From the College Heights Herald, Jan. 18, 2001
I think my roommate is trying to kill me.
I thought nothing of it last week when I tasted arsenic on my ice cream, and I ignored it the night I woke up and saw him standing by my bed holding a pillow over my face.
I paid no mind when I saw him reading the instructional book “How to Kill Your Roommate and Get Away With It.” But the other day he said, “Jacob, I think I’m going to kill you.”
I put two and two together.
It’s nothing personal, he told me. You see, he hasn’t been doing all that great in school recently. And he’s heard the urban legend that if your roommate commits suicide during the school year, you get straight A’s for the semester.
So he came up with a plan: Since he’s on academic probation, he signed up for a bunch of classes. Now he wants to kill me and make it look like a suicide, and his semester GPA will be 4.0.
He even has a fake note planned out:
“Dear World, I’m tired of living. It’s been real. Hoo-ha-ho!”
Pretty authentic.
He’s a smart guy, but he’s what the French call “les lazy.” He only took one class last semester.
He failed it.
So that loophole is the answer to his prayers.
“I can sit around for the rest of the semester – and actually get credit this time,” he said.
Naturally, my feelings are kinda hurt by my roommate’s desire to snuff out my life.
We’ve been tight since we were growing up in Brandenburg. Man, we were close.
We were like Siamese twins, except not from Siam.
Even worse, I don’t think I’ve been that bad of a roommate. I don’t stay up real late, I lend him quarters for his laundry, and I don’t entertain girls in the room, since they hate me.
Not only are my feelings hurt now that I know my roommate wants to kill me, I’m also terrified. To ease my worried mind I called President Gary Ransdell to find out if Western has an official policy on roommate deaths.
Ransdell’s secretary told me that the president was “too busy” to talk to me because he was “going out of town,” but she said he’d never heard of the policy and then she laughed at me.
I told my roommate this, and it only strengthened his resolve.
“Do you really think they’d tell you if that was their official policy?” he asked. “Of course not. Then everybody’d kill their roommates. Now here, drink some of this antifreeze – I mean, green Kool-Aid.”
Gulp.
Here comes columnist Jacob Bennett, he comes groovin’ up slowly, he got joo joo eyeballs, he one holy roller. He got hair down to his knees, got to be a joker he just do what he please. Come together, right now, over him at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com
Thursday, April 06, 2006
P.S., Time and Temperature Lady, I love you
From the Meade County Messenger, Nov. 10, 1999
I was only looking for the time and temperature, but I think I found love.
With the wacky climate that can be found only in Kentucky, I couldn’t tell from looking out my window the other day what clothes I should wear. Yesterday I wore a fleece shirt with insulated long johns, but the day before I wore a tank top and some hot pants, so I couldn’t decide. And since it was too much effort to crack the window to feel for myself, I called the only person the Lazy-Guy-Who-Can’t-Decide-How-to –Dress-in–the-Morning can trust – the Time and Temperature Lady.
As the words “Eastern Time: 7:38; Temperature: 52 degrees” rolled off her tongue, I couldn’t help but notice how hot she sounded. I wanted to meet her. I wanted to have coffee with her, or take her to see The Story of Us, starring Bruce Willis, a man to whom we all owe a huge gratitude because he saved the planet from that asteroid last year.
I might not have even minded paying for her ticket.
It was then that I realized I don’t know anything about her. Who is she? Where is she from?
She sounds friendly enough, wishing me a good morning or afternoon, depending on whether I call her before or after noon. I don’t know what she would wish if I called at exactly noon. I wonder how old she is? I can’t really tell, but she sounds like she’s just the right age (no, Uncle Bert, I don’t mean 18, ya big perv).
I’ll bet she’s smart, but not in a 4.0, I’ll-bet-you-know-how-to-spell-“aerodynamics” kind of way. I can tell she has plenty of common sense. Whenever I talk to her on the phone, she’s always offering me practical, real-world advice like, “Never miss an important call with call waiting from the Brandenburg Telephone Company” or, “Take all the hassle out of borrowing money with First State Bank.”
I’m amazed that she has time to find such useful service, between helping citizens choose the right outfits. I wondered if she can play the guitar, or likes men who play the guitar. I doubt it – I bet she realizes playing the guitar is just a cheap way to get chicks (sorry, I’m just jealous ‘cause it works).
I wonder what she likes to do for fun, and what kind of movies she likes. Does she think "Happy Gilmore" is as touching as I do? I’ll bet she likes flowers, especially chrysanthemums. In fact, I’ll be she loves to frolic in a chrysanthemum meadow in ankle length dresses, singing Bon Jovi’s “Bed of Roses” because there aren't any good songs about chrysanthemums.
Does she want to cry as much as I do when she listens to “Last Kiss”? Does she worry about the rain forest? Who does she call when she’s trying to decide what to wear in the morning?
I would love to get to know her better. I started to ask her this stuff myself, but she had already hung up. I wanted to call her back, but I know she had other people to help
I was only looking for the time and temperature, but I think I found love.
With the wacky climate that can be found only in Kentucky, I couldn’t tell from looking out my window the other day what clothes I should wear. Yesterday I wore a fleece shirt with insulated long johns, but the day before I wore a tank top and some hot pants, so I couldn’t decide. And since it was too much effort to crack the window to feel for myself, I called the only person the Lazy-Guy-Who-Can’t-Decide-How-to –Dress-in–the-Morning can trust – the Time and Temperature Lady.
As the words “Eastern Time: 7:38; Temperature: 52 degrees” rolled off her tongue, I couldn’t help but notice how hot she sounded. I wanted to meet her. I wanted to have coffee with her, or take her to see The Story of Us, starring Bruce Willis, a man to whom we all owe a huge gratitude because he saved the planet from that asteroid last year.
I might not have even minded paying for her ticket.
It was then that I realized I don’t know anything about her. Who is she? Where is she from?
She sounds friendly enough, wishing me a good morning or afternoon, depending on whether I call her before or after noon. I don’t know what she would wish if I called at exactly noon. I wonder how old she is? I can’t really tell, but she sounds like she’s just the right age (no, Uncle Bert, I don’t mean 18, ya big perv).
