and get a date for a dance (Just in case she wanted to remain anonymous, I’m changing her name to “person.”)

Valentines Day, 7th Grade:

Me: Uhm, erh, hiya.

Person: Hi. Who is this?

Me: (Uh-oh. I wasn’t counting on this. Name, name, name, what the hell’s my name again?) Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have the math homework wouldja?

Person: Hold on, let me check.

Me: (Phew. Ok, think, think, think. Steve! Yes, it’s definitely Steve!)

Person: I think it’s 234 1-13.

Me: It’s Steve.

Person: Oh, hi Steve!

Me: So, would you like to go to the dance with me?

Person: No.

Me: OK then! Well, see ya.


For my first actual attempt at breaking in it actually went pretty well. Luckily, there were three Steves in the seventh grade, so when the person asked me if I had called the next day I said “Nope, why?”

That was the end of that. A full three years later I tried forcing someone to love me again. Of course, that ended quick. I would try to be funny around her, but I was too uncomfortable to actually make her laugh, and I ended up looking stupid. Not your average stupid, by any means. I had actually began to act Ludicrously Stupid, which is a level I never want to reach again unless I’m paid. I walked up to her and, aggh. It’s easier to document it:

Person: Hey Steve, what’s up?

Me: (Say something witty… c’mon… think…) Hey! It’s, uh, it’s you! Howya feeling on this fine Wednesday morning?

Person: It’s Monday.

Me: (Change the subject quickly) So it is! Well, anyway, how was your Christmas?

Person: I’m a Jehovah’s Witness.

Me: *nervous laughter* I knew I recognized you, did you visit my house last Thursday?

Person: What is so funny?

Me: Oh nothing, I was just thinking of what a pleasure it was to meet me. I mean you! I mean, oh, I’ve got to go pee-pee now, excuse me.

*sounds of running echo through the hallway*

There were a few more of those encounters, but they all follow the same patterns. I think I’ll skip straight to the ending. I told this person that I loved her, and she laughed. Either she thought I was joking, which is understandable, or there are sinister forces at work in her mind.

Well, I wrote this piece two years ago, and it seems that nothing has changed. I could read this piece all over again it would play out exactly the same.

And you know, I still really don’t mind much at all.


Gym class was never a whole lotta fun for me. I knew that I wasn’t going to be an athlete, the other kids knew I wasn’t going to be an athlete, and the coach knew I wasn’t going to be an athlete. With all this knowledge floating around, I still had to move the ball and make it go that way, very fast. So I would approach the ball, and make it move in a general direction, at an adequate speed, which was good enough for me. I was still beaten up.

You know what I’ve got issues with? The gym propaganda. There’s tons of it, leaking out of the mouths of teachers, coaches, celebrities, committees, activists, presidents, and the like. They say over and over again that sports help children develop self esteem, as well as help them live happier, healthier lives. Well, my question is, why do over half the students in my gym class sit with a depressed look on their faces? They look at the ball go by, scratch a little, look up at the clock, and look at the ball go back by the other way. If they’re not going to enjoy the athletics and aren’t going to even try, then give these kids another option.

Eg. Instead of actually playing baseball, kids can watch “Pride of the Yankees.” Instead of playing hockey, there’s air hockey. A nice alternative to football would be foosball.

Why do aerobics when you could simply watch Cindy Crawford do them for 45 minutes?

Old Coach Curko, there was a coach. He could tell who wanted to be in gym, and who didn’t. He put all the boys who could, and wanted to, play basketball on the full court. He put us boys who really didn’t like gym all together on a half court with some partially inflated relic from the Carter administration. So we would talk about computers and politics, and at least attempting to shoot a basket once in a while. Of course, whenever we did try to shoot a basket it would bounce off the bottom of the rim and end up in the full court. Then one of the larger boys would kick it at us and shout something about us being of homosexual orientation. And the cycle would begin anew. We boys on the half court had fun because there really wasn’t much pressure to do well. The kids who were on the full court had a nice, hard game of basketball. Of course, the Constitution states that all men were created equal, whether they like it or not. So in the spirit of equality the administrators try to have everyone playing on the same field. It’s a great intention, but not the best reality. Case in point: Dodgeball.

Now there’s an interesting sport. We used to play it all the time when we were kids. It’s a method of relieving academic stress for some kids; in other words, gargantuan monosyllabic idiots got to peg the smarter kids with inflated balls and get away with it.

