Cliff Is Dead -- The Birth of Another Half-Assed Humor Column

And now for something completely stupid …

As a person who has spent nearly his entire post-college career in the public relations field, you would think I could come up with a more grandiose scheme for launching my new column. Well, you could think that, but you would be wrong. I mean, really, what were you expecting? A Super Bowl ad? Hell, I can’t even afford a drum, let alone a drum roll.

No, this is as good as it gets folks. Ring the bell. Blow the whistle. Shred some paper, throw it in the air, spank my ass and call it a party. A star is born. And just like any other star, this one is filled with a lot of hot gas, and don’t be surprised if it burns out just as fast.

In the meantime, let’s get right down to business. Courtney S. of Kearney, Nebraska writes:

“Uncle David, if you get big and famous as a result of this column, could you introduce me to Carson Daly?”

“Actually, Courtney honey, I’m afraid I’m in the middle of the column right now. But now that you mention it, I’d like to think I’m already famous enough to introduce you to Carson Daly. Wouldn’t you rather meet Christina Aguilera or Pink? I know I would … but I digress. Do you have a question about the column?”

“Oh yeah. Ummm, why did you name the column Cliff is Dead? That sounds really dumb.”

Fair question. And I must admit, I can’t walk down the street these days without someone asking the same thing. Without getting too political, the story goes like this:

Once upon a time, there was a man named Cliff Burton. He lived in San Francisco with his good friend Jim Martin. Cliff had long hair and played the bass guitar. And when he played that bass, he would swing his hair around wildly. In short, he rocked.

In 1982, he joined a band called Metallica. They, too, rocked. However, in 1987, the band’s tour bus hit a patch of ice in Sweden. The bus tipped, Cliff flew out of the window and he was smooshed by the bus. Poor Cliff – he was dead.

Soon after, the remaining band members hired Jason Newkid to replace Cliff, and they subsequently change the name of the band to Metallikinda. By this time, the band had grown weary of trivial things like creativity and artistic integrity. So, they decided to kneel at the corporate rock altar and do the things that people do when they kneel at the corporate altar.

As a result, they became big and famous and somehow found their way onto VH1’s popular “Behind the Music” series. Heck, you can’t go anywhere these days without hearing the band’s Danish hobbit drummer bark about this lawsuit and that lawsuit and … back to the story …

Looking down from heaven, Cliff smiled because he was happy that his Metallica friends now had enough money to buy lunch and Christmas gifts for their families. But there was also great sadness in his heart, for he knew he would never have been a part of their success. You see, children, Cliff represented all that was pure and genuine about Metallica. When he died, he took those attributes with him.

Today, the trend is not limited to Metallikinda. No, entertainers and businesses alike seem to brake for no one. The gods of commercialism and corporate sponsorships have taken over our college bowl games. They have invaded our ballparks, pillaged our entertainment venues and renamed our favorite ski runs. Poor Cliff – he is still dead, and he can do nothing to stop the machine.

Alas, I am but a modest lad with humble means. So, partly as a tribute to Cliff and partly as a reminder that our world has lost its sense of integrity, I decided to name the column “Cliff is Dead.”

“So you see, Courtney, the name really does have significant meaning. You understand, don’t you?”

“Sure, but it’s still dumb.”

King for a Day, Slacker for a Lifetime

I am the very model of a modern Major Slacker. After years of fighting the good fight, I’ve come to the conclusion that while my Gen X peers might have done plenty to dispel the slacker myth, I have somehow managed to spend an entire decade doing everything possible to validate it.

Yes, this is the story of my lazy life. Let me “bottom line” it for you:

I sleep, and I wake. I eat and I work. If the mood strikes me, I shower. Actually, I take that back – if my wife strikes me, I shower. I’m not fat yet, but trust me – I’m REALLY trying.

I’ll listen to music if it happens to be playing. If my remote control is in arms’ reach, I might even turn the TV on. I’ll do dishes, but only when they grab me and beat me into submission. Same goes for laundry. I should probably feed my dogs, because the look they’ve been giving me lately isn’t really that “man’s best friend” vibe you’re supposed to get.

In recent years, I’ve watched myself be reduced to two eyes, two ears, a nose, a mouth and something that seems to resemble a brain on life support. You see, the synapses aren’t quite firing on all cylinders these days. And the fact that I have a body below my neck is irrelevant, since it does little more than hold my head up for beer consumption. Actually, come to think of it, that’s a pretty noble job; a body could do worse for itself, ya know.

Now, don’t be fooled. Just because I happened to scrape my ass off of the couch long enough to barf up some random prattle doesn’t mean shiddle-dee-doo. In fact, as far as I can tell, it only means I’ve managed to invent words, like shiddle-dee-doo. That ought to turbo-charge my resume. Can you hear the recruiters now?

“Hello, Mr. Haucke? This is Justin Timberlake from Acme Recruiting. I’m calling because I understand you’ve quite the knack for dreaming up new words. Our marketing clients are dying for talent like that.”