I’ll bet she’s smart, but not in a 4.0, I’ll-bet-you-know-how-to-spell-“aerodynamics” kind of way. I can tell she has plenty of common sense. Whenever I talk to her on the phone, she’s always offering me practical, real-world advice like, “Never miss an important call with call waiting from the Brandenburg Telephone Company” or, “Take all the hassle out of borrowing money with First State Bank.”
I’m amazed that she has time to find such useful service, between helping citizens choose the right outfits. I wondered if she can play the guitar, or likes men who play the guitar. I doubt it – I bet she realizes playing the guitar is just a cheap way to get chicks (sorry, I’m just jealous ‘cause it works).
I wonder what she likes to do for fun, and what kind of movies she likes. Does she think "Happy Gilmore" is as touching as I do? I’ll bet she likes flowers, especially chrysanthemums. In fact, I’ll be she loves to frolic in a chrysanthemum meadow in ankle length dresses, singing Bon Jovi’s “Bed of Roses” because there aren't any good songs about chrysanthemums.
Does she want to cry as much as I do when she listens to “Last Kiss”? Does she worry about the rain forest? Who does she call when she’s trying to decide what to wear in the morning?
I would love to get to know her better. I started to ask her this stuff myself, but she had already hung up. I wanted to call her back, but I know she had other people to help
Canned heat downriver
--From the Evansville Courier & Press and the Meade County Messenger
So I headed over to Target to watch an old college buddy shop for underwear that comes in three-packs. Man panties, he called 'em.
"I can't believe you dropped everything to shop with us," my friend's wife said. "Well, I wouldn't say I dropped everything," I replied. "I put down some Girl Scout cookies."
Sure, it wasn't as exciting as the time I accidentally set myself on fire in his dorm room, but it was fun. I'm glad I'm living in Kentuckiana again, a couple of hours downriver from Brandenburg, where my cousin used to relieve himself in the Ohio.
It's fun having someone to quote "Napoleon Dynamite" dialogue with. "Too bad, she said she doesn't want you here when she gets back because you've been ruining everybody's lives and eating all our steak." "Hey, don't be jealous that I've been chatting online with babes all day."
If I was still living in Mississippi, as I did for most of last year, I couldn't have put on some pants and headed over to Target to hang out with my old college buddy, who lives in Huntingburg, Ind. And I couldn't have watched the Super Bowl in Irvington, Ky., about 10 minutes from my folks. All of my high school friends were there -- both of them -- except for Unreliable Levi, who once again didn't show.
I guess we call him Unreliable Levi for a reason.
(In fairness, he was working that day. I reckon one man's Unreliable is another's Dedicated Employee.)
I saw my parents twice over the holidays, which equalled the number of times I saw them last year -- when I was moving to Mississippi, and when I was moving back. Now I see my old friends all the time.
I guess I should make new friends here, but that's a lot of trouble. Plus, I'm in the Witness Protection Program, and my agents want me to keep a low profile.
Somehow on our shopping trip, my buddy mentioned that he usually walks around the house in just his boxers. Fair enough. It's his house. But then he told me that wearing only boxers "can be painful when I'm frying bacon."
I had to take a "Crying Game" shower.
Now that I'm living close by, the only problem is I don't have time to visit everyone. This weekend I might visit my Uncle Rico. Peace out.
Nothing left for columnist Jacob Bennett to do but dance off these bad times he's going through just dance! Hey, got canned heat in his heals tonight, baby, you know know know he's gonna dance, yeah, off all the nasty things that people e-mail at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com.Dance, come on got canned heat in his heals tonight, canned heat in his heals tonight.
So I headed over to Target to watch an old college buddy shop for underwear that comes in three-packs. Man panties, he called 'em.
"I can't believe you dropped everything to shop with us," my friend's wife said. "Well, I wouldn't say I dropped everything," I replied. "I put down some Girl Scout cookies."
Sure, it wasn't as exciting as the time I accidentally set myself on fire in his dorm room, but it was fun. I'm glad I'm living in Kentuckiana again, a couple of hours downriver from Brandenburg, where my cousin used to relieve himself in the Ohio.
It's fun having someone to quote "Napoleon Dynamite" dialogue with. "Too bad, she said she doesn't want you here when she gets back because you've been ruining everybody's lives and eating all our steak." "Hey, don't be jealous that I've been chatting online with babes all day."
If I was still living in Mississippi, as I did for most of last year, I couldn't have put on some pants and headed over to Target to hang out with my old college buddy, who lives in Huntingburg, Ind. And I couldn't have watched the Super Bowl in Irvington, Ky., about 10 minutes from my folks. All of my high school friends were there -- both of them -- except for Unreliable Levi, who once again didn't show.
I guess we call him Unreliable Levi for a reason.
(In fairness, he was working that day. I reckon one man's Unreliable is another's Dedicated Employee.)
I saw my parents twice over the holidays, which equalled the number of times I saw them last year -- when I was moving to Mississippi, and when I was moving back. Now I see my old friends all the time.
I guess I should make new friends here, but that's a lot of trouble. Plus, I'm in the Witness Protection Program, and my agents want me to keep a low profile.
Somehow on our shopping trip, my buddy mentioned that he usually walks around the house in just his boxers. Fair enough. It's his house. But then he told me that wearing only boxers "can be painful when I'm frying bacon."
I had to take a "Crying Game" shower.
Now that I'm living close by, the only problem is I don't have time to visit everyone. This weekend I might visit my Uncle Rico. Peace out.
Nothing left for columnist Jacob Bennett to do but dance off these bad times he's going through just dance! Hey, got canned heat in his heals tonight, baby, you know know know he's gonna dance, yeah, off all the nasty things that people e-mail at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com.Dance, come on got canned heat in his heals tonight, canned heat in his heals tonight.
'A' for effort, 'X' for brief nudity and dead priest jokes
From the Evansville Courier & Press and The Meade County Messenger
English teachers rejoice: the oldest known copy of “The Scarlet Letter” was auctioned last month for $545,100, a record for an American book that old.