A basic game of dodgeball went like this: Ten of us would line up on one side of half the gym, ten on the other. You would have to peg the kids on the other side of the gym to get them “out.” Our coach at the time was a very nice guy under normal circumstances, but he also liked to see kids getting hit with inflatable balls. He would demand that some of the bigger kids try for head shots, just to make things interesting. “That’s head shot number two!” he would shout.

I could never really throw the ball very fast, or very accurately, or very far, so I would just try to avoid getting hit. Eventually I was the only one on my side of the gym, which is when the other kids decided to throw all their ball at once in the hopes of scoring a hit. Dodgeball has some interesting ties to medieval gun battles. A bunch of men loyal to one lord would take one side of a battlefield and a bunch of men loyal to another lord would take the opposite side. The guns weren’t very accurate and didn’t have a very good range, but if there were a lot of people on your side, and they all had a gun, someone on the other side of the field was bound to die.

Am I mad at the gym teachers? Not really. They’re out there doing their best to keep everyone physically fit. They also seem to be out there doing their best to keep everyone mentally unstable, psychologically unbalanced, and borderline psychotic, but physically fit.

And if you don’t have your health, what do you have?

Gloomy Thursdays

My heart ached. As constant as the waves of the sea slap the rocks, so the emptiness lurked. The icy hand of desperation wrapped me up and constricted. I was suffocating in that dismal abyss of loathsome sitcoms. I lamented but nobody heard, my pain had no companions.

“No! Why? Why? Why?” I cried. I dropped down on my knees and flailed my arms wildly. My lamentation sliced through the air like a blade through butter. “Worry not Michael, there is counseling available,” my mom replied. “This is way beyond counseling mother!” I retorted. “Don’t you realize that Seinfeld is going of the air? Seinfeld isn’t coming back, and there’s nothing anyone can do.”

Mom tried to soothe me. “There’s always other shows, maybe Veronica’s Closet would appeal to you.”

“Veronica’s Closet! Veronica’s Closet! I would rather be crushed in the gears of a combine than spend thirty minutes of my life viewing that sorry sitcom.” I huffed. “There will never be another show like Seinfeld.” I stomped off to wallow in my own self pity like a pig in warm mud.

There was no sleep in store for me that night. I was tormented by my own demons. I was agonized by the thought of blank Thursdays. Discomfort held hands with the black of night, and the black of night greeted me with a sour embrace.

The next morning it was such a strenuous struggle to rise from my bed, I could have sworn I had been lying in quicksand all night. Walking in school was like swimming in a thick marsh. I had nothing to look forward to. Thursdays used to be the greatest day of the week, but now, all Thursdays held was gloom. That day, all I knew was despair, and it smothered me. This went on until I met up with a friend of mine; Ben was his name. “Mike, have courage and fend off despair’s siege,” Ben consoled. “It’s not all over, we can keep the Seinfeld dream alive. I know your pain. I too have been intimate with agony.”

“How? How can you possibly know what I’m going through? I know you liked Seinfeld, but I loved it, Ben.” I rasped. “Besides, there is no way to keep the Seinfeld dream alive. Everyone knows Jerry quit and he won’t come back for any sum of money.”

“That’s the thing Mike, we can work around that. My plan doesn’t involve Jerry Seinfeld signing any contracts; we just have to persevere and have ambition,” Ben tried to convince me.

“This sounds too easy, Ben, but I’ll do whatever it takes to keep the Seinfeld dream alive. What is this venture you speak of?” I asked.

“There is a fabled island just off the Atlantic coast called Duergar. This arcane island is said to bear every Seinfeld episode on tape, uncut and unedited.” Ben answered.

I smiled at the perfect thought, but then a pang of paranoia shot through me. I seized my friend by the throat and backed him against the wall. “If you are fabricating this, I fail to see the comedy. Deceive me not, Ben. But if you are true, then I shall be in debt to you for the rest of my life,” I growled.

“I kid you not,” Ben confirmed. “In fact, I have already booked a flight to Bangor, Maine. We’ll leave as soon as summer is upon us.”

I was still wary about the situation Ben had cast upon me, but I’d be a fool if I declined his offer. “Good then,” I proclaimed. “As soon as summer commences so our quest begins. Let us take up sword and shield, and may anything that hinders us feel our bitter blades. To Duergar we go!”

The hot, muggy air of summer soon attacked us like a swarm of angry bees. The smell of humidity wrapped us up in its uncomfortable scarf. It was time to leave. Excitement and dread accompanied my thoughts.