“Justin, babe, no can do. Gates is on the other line crying about some new Mac product that’s eating up his margins. He needs me to invent a new level in Hell for Steve Jobs before Apple becomes strong enough to actually compete again. And if that isn’t enough, I’ve got George W. banging down my door looking for something to top ‘strategery.’ So I’m afraid you’ll have to tell your marketing people to ‘think outside the box’ until my schedule opens up. Oh, and give my love to Brittany.”

And this, my friends, is what I’ve been reduced to – far-fetched fantasies of actually speaking with Justin Timberlake via phone. A boy could only be so lucky.

But lest ye think I’m feeling sorry myself, let me assure you that nothing could be closer to the truth. Yes, the sad reality is I have essentially patented the art of self-pity. In fact, as a result of my efforts, self-pity is slated to become the newest event in the 2002 Winter Olympics – that and ice fishing. I’d be proud of this accomplishment, but I’m too busy moping. Besides, it looks like rain.

So what, then, is the moral of the story? Well, in true slacker fashion, I can tell you quite candidly that I’d rather play 12 hours of Pong while listening to Enya sing Creed covers than wrack my brain for a profound conclusion. After all, humor columns are supposed to be filled with everything BUT morals. Of course, humor columns are also typically filled with humor, yet that hasn’t stopped me.

My advice? In the immortal words of my hero Homer Simpson: “never try” and “sweet liquor – eases the pain.” Those, my friends, are words to slack by.

Dodgeball and the Shelf Life of the Inner Child

Okay, so I must admit that I didn’t come up with the topic for today’s column. You see, I’m not capable of original thought. And if such thinking were a prerequisite for life, I would still be a twinkle in my father’s eye, suffering some horrid, pre-embryonic purgatory.

My friends, today we delve deep into a subject that’s on all of our minds during these strange times of ours – “Dodgeball and the Shelf Life of the Inner Child.” The story goes like this:

An ambitious 30-year-old with considerable experience in the athletics and sporting goods industries begins longing for days gone by, when the only things that mattered were the contents of his lunch box and the duration of recess (which was never long enough, of course). He had been through the rigmarole of intramural soccer and softball leagues, but they failed to fulfill his masochistic urge to recapture the blacktop battles of yore.

So what does an enterprising lad such as this do to cure his itch? Well, if he were in his forties, he would have bought a convertible Corvette, shaved the comb-over and found a trophy 22-year-old blond. But he’s only 30, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

No, our friend instead decided to start Red Rover Sports – yes, Red Rover, as in the arm-breaking game that’s only acceptable because of its cute callout, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Jimmy right over.” To this day, I’m convinced that WWF-style wrestling would be another playground favorite, if only its inventors would have come up with a singsong catchphrase, like “Manimal, oh Manimal, run to me so I can break your bones, gouge out your eyes and snack on your nose.” Okay, so it doesn’t rhyme, but it’s cute don’t you think?

As the name suggests, Red Rover Sports was created to provide others with an outlet for reliving the glory days of recess recreation. And it’s first offering, you ask? Dodgeball – a sport responsible for creating more childhood nightmares than the Boogie Man himself.

Comparatively speaking, if Red Rover is the cause of early arthritis and joint disorders, then Dodgeball is the reason that half of America is stupid. Played with the same red rubber ball used in other classic childhood games like Foursquare and Kickball, Dodgeball was likely the only reason that most schools could afford to keep a nurse on staff.

As you might recall, the rules were quite simple and the objective even easier to grasp. Line two teams opposite of each other, and take turns hurling the coarse rubber ball at your opponents’ heads. If your enemy failed to catch your throw or was hit, that person was out and done for that round.

Now, keep in mind, those were the basic rules. As any self-respecting Dodgeball devotee will tell you, the real objective was to create the most horrific and violent hits possible. It wasn’t enough to graze your opponent’s foot or hip. In fact, in those cases you’d tell your enemies to get back in their line and take a hit like a man. No, you were never satisfied unless your opponents’ heads snapped back, or their legs were taken out from under them, or their bodies were sent flying through the air.

The risks of the game, then, were quite clear. And if you were lucky enough to avoid your opponent’s missile shots, you had to worry about ramming heads with your teammates during the scramble to clear a path. And nothing was worse than getting someone else’s blood on your clothes; it simple ruined your ensemble for the rest of the day (and freaked your mom out at home).

So why even bring such a game back? Because it was fun as hell, of course. Unfortunately, “was” is the operative word here. Our Red Rover Sports friend found out the hard way that the shelf life of the inner child is short – in fact, it dies when the body checks out at the age of 25.

Interestingly, the 27 people who gathered to relive the past didn’t quit because they couldn’t take the hits. After week one, most of the players showed up at work with one arm hanging about two feet lower than the other. Chants of “Hey Igor!” got old quick. You see, it was the throwing motion that “threw” their bodies out of whack. I guess you could say it was bitter irony – now that everyone was old enough to take a hit like a man, they could no longer throw like one.

So, save for a few brave souls who came back for weeks two and three of Dodgeball, the flame had died and most folks went back to enjoying the finer things in life, such as TV and the family room couch. But lest our Red Rover friend be completely disillusioned, he at least can look forward to having a Corvette, bald head and supermodel girlfriend in 10 years.