The story is classic, one of these works that broadens your horizons, touches your soul and gives you that climb-the-rope-in-gym-class feeling, much like the Cronin classic “Click Clack Moo: Cows That Type.”
But like the book’s main character, the “Scarlet Letter” has a dirty little secret: It’s boring as an Amish city council meeting.
I know what you’re thinking: “Who does this guy think he is? I haven’t seen you write an American classic, Big Shot.”
Fair enough. But hear me out: The storyline rocks, according to a note from my friend Cliff. It’s about a 1666 Massachusetts woman, Demi Moore, who gets knocked up by a minister after her husband is lost at sea. It gets harder and harder to hide the affair when her weight balloons, especially since everyone in the village knows single women try to stay at their dating weights.
To punish her for her adultery, they make her wear a scarlet A, like Alvin from the Chipmunks, who was also a notorious freak. The minister kicks over. Sex, British accents, dead cheating clergymen?
Sounds scintillating, right?
Yeah, if Nathaniel Hawthorne could write his way out of a wet paper bag (unlike me, who only used the “wet paper bag” cliché to demonstrate bad writing). Check out this page-turning opening: “It is a little remarkable, that though disinclined to talk overmuch of myself and my affairs at the fireside, and to my personal friends—an autobiographical impulse should twice in my life have taken possession of me, in addressing the public.”
Or this ending, when the adulteress reflects on her misdeeds: “Dear Penthouse, I met this guy who’s tall, handsome and holy, at least before he feared being busted and his face grew busted.”
But as bad as that writing is, it sure can’t compare to good ol’ English lit. In college I read the first 50 pages of “Beowulf,” still didn’t know what the heck was going on, put the book down and dropped the class.
But an American book dealer paid more than half a million for a proof copy of the book, which on its pages had more than 700 notes and corrections, some by Nasty Nate himself (“Use the phrase ‘that though disinclined’” and “This sentence needs to be longer”).
The copy was so sought after that it sat in a drawer for 118 years, much like the copy I bought for my English class.
And for all that hard work, it’s only fitting my literature teacher gave me my own Scarlet Letter: F.
Columnist Jacob Bennett is a no-good, heartbreaker, a liar and a cheat. You don't know why you let him do those things to you. Your friends keep emailing him at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com to say he ain't no good, whoa-oh-oh, you'd leave him if you could. But you're on tight, stuck like glue. You ain't never, you ain't never, you ain't never no no, loved a man the way you love him.
English teachers rejoice: the oldest known copy of “The Scarlet Letter” was auctioned last month for $545,100, a record for an American book that old.
The story is classic, one of these works that broadens your horizons, touches your soul and gives you that climb-the-rope-in-gym-class feeling, much like the Cronin classic “Click Clack Moo: Cows That Type.”
But like the book’s main character, the “Scarlet Letter” has a dirty little secret: It’s boring as an Amish city council meeting.
I know what you’re thinking: “Who does this guy think he is? I haven’t seen you write an American classic, Big Shot.”
Fair enough. But hear me out: The storyline rocks, according to a note from my friend Cliff. It’s about a 1666 Massachusetts woman, Demi Moore, who gets knocked up by a minister after her husband is lost at sea. It gets harder and harder to hide the affair when her weight balloons, especially since everyone in the village knows single women try to stay at their dating weights.
To punish her for her adultery, they make her wear a scarlet A, like Alvin from the Chipmunks, who was also a notorious freak. The minister kicks over. Sex, British accents, dead cheating clergymen?
Sounds scintillating, right?
Yeah, if Nathaniel Hawthorne could write his way out of a wet paper bag (unlike me, who only used the “wet paper bag” cliché to demonstrate bad writing). Check out this page-turning opening: “It is a little remarkable, that though disinclined to talk overmuch of myself and my affairs at the fireside, and to my personal friends—an autobiographical impulse should twice in my life have taken possession of me, in addressing the public.”
Or this ending, when the adulteress reflects on her misdeeds: “Dear Penthouse, I met this guy who’s tall, handsome and holy, at least before he feared being busted and his face grew busted.”
But as bad as that writing is, it sure can’t compare to good ol’ English lit. In college I read the first 50 pages of “Beowulf,” still didn’t know what the heck was going on, put the book down and dropped the class.
But an American book dealer paid more than half a million for a proof copy of the book, which on its pages had more than 700 notes and corrections, some by Nasty Nate himself (“Use the phrase ‘that though disinclined’” and “This sentence needs to be longer”).
The copy was so sought after that it sat in a drawer for 118 years, much like the copy I bought for my English class.
And for all that hard work, it’s only fitting my literature teacher gave me my own Scarlet Letter: F.
Columnist Jacob Bennett is a no-good, heartbreaker, a liar and a cheat. You don't know why you let him do those things to you. Your friends keep emailing him at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com to say he ain't no good, whoa-oh-oh, you'd leave him if you could. But you're on tight, stuck like glue. You ain't never, you ain't never, you ain't never no no, loved a man the way you love him.
Pinchable Guys Work Off Nachos in the Morning
From the College Heights Herald, Feb. 8, 2001
I’d never seen so many naked guys that early in the morning.
I’m talking, of course, about the Preston Center locker room. My friend Mike and I had just finished a 6 a.m. workout in an effort not to be fat.
Other guys were also finishing their workouts, and they were in various stages of undress.
Mantastic.
Mike and I became workout partners a few weeks ago, when we both decided we weren’t in peak physical condition.
Chalk it up to whatever you want: bad genetics, big bones or the fact that I just sat around all summer eating nachos and drinking beer. The fact is, I was a little bit more pinchable than I wanted to be.
Experts say if you work out early in the morning, you burn fat for the rest of the day. I wanted to try it, and I knew I was more likely to stick with it if I had a barbell buddy.
Mike’s also storing a few more calories than he would like, so he agreed.
The gym is a two-minute power walk from my dorm, so naturally Mike picked me up and we drove there in his faded Ford Tempo.
And he parked in the “Employees Only” spot right outside the door. “It’s 6 in the morning,” he said. “Who’s gonna park here?”
Us.
Exercising was hard at first, since we were as out of shape as delicious melted ice cream cones. But, as coaches like to say to motivate out-of-shape players, we gave 110 percent.