On the airplane I had many doubts about our forthcoming adventure. At times I believed the entire idea was absurd and all for naught. There were so many doubts, and I wanted answers. On occasion, I felt I was a simpleton for ever agreeing to the ludicrous idea. For a few brief moments, I resented Ben for coaxing me into that ordeal. But Ben was confident that our trek was worth the effort. His confidence gave me strength to face what lay ahead.

Promptly arriving in Maine, Ben and I immediately headed for the coastline to find a boat. I had tossed a question around in my mind but had neglected to inquire. Finally, I spoke. “Ben, well, we’re here. Now where do we go? We still have no idea where the island of Duergar is located. How on earth are we supposed to acquire fully uncut and unedited Seinfeld episodes if we have no clue as to where they are?”

“Trust me,” Ben countered. “I know someone who will help us out.” I trusted him. The morning mist lay heavy upon the land and even the burning stare of the sun could not pierce it. The delightful smell of the Atlantic swam through the air and up our noses. We had risen early that morning and arrived at the beach at dawn. Not a soul stirred. The sound of silence blanketed our surroundings. The sun had just begun to peek at us from over the horizon when I saw something else move.

“Ben, down by the docks.” I injected.

“What? In the boat marina? Let us investigate,” Ben answered.

I drew up my dagger from my boot. Likewise, the sound of Ben’s sword emerging from its sheath was heard as well. My fingers hugged the cool steel of the dagger’s handle. The dark outline of the figure tampering and jostling with one of the boats was getting larger with each step.

“Who’d be here at this time of morning?” Ben inquired halfheartedly.

We crept along with utter stealth, as to not be noticed. Initially, our aim had been to “temporarily borrow” a watercraft for our journey. We had encountered an obstacle. That meddling fool at the docks was standing in our way. As Ben and I neared the marina, a veil of disguise had been pulled away from my vision. Suddenly, I recognized who that crouching figure on the docks was.

“All set! She’s seaworthy!” the man shouted. The familiar figure’s name was Jesse. He was a high school friend. I had been told he traveled to the coast to work for the summer, but this was an unbelievable coincidence. Ben smiled knowingly at me. He had known all this time Jesse would be there. What a clever little devil he had been.

“Jesse!” I exclaimed. “What an uncanny event this is! How have you been?”

“Oh, I’ve been great,” Jesse replied. “I love working these docks. It’s good to see you both. This here’s my boat; she’s named Jenni. Yeah, I bought her about three months ago. Ben here called me and said you guys are looking to go to sea. I suggested you boys take Jenni here; she’s reliable, and won’t ever let you down.”

“Hey Jesse, we really appreciate this; I don’t know how we can ever repay you,” Ben said.

“Well for starters, you can give me the lowdown of what you two are up to. Something’s fishy.” Jesse bargained. With that, we informed Jesse of our quest for the totally uncut and unedited Seinfeld episodes. We expressed our heartbreak and misery to him without holding back any details. Jesse was so incredibly moved by our testimony; he wanted to be a part of our adventure. We agreed to him coming along. After all, Jenni was his boat. Jesse gathered his broadsword, mace, and shield, and we set out to sea.

Jesse proved to be most valuable in our quest to keep the Seinfeld dream alive. He had sailed those waters numerous times before and had heard twisted and odd stories of the mysterious island of Duergar. Jesse was anxious as any of us to arrive there. Jesse labored day and night navigating our path in the vast waters of the Atlantic. The air was cold. It almost seemed that the closer we neared Duergar, the more brittle the air became. Duergar was an evil place, and not even the light of sun could make Duergar remotely pleasant. We sailed, we searched endlessly, and finally, in one victorious moment, Jesse discovered Duergar. It was an ugly place. Unpleasant stenches accompanied the island’s presence. “Such an eyesore it is,” I remarked. “Indeed, it is curious why every uncut and unedited Seinfeld episode would be hidden in this wretched place,” Ben quipped. We pulled the watercraft up on shore and set out on foot in the defiled land for the first time. Fear was embedded in the sand of that beach, for as I took my first step onto shore, fear and regret tried to subdue me. I felt weakness trying to convince me to leave and never come back. But I was strong. It would take more than mere fear to stop me from attaining the uncut and unedited Seinfeld episodes. We secured our weaponry and set out on foot across the island. The walking became menial and old. We were all bitterly cold and felt we had no direction. Finally, Jesse said what we were all thinking. “This is pointless, all we are doing is roaming. I can’t—”

“Maybe they can help us,” Ben interrupted. He pointed to the depths of the western horizon. From what I was aware of, Duergar was not inhabited, but Ben’s discovery quickly denied my assumption. Across the meadows walked six short silhouettes. They were approaching us, and we waited. Jesse, Ben, and I all stayed ready with our weapons, for we knew not what the future held.

