by Michael James Nelson

After graduating from college, I made the decision to move out to Los Angeles. I had a car but I knew, and my mechanic certainly knew, that it would not make it through the cross-country journey from Florida to California. “It’s a piece of shit,” I believe was the professional diagnosis the mechanic gave me as he slammed the hood harder than it had been built to withstand. We had a long moment of silence. “I don’t like your shirt,” he then said, eyeballing the fraternity collard shirt I was wearing. As the man cleaned his dirty hands with an even dirtier washcloth, I wondered if the constant handling of filters ever gave him the hint to actually use one. But, in the end, he was the car expert, so I had to take his call seriously, regardless of how much I wanted to drop kick him to the face. Luckily, I arranged to hitch a ride with my buddy Matt, who was also heading out west. I packed my bags and had absolutely no idea that this drive would