That first day we jogged until we collapsed (three laps), we played a strenuous full-court 1-on-1 basketball game (OK, it was H-O-R-S-E; fine, P-I-G), and we even did a couple minutes on the exercise bikes.
In a blatant act of heterosexuality, Mike suggested we ride the bikes upstairs so we could watch girls walk in.
Note to Mike’s fiancée, Cami: Just kidding.
Not to everyone else: We rode the bikes upstairs.
We’re still going a couple of times a week. We vary the routine to sculpt every inch of our now svelte bodies. This morning we did some bench presses to work our pectoral muscles. When we started, our chests looked a lot like Meat Loaf’s in “Fight Club,” if you know what I’m saying.
But no more.
I’ve lost like eight pounds since Christmas. And I wasn’t really even trying to lose weight, I just wanted to be not as floppy.
To test our new selves, this morning Mike and I ran up every single step in Smith Stadium. It’s a killer. I think I got more out of that workout than anything else I’ve ever done. No wonder Rocky beat Drago in part IV.
Then Mike and I changed our clothes in the locker room. Never before have so many guys seen me naked that early in the morning.
Columnist Jacob Bennett wants to get physical, physical. Let him hear your body talk, your body talk at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com.
I’d never seen so many naked guys that early in the morning.
I’m talking, of course, about the Preston Center locker room. My friend Mike and I had just finished a 6 a.m. workout in an effort not to be fat.
Other guys were also finishing their workouts, and they were in various stages of undress.
Mantastic.
Mike and I became workout partners a few weeks ago, when we both decided we weren’t in peak physical condition.
Chalk it up to whatever you want: bad genetics, big bones or the fact that I just sat around all summer eating nachos and drinking beer. The fact is, I was a little bit more pinchable than I wanted to be.
Experts say if you work out early in the morning, you burn fat for the rest of the day. I wanted to try it, and I knew I was more likely to stick with it if I had a barbell buddy.
Mike’s also storing a few more calories than he would like, so he agreed.
The gym is a two-minute power walk from my dorm, so naturally Mike picked me up and we drove there in his faded Ford Tempo.
And he parked in the “Employees Only” spot right outside the door. “It’s 6 in the morning,” he said. “Who’s gonna park here?”
Us.
Exercising was hard at first, since we were as out of shape as delicious melted ice cream cones. But, as coaches like to say to motivate out-of-shape players, we gave 110 percent.
That first day we jogged until we collapsed (three laps), we played a strenuous full-court 1-on-1 basketball game (OK, it was H-O-R-S-E; fine, P-I-G), and we even did a couple minutes on the exercise bikes.
In a blatant act of heterosexuality, Mike suggested we ride the bikes upstairs so we could watch girls walk in.
Note to Mike’s fiancée, Cami: Just kidding.
Not to everyone else: We rode the bikes upstairs.
We’re still going a couple of times a week. We vary the routine to sculpt every inch of our now svelte bodies. This morning we did some bench presses to work our pectoral muscles. When we started, our chests looked a lot like Meat Loaf’s in “Fight Club,” if you know what I’m saying.
But no more.
I’ve lost like eight pounds since Christmas. And I wasn’t really even trying to lose weight, I just wanted to be not as floppy.
To test our new selves, this morning Mike and I ran up every single step in Smith Stadium. It’s a killer. I think I got more out of that workout than anything else I’ve ever done. No wonder Rocky beat Drago in part IV.
Then Mike and I changed our clothes in the locker room. Never before have so many guys seen me naked that early in the morning.
Columnist Jacob Bennett wants to get physical, physical. Let him hear your body talk, your body talk at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com.
Telltale Jesus Eyes Won't Let You Hide
I’m in trouble, and at stake is nothing less than my soul.
I have a picture of Jesus in my bedroom that creeps people out. His stare follows you around the room. He sees you when you’re sleeping and he knows when you’re awake watching Thighmaster commercials a little too closely. In a certain light, eyes I once thought were loving now look like they’ve seen me gambling in the temple.
Left hand on the Bible: My dog looks in the picture’s direction and growls.
But what am I supposed to do? Isn’t it automatic Hell points if you throw away a Jesus picture? Muslims won’t throw away anything with God’s name on it and Americans respectfully burn their flags, but could I really set Jesus on fire? And even if I buy a kinder-looking Jesus picture to replace it, wouldn’t it be wrong to stuff the old one in a closet, where those eyes can vex us no more?
So I put it to you: WWYDWJ?
What Would You Do With Jesus?
Maybe I shouldn’t worry. It’s only a picture. Sure it’s a picture of Jesus, but it’s just an artist’s interpretation of the Big Guy. He’s white and blue-eyed and well-groomed, and none of those things were common in Nazareth circa 1 A.D.
Jesus looks friendlier in other pictures. Maybe not as jolly as Buddha, but I’ve seen him with a smile as wide as two outstretched arms. I’ve seen him hugging babies and petting sheep. I’ve seen him flexing his biceps to show off a new tatt.
In my pic his hair is long and flowing, freshly dipped in the Euphrates River and obviously conditioned. His mouth is tight, neither smiling nor frowning. He’s got a flaming heart, but not in a Robert Plant way.
But there’s something about those eyes and that “He did what for 30 pieces of silver?” expression that bug some of my friends, my fiancée and apparently my dog, who stares back and growls as if she weren’t 14 pounds and named Sophie.
Sure, there have been times I needed to hide from those unblinking eyes, like the time I ate a Meatlover’s pizza on Good Friday, but it never occurred to me they might be spooky until I started letting Philistines hang out at my place.
This picture has followed me from Midway to Bowling Green to Hopkinsville to Omaha to E’town to Mississippi to Indiana. It’s been like Linus’ blanket when I’m sleeping on top of another doghouse in another unfamiliar state. Those unflinching eyes were a reminder that the real Jesus can see me wherever I am, too.
But it’s getting hard to sleep, what with all the barking and the crushing guilt.
Maybe I could buy a new picture and use this one as a bookmark for my Bible, if I can remember where I put it.
I’m gonna need some penance.