As the figures neared, we observed them with more clarity. They were small, homely creatures. They were chattering, and their voices were rough, as if they had sand in their throats. The little creatures saw us and revealed no surprise. They were little! Ugly dwarves they were. At sight of my party, the dwarves withdrew large axes that had been concealed to us before.

“Noch de brochela!” screeched the leader of the ax wielding dwarves. At those words, the rancid creatures charged at Jesse, Ben and I.

“Let us take up sword and shield, and massacre these presumptuous fools. We meant no harm.” Ben cried.

“Now we do,” I declared.

“Seinfeld forever!” Jesse lashed.

At Jesse’s battle cry, the beautiful sound of sword from sheath echoed from all our belts. The battle was on. A hissing dwarf slashed down at Ben with his gleaming ax. The sound of steel upon steel reverberated throughout the land. Ben easily parried the ax with his sword which sent the heavy ax flying from the little dwarf’s grip. The dwarf had lost his footing and fallen. With a bloody battle cry, Ben plunged his broadsword into the creature’s chest. There was a dull cracking, like eggs under couch cushions. Then the blood spilled forth. Ben had stabbed with such force that the basket hilt of the sword had slammed into the dwarf’s sternum. I spun around and heard a meaty thump as Jesse’s mace collided with a dwarf’s skull. As quickly as Jesse’s victim fell, so another ax-wielding dwarf had launched a siege upon me. I heard the chilled metal of the ax rush over my head as I ducked under the slash. I raked my sword across the dwarf’s shins, and delivered an uppercut to the mouth of the attacking dwarf with the hilt of my sword. In one swift motion, I lopped off the dwarf’s head with my angry blade. I was surprised by how easily the steel glided through the dwarf’s neck.

I averted my attention from the headless corpse to see the other three menacing dwarves trembling with fear but trying not to show it. One dwarf lunged at Jesse with his ax and in a quick, casual motion, Jesse severed the dwarf’s hands from his wrists. The dwarf collapsed on the ground writhing around like a fish out of the sea. The other two remaining dwarves could not bear the sight of their kin’s misery and decided to flee. We let them go, for we were tired. Battle truly does exhaust!

After we had bathed the caked blood from our bodies, we pursued the Seinfeld dream once again. We followed the fleeing dwarves’ tracks across the island. The trek’s rigors began to wear on us. We grew more agitated and arguments became more commonplace. At dusk, we came upon a mammoth metallic structure. It looked like a modern pyramid, with a reflective surface. I saw the sun staring blankly at us through its reflection. As we neared the pyramid, the air became high-pitched whispers. At first I believed it was all in my head, but Ben and Jesse acknowledged the whispers as well. The whispers grew in abundance and in volume as we approached the colossal monument.

“What is that wretched noise?” Jesse yelled.

“I don’t know, but it sounds like those murderous dwarves,” I shot back.

“That’s it! That’s what it is! Look there!” Ben pointed. “The whispers are emanating from the pyramid.” Ben had hardly finished his sentence when the evil dwarves revealed themselves.

One by one, they filed out of the pyramid’s oval door, all the while the whispers growing louder. We watched in astonishment as thousands of ax wielding dwarves created a wall around the pyramid. Though I know not what it was, they were chanting odd sounds in unison. Something told me they weren’t going to voluntarily allow us passage. I wasn’t about to let a few thousand ax-wielding dwarves stop me from getting all the uncut and unedited Seinfeld episodes.

“Now what?” Ben protested. “There’s no way we can get through all of them.”

“My rage knows no bounds right now. My malice overflows,” I seethed.

“I know what we can do,” Jesse claimed.

“What? What can we possibly do to overcome all the ax-wielding dwarves?” I doubted.

“Trust me. I’ll contact Brian at the Naval Academy and he’ll leave a fiery little surprise for these meddling dwarves,” Jesse chuckled. “I’ll call him on my two-band radio and our problems will be smoldering in no time.”