Columnist Jacob Bennett pulled into Nazareth, he was feeling about half past dead. He just needed someplace, where he can lay his head. “Hey, Mister, can ya tell me, where a man might find a bed?” He just grinned & shook Jake’s hand, and “no" was all he said at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com.
I have a picture of Jesus in my bedroom that creeps people out. His stare follows you around the room. He sees you when you’re sleeping and he knows when you’re awake watching Thighmaster commercials a little too closely. In a certain light, eyes I once thought were loving now look like they’ve seen me gambling in the temple.
Left hand on the Bible: My dog looks in the picture’s direction and growls.
But what am I supposed to do? Isn’t it automatic Hell points if you throw away a Jesus picture? Muslims won’t throw away anything with God’s name on it and Americans respectfully burn their flags, but could I really set Jesus on fire? And even if I buy a kinder-looking Jesus picture to replace it, wouldn’t it be wrong to stuff the old one in a closet, where those eyes can vex us no more?
So I put it to you: WWYDWJ?
What Would You Do With Jesus?
Maybe I shouldn’t worry. It’s only a picture. Sure it’s a picture of Jesus, but it’s just an artist’s interpretation of the Big Guy. He’s white and blue-eyed and well-groomed, and none of those things were common in Nazareth circa 1 A.D.
Jesus looks friendlier in other pictures. Maybe not as jolly as Buddha, but I’ve seen him with a smile as wide as two outstretched arms. I’ve seen him hugging babies and petting sheep. I’ve seen him flexing his biceps to show off a new tatt.
In my pic his hair is long and flowing, freshly dipped in the Euphrates River and obviously conditioned. His mouth is tight, neither smiling nor frowning. He’s got a flaming heart, but not in a Robert Plant way.
But there’s something about those eyes and that “He did what for 30 pieces of silver?” expression that bug some of my friends, my fiancée and apparently my dog, who stares back and growls as if she weren’t 14 pounds and named Sophie.
Sure, there have been times I needed to hide from those unblinking eyes, like the time I ate a Meatlover’s pizza on Good Friday, but it never occurred to me they might be spooky until I started letting Philistines hang out at my place.
This picture has followed me from Midway to Bowling Green to Hopkinsville to Omaha to E’town to Mississippi to Indiana. It’s been like Linus’ blanket when I’m sleeping on top of another doghouse in another unfamiliar state. Those unflinching eyes were a reminder that the real Jesus can see me wherever I am, too.
But it’s getting hard to sleep, what with all the barking and the crushing guilt.
Maybe I could buy a new picture and use this one as a bookmark for my Bible, if I can remember where I put it.
I’m gonna need some penance.
Columnist Jacob Bennett pulled into Nazareth, he was feeling about half past dead. He just needed someplace, where he can lay his head. “Hey, Mister, can ya tell me, where a man might find a bed?” He just grinned & shook Jake’s hand, and “no" was all he said at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com.
Yukon Cornelius Won't Find Silver and Gold Here
Like the year I accidentally left reindeer poison on my roof, I ruined Christmas again this year.
There went my life savings, whisked away in a preseason wager that the Browns would win four games. Plus I used up all my money moving back to the area.
Now we can't buy wedding rings as Christmas presents.
I said, But isnt better that we can live closer to our families, and we're only a couple of hours apart while you finish school, and I'm not stuck in a job doing stuff I don't like? Wouldn't you rather have that than a couple of big diamond rings?
Turns out Gollum would rather have her Precious.
She also wouldnt mind some food, but theres not much of that to go around either.
Who ever heard of a skinny Santa?
Fortunately my parents come from Catholic families, so there was procreatin aplenty back in the day, which means therell be plenty of people to whip up some grub on Christmas morn.
I plan on feasting like a dingo in a maternity ward.
These days I cant even afford to write my own jokes.
I'm not that upset about not being able to get my wedding ring just yetits not like I've once, ever, complimented one of my poor-slob married friends on their matrimonial finger adornments. Much less asked them to try it on. Or cried silently in my room, jealous tears streaming down my face.
But I think I know how my old lady feels. My parents recently bought a big-screen TV, or stole a screen from the Movie Palace. Now when I go home to my tube, its like watching an Etch-a-Sketch.
I don't even know why my parents have that TV. There's no cable at Bennett Ranch, and the three networks are fuzzy because Dad manipulated the antenna to get diamond quality reception for KET.
Well, your little brother really liked the TV, and you know how I am when you kids want something, Mom explained.
Do I? I used to watch a 15-inch TV with foil-covered rabbit ears. When I wanted to change the channel, I had to get up and twist the knob.
Then I had to leave the room, because Critters was just too scary for a high school kid.
Who knows what my folks would have thought about the scary creatures in the Lord of the Rings movies, or how they would have suggested I save money for wedding presents this Christmas (that might be the best segue in history).
Looks like I'm gonna be searching for a bargain from here to Mordor.
The issue here is not whether columnist Jacob Bennett broke a few rules or took a few liberties with his female party guests -- he did. But you can't hold a whole fraternity responsible for the actions of a few sick individuals. For if you do, then shouldn't we blame the whole fraternity system? And if the whole fraternity system is guilty, then isn't this an indictment of our educational institutions in general? He puts it to you, Greg ... isn't this an indictment of our entire American society? Well, you can do what you want to him, but hes not going to sit here at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com and listen to you badmouth the United States of America!
There went my life savings, whisked away in a preseason wager that the Browns would win four games. Plus I used up all my money moving back to the area.
Now we can't buy wedding rings as Christmas presents.
I said, But isnt better that we can live closer to our families, and we're only a couple of hours apart while you finish school, and I'm not stuck in a job doing stuff I don't like? Wouldn't you rather have that than a couple of big diamond rings?
Turns out Gollum would rather have her Precious.
She also wouldnt mind some food, but theres not much of that to go around either.
Who ever heard of a skinny Santa?
Fortunately my parents come from Catholic families, so there was procreatin aplenty back in the day, which means therell be plenty of people to whip up some grub on Christmas morn.
I plan on feasting like a dingo in a maternity ward.
These days I cant even afford to write my own jokes.
I'm not that upset about not being able to get my wedding ring just yetits not like I've once, ever, complimented one of my poor-slob married friends on their matrimonial finger adornments. Much less asked them to try it on. Or cried silently in my room, jealous tears streaming down my face.
But I think I know how my old lady feels. My parents recently bought a big-screen TV, or stole a screen from the Movie Palace. Now when I go home to my tube, its like watching an Etch-a-Sketch.
I don't even know why my parents have that TV. There's no cable at Bennett Ranch, and the three networks are fuzzy because Dad manipulated the antenna to get diamond quality reception for KET.
Well, your little brother really liked the TV, and you know how I am when you kids want something, Mom explained.
Do I? I used to watch a 15-inch TV with foil-covered rabbit ears. When I wanted to change the channel, I had to get up and twist the knob.
Then I had to leave the room, because Critters was just too scary for a high school kid.
Who knows what my folks would have thought about the scary creatures in the Lord of the Rings movies, or how they would have suggested I save money for wedding presents this Christmas (that might be the best segue in history).
Looks like I'm gonna be searching for a bargain from here to Mordor.
The issue here is not whether columnist Jacob Bennett broke a few rules or took a few liberties with his female party guests -- he did. But you can't hold a whole fraternity responsible for the actions of a few sick individuals. For if you do, then shouldn't we blame the whole fraternity system? And if the whole fraternity system is guilty, then isn't this an indictment of our educational institutions in general? He puts it to you, Greg ... isn't this an indictment of our entire American society? Well, you can do what you want to him, but hes not going to sit here at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com and listen to you badmouth the United States of America!
Fuzzy little balls of rage
--From the Hardin County News-Enterprise, March 4, 2004
I knew I'd ruined Valentine's Day when I accidentally threw my fiancee's hamster across the room. It started well enough. My young fiancée had bought a pet hamster a couple of days before, and the little guy was eating seeds and corn kernels from the palms of our hands. Then we let him -- or, heck, her; who can really tell? -- run around on the couch, scurrying on the armrests and burrowing between the cushions. It was positively precious. My fiancee -- we'll call her "Nina" because her parents do -- read online from the learned biologists at hamsterama.com that hamsters love being kept in cages with others just like them, so they can rub their adorable little noses together and curl into little fuzzy balls next to each other at night. All this cuteness got Nina feeling blue about how she'd so thoughtlessly ripped little Kirby the hamster away from all his little furry friends. There he was, asleep one afternoon next to all the other little hamlets, when that mean ol' pet store clerk scooped him up and stuffed him in a box that may or may not have once held Chinese takeout. How awful, my beloved decided. Never mind the Valentine's dinner reservations I'd made six months ago (or, McDonalds), we had to buy Kirby a friend before he kicked over from loneliness, a full six months before he would have died from old age anyway. Soon I was driving our new happy family home, and my sweet baboo was holding a carrier with Kirby and another takeout box with our nameless young friend. Nina decided to drop the newcomer into Kirby's cage so they could start gossiping and braiding each other's hair. Those adorable little creatures latched onto each other like Ken Shamrock and Royce Gracie in Ultimate Fighting Championship Part 5, except biting and eye gouging were encouraged. My fiancée reached in and broke them up, and Kirby chomped her finger like the tip of a cigar. Nina was silent the rest of the way, a single tear trickling from her eye like those commercials with the litter-hating Indian. The image of her adorable little companions -- not to mention the flesh on her index finger -- had been ripped to a pulp. After assessing the situation at home, we decided there was no way the hamsterama.com guys could have failed us. We tried once again to initiate a lifelong friendship. Kirby and his new friend circled each other slowly, swallowing each other with their eyes and growing accustomed to one another's scent. The new hamster turned her back to stake out a new corner. Of course that's when Kirby struck again, attacking her like my editor assaults a buffet. Like a hero, I reached in. Kirby had bitten me before, but not like this. His teeth sunk into my skin like the Titanic in the north Atlantic. I jerked my hand back, fully expecting to be down a digit. Kirby just didn't want to let go, but he couldn't hold on. To Nina's horror, he sailed across the room, clanging against a garbage can in the corner. "Oh, my gosh!" she yelled. "Don't throw him! You've got to be gentle!" Nevermind that I had rabies. We took the new hamster back to the pet store five minutes after we bought her, dooming Kirby to a life of misunderstanding and loneliness, like the Incredible Hulk. Or so I thought. On the advice of zoologists at a better Web site, heavenlyhamster.com, Nina bought a new hamster while staying in Bowling Green. The heavenlyhamster.com guy said Kirby should get along fine with this one, so long as one of them is a female. Nina called and asked me to check Kirby and verify his sex; she had a hunch that dude might be a lady. All I'd have to do is turn him over and compare what I see to a grainy Internet photo she sent me. I looked over at Kirby, who was eyeing me suspiciously with his giant red peepers. It was a delicate job. I'll do it after my stitches are out.
6:24 PM - 3 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Movin' Out
It should have been the perfect week, the kind where in a movie Julie Andrews would run through living hills and sing “The Sound of Music.”
Instead, my last week in Mississippi before I moved to a new job in Evansville, Ind., was something out of a horror movie, the kind accompanied by spine-chilling John Carpenter piano licks.
My landlord gave me a wet willie, my bosses cracked the whip like lion tamers and Wal-Mart never had enough empty boxes lying around to hold my Maxim magazines. Then the plot thickened.
Packing up is hard work, so in a movie that part would be a montage accompanied by a song from someone who understands the life of hard-working folk, like Springsteen or Mellencamp or Cindi Lauper.
In true Meade County fashion, Dad was going to bring down his cattle trailer so I didn’t have to rent a U-Haul. But he couldn’t get his brakes to work. More than $500 later, I had me a rental truck. Not fun for little Harpo.
Then I had to break my apartment lease. Because I was moving 3 ½ states away instead of up the street, I thought my landlord might have sympathy on me. Yeah, right. On a soundtrack, that visit would have been accompanied by Heart’s “Barracuda.”