Brian was a United States Naval Aviator who was very handy in an F-18 Hornet aircraft. About thirty-five minutes after Jesse and communicated with Brian, there was a deep rumble like a stampede in the skies. We knew we were in Brian’s presence. His presence commanded authority and we were the first to heed it. The dwarves, of course, were unaware of their fate and paid no attention to the death from above.

“Take cover!” Ben commanded.

The rumble from those wings of death was deafening. The noise was so loud, but the stubborn ax-wielding dwarves would not scatter. They faithfully stood guard around their pyramid. That would prove to be a most devastating mistake.

“Here it comes!” warned Jesse. “Get down.”

A simple push of a button was all it took. It was a ghastly sight. Apparently Brian had unloaded an abundance of napalm on the evil ax-wielding dwarves. Many staggered about hopelessly, completely engulfed in flames. Those fearful whispers transformed into blood-curdling screams. When the massacre had ceased, only black, smoldering heaps of charred flesh remained. The rank stench was overpowering. Though I thought after the battle was over we would be raising our swords in a cry of victory, it was not so. I gazed upon the destruction we had left in our wake and nausea invaded my stomach. Soon I was reminded of our reward, which, in turn, helped me forget the pain. The pyramid was accessible! Every guard had been struck down in Brian’s fury.

The totally uncut and unedited Seinfeld episodes were ours.

“To the pyramid! The process has been difficult, but the end justifies the means!” I cried with a thrill.

Jesse and Ben smiled as we hurried to the entrance of the pyramid. We walked with pride. When inside the structure, we became one with darkness. Nothing was visible.

Suddenly, at the far end of the room, two golden slits for eyes peered at us. I was flooded with the feeling of a sinister presence. I was afraid.

“Who goes there?” Ben asked.

“I’m Dalbey, leader of the ax-wielding dwarves,” replied the creature in a rumble. “Why do you invade us?”

“We wish to keep the Seinfeld dream alive. The essence of Seinfeld must not die. We aim to attain what you protect, every episode of Seinfeld uncut, and unedited,” I challenged.

“You have proven yourselves worthy,” the great creature snorted. “You have endured what most would not—all for a television show, and for this you will be rewarded.”

Suddenly, all the darkness vanished and it was as light as day in that pyramid. I looked around, and to my astonishment, we stood in what looked to be the Jerry Seinfeld’s apartment. A set of videotapes in golden casing lay at my feet. I was breathless. I crouched down, my hands trembling, and caressed the golden casing. The perfect metal was cold, yet pleasant. Beautifully engraved in the gold was “Seinfeld. Uncut and Unedited.” Tears welled up in my eyes, and I wept with joy. The Seinfeld dream would not die! I got down on my knees and embraced the videotapes with utter passion.

Ben and Jesse wept with me. It was the most beautiful moment of my life. For minutes, we sobbed with joy. Finally, I managed to choke out a few words. “Ben, Jesse, I am in debt to you both for the rest of my life,” I whimpered.

“The Seinfeld dream lives, and there is no debt to be paid.” Ben declared.

For some reason, something wasn’t right. We all looked up, past our tears. Where the yellow-eyed beast, Dalbey, once stood, now stood Jerry Seinfeld himself. Jerry spoke. “Ah, my young minions, I am truly honored by the troubles you have gone through in my name. You are allowed to keep the uncut and unedited episodes.”

We sighed in relief.

“But did you not realize the horrific wrongs you have committed, such as slaughtering thousands of ax-wielding dwarves?” Jerry questioned.

We were ashamed.

“As punishment, you will remain here, in my apartment, for the rest of your lives. You are banished from the outside world and you may never leave! Ah ha, ha, ha!” Jerry chuckled. He threw his head back with each sinister laugh. As quickly as Jerry had appeared, he had vanished. He was gone. He left us locked in here for the rest of our lives.

“That was odd,” Jesse stated firmly.

“Well, at least we still hold the uncut and unedited Seinfeld episodes,” Ben pointed out.

“Boy am I glad at least for that,” I told them. “Though most would consider this situation rather bleak and dismal, I see it as a blessing.”

“On what grounds do you say that?” inquired Jesse. “It seems Mr. Seinfeld neglected to take his VCR along with him. Throw in a video Ben!” I proclaimed excitedly. “As long as the VCR is functional, and we can watch these episodes, we’ll be OK.” With that, our quest had concluded. Jesse, Ben, and I lived happily ever after in Jerry Seinfeld’s apartment on the arcane island of Duergar. Gloomy Thursdays are nevermore. May the Seinfeld dream live forever.