“Not only do you have to pay the extra $550, you have to give 30 days notice,” she said, stroking a white cat named she called Mr. Bigglesworth. “Since you didn’t give 30 days notice, you have to be charged for two other weeks you didn’t live here. And the $400 in deposits you gave us is nonrefundable. Sucker.”
Bum ba da bum bum bum — Barracuda!
I’m not good at typing out music.
Of course my bank had service charges for closing down my accounts. And don’t even get me started on my cell phone company. There’s a special spot in hell reserved for them, right next to the guy who wrote “Mr. Roboto.”
Since groceries don’t grow on trees—save for some members of the fruit family--I tried to eat all the food in my freezer so it wouldn’t go to waste. Instead, it went to my waist. That scene would be accompanied by “Maniac.” And no matter how much I ate, I couldn’t get rid of all the sausage and burger in my freezer.
I threw away all my condiments and gave a jug of tequila to my downstairs neighbor because she gave me some boxes. I thought about asking her if she wanted some sausage, but by law that question would cue ‘70s funk on the soundtrack.
Dad and my little brother loaded all my stuff onto the truck while my bosses kept me five hours over on my last day. We hit the highway the next day, before the rooster rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
Cue some Willie for the closing credits.
How could she know that this dancing bay pony meant more to columnist Jacob Bennett than life? For this was the horse that his little lost darlin’ had ridden when she was his wife. Don’t cross him, don’t boss him, he’s wild in his sorrow. He’s riding and hiding his pain. Don’t fight him, don’t spite him, just e-mail him at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com, maybe he’ll ride on again.
I knew I'd ruined Valentine's Day when I accidentally threw my fiancee's hamster across the room. It started well enough. My young fiancée had bought a pet hamster a couple of days before, and the little guy was eating seeds and corn kernels from the palms of our hands. Then we let him -- or, heck, her; who can really tell? -- run around on the couch, scurrying on the armrests and burrowing between the cushions. It was positively precious. My fiancee -- we'll call her "Nina" because her parents do -- read online from the learned biologists at hamsterama.com that hamsters love being kept in cages with others just like them, so they can rub their adorable little noses together and curl into little fuzzy balls next to each other at night. All this cuteness got Nina feeling blue about how she'd so thoughtlessly ripped little Kirby the hamster away from all his little furry friends. There he was, asleep one afternoon next to all the other little hamlets, when that mean ol' pet store clerk scooped him up and stuffed him in a box that may or may not have once held Chinese takeout. How awful, my beloved decided. Never mind the Valentine's dinner reservations I'd made six months ago (or, McDonalds), we had to buy Kirby a friend before he kicked over from loneliness, a full six months before he would have died from old age anyway. Soon I was driving our new happy family home, and my sweet baboo was holding a carrier with Kirby and another takeout box with our nameless young friend. Nina decided to drop the newcomer into Kirby's cage so they could start gossiping and braiding each other's hair. Those adorable little creatures latched onto each other like Ken Shamrock and Royce Gracie in Ultimate Fighting Championship Part 5, except biting and eye gouging were encouraged. My fiancée reached in and broke them up, and Kirby chomped her finger like the tip of a cigar. Nina was silent the rest of the way, a single tear trickling from her eye like those commercials with the litter-hating Indian. The image of her adorable little companions -- not to mention the flesh on her index finger -- had been ripped to a pulp. After assessing the situation at home, we decided there was no way the hamsterama.com guys could have failed us. We tried once again to initiate a lifelong friendship. Kirby and his new friend circled each other slowly, swallowing each other with their eyes and growing accustomed to one another's scent. The new hamster turned her back to stake out a new corner. Of course that's when Kirby struck again, attacking her like my editor assaults a buffet. Like a hero, I reached in. Kirby had bitten me before, but not like this. His teeth sunk into my skin like the Titanic in the north Atlantic. I jerked my hand back, fully expecting to be down a digit. Kirby just didn't want to let go, but he couldn't hold on. To Nina's horror, he sailed across the room, clanging against a garbage can in the corner. "Oh, my gosh!" she yelled. "Don't throw him! You've got to be gentle!" Nevermind that I had rabies. We took the new hamster back to the pet store five minutes after we bought her, dooming Kirby to a life of misunderstanding and loneliness, like the Incredible Hulk. Or so I thought. On the advice of zoologists at a better Web site, heavenlyhamster.com, Nina bought a new hamster while staying in Bowling Green. The heavenlyhamster.com guy said Kirby should get along fine with this one, so long as one of them is a female. Nina called and asked me to check Kirby and verify his sex; she had a hunch that dude might be a lady. All I'd have to do is turn him over and compare what I see to a grainy Internet photo she sent me. I looked over at Kirby, who was eyeing me suspiciously with his giant red peepers. It was a delicate job. I'll do it after my stitches are out.
6:24 PM - 3 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Movin' Out
It should have been the perfect week, the kind where in a movie Julie Andrews would run through living hills and sing “The Sound of Music.”
Instead, my last week in Mississippi before I moved to a new job in Evansville, Ind., was something out of a horror movie, the kind accompanied by spine-chilling John Carpenter piano licks.
My landlord gave me a wet willie, my bosses cracked the whip like lion tamers and Wal-Mart never had enough empty boxes lying around to hold my Maxim magazines. Then the plot thickened.
Packing up is hard work, so in a movie that part would be a montage accompanied by a song from someone who understands the life of hard-working folk, like Springsteen or Mellencamp or Cindi Lauper.
In true Meade County fashion, Dad was going to bring down his cattle trailer so I didn’t have to rent a U-Haul. But he couldn’t get his brakes to work. More than $500 later, I had me a rental truck. Not fun for little Harpo.
Then I had to break my apartment lease. Because I was moving 3 ½ states away instead of up the street, I thought my landlord might have sympathy on me. Yeah, right. On a soundtrack, that visit would have been accompanied by Heart’s “Barracuda.”
“Not only do you have to pay the extra $550, you have to give 30 days notice,” she said, stroking a white cat named she called Mr. Bigglesworth. “Since you didn’t give 30 days notice, you have to be charged for two other weeks you didn’t live here. And the $400 in deposits you gave us is nonrefundable. Sucker.”
Bum ba da bum bum bum — Barracuda!
I’m not good at typing out music.
Of course my bank had service charges for closing down my accounts. And don’t even get me started on my cell phone company. There’s a special spot in hell reserved for them, right next to the guy who wrote “Mr. Roboto.”
Since groceries don’t grow on trees—save for some members of the fruit family--I tried to eat all the food in my freezer so it wouldn’t go to waste. Instead, it went to my waist. That scene would be accompanied by “Maniac.” And no matter how much I ate, I couldn’t get rid of all the sausage and burger in my freezer.
I threw away all my condiments and gave a jug of tequila to my downstairs neighbor because she gave me some boxes. I thought about asking her if she wanted some sausage, but by law that question would cue ‘70s funk on the soundtrack.
Dad and my little brother loaded all my stuff onto the truck while my bosses kept me five hours over on my last day. We hit the highway the next day, before the rooster rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
Cue some Willie for the closing credits.
How could she know that this dancing bay pony meant more to columnist Jacob Bennett than life? For this was the horse that his little lost darlin’ had ridden when she was his wife. Don’t cross him, don’t boss him, he’s wild in his sorrow. He’s riding and hiding his pain. Don’t fight him, don’t spite him, just e-mail him at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com, maybe he’ll ride on again.
The One Where I Don't Have Any Friends
I wish I had a friend.
Just one. An amigo to cruise bars with, to frolic with in meadows, to stand with me when I face my personal El Guapos.
A pal. A chum. A bosom buddy.
I said “bosom.”
I mean, I guess I have a few friends, but none where I live. All the people who can tolerate me in short bursts live about two hours away.
So I sit here most days, alone in my apartment, hugging a pillow and weeping. I watch “The Naked Gun” trilogy alone, and it’s not as funny. I beat the computer at John Madden, and it’s not as much fun as beating my old friends. I drink alone, but George Thorogood’s no fun without friends.
I check my e-mail, and find my only friends are 844Homebiz@drkalv.comt, who is enough a pal to help me makeANDsaveM:ONEY; and Roger, who has heroicDealsOnDrugs!; and (I swear this was in my inbox today) HomeOfTheWhopper, who promises to “Supersize your fry.”
I moved to Indiana last year to be closer to home. As often as people come visit me, I might as well have stayed in Mississippi. The only person who has walked this way is my friend Travis; everyone else says they’re too worn out after work to make the trip. They all have friends 10 minutes away.
And it’s hard to make friends in a new town. When you’re my age, you either have to find a single dude who likes to play video games and drink to country music without thinking he’s wasting his life, or you have to find a married couple that you can watch interact without wanting to gouge your eyes out with a spork.
You have to find someone that’s not too lame, and not obviously too good for you, so they don’t tell you they’d love to hang out, but they’ve got to organize the sock drawer.
That’s too much pressure. So when people from work are having a clambake, and they ask me to attend, I usually say no and then organize my own sock drawer.
I e-mailed my friend Erica, who works in Elizabethtown, about how nobody likes me. It went like this:
Me: Nobody here likes me. They think I'm lazy.
Erica: Yeah, well, nobody here really liked you either. And you are lazy. Maybe if you actually did something instead of being a big whiner and stopped talking about fantasy football and "Smallville," people would like you. Or you could try doing work instead of sending me e-mails about how no one likes you and everyone thinks you're lazy. At least you have your fiancee.
Jacob: Yeah, but we don't have anything in common.
Erica: Maybe it’s because you don’t like people. You're not going to tell people we're friends are you?
So no one told columnist Jacob Bennett life was gonna be this way (clap clap clap). His job’s a joke, he’s broke, his love life’s DOA. It’s like he’s always stuck in second gear. It hasn’t been his day, his week, his month, or even his year. Be there for him at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com.
Just one. An amigo to cruise bars with, to frolic with in meadows, to stand with me when I face my personal El Guapos.
A pal. A chum. A bosom buddy.
I said “bosom.”
I mean, I guess I have a few friends, but none where I live. All the people who can tolerate me in short bursts live about two hours away.
So I sit here most days, alone in my apartment, hugging a pillow and weeping. I watch “The Naked Gun” trilogy alone, and it’s not as funny. I beat the computer at John Madden, and it’s not as much fun as beating my old friends. I drink alone, but George Thorogood’s no fun without friends.
I check my e-mail, and find my only friends are 844Homebiz@drkalv.comt, who is enough a pal to help me makeANDsaveM:ONEY; and Roger, who has heroicDealsOnDrugs!; and (I swear this was in my inbox today) HomeOfTheWhopper, who promises to “Supersize your fry.”
I moved to Indiana last year to be closer to home. As often as people come visit me, I might as well have stayed in Mississippi. The only person who has walked this way is my friend Travis; everyone else says they’re too worn out after work to make the trip. They all have friends 10 minutes away.
And it’s hard to make friends in a new town. When you’re my age, you either have to find a single dude who likes to play video games and drink to country music without thinking he’s wasting his life, or you have to find a married couple that you can watch interact without wanting to gouge your eyes out with a spork.
You have to find someone that’s not too lame, and not obviously too good for you, so they don’t tell you they’d love to hang out, but they’ve got to organize the sock drawer.
That’s too much pressure. So when people from work are having a clambake, and they ask me to attend, I usually say no and then organize my own sock drawer.
I e-mailed my friend Erica, who works in Elizabethtown, about how nobody likes me. It went like this:
Me: Nobody here likes me. They think I'm lazy.
Erica: Yeah, well, nobody here really liked you either. And you are lazy. Maybe if you actually did something instead of being a big whiner and stopped talking about fantasy football and "Smallville," people would like you. Or you could try doing work instead of sending me e-mails about how no one likes you and everyone thinks you're lazy. At least you have your fiancee.
Jacob: Yeah, but we don't have anything in common.
Erica: Maybe it’s because you don’t like people. You're not going to tell people we're friends are you?
So no one told columnist Jacob Bennett life was gonna be this way (clap clap clap). His job’s a joke, he’s broke, his love life’s DOA. It’s like he’s always stuck in second gear. It hasn’t been his day, his week, his month, or even his year. Be there for him at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com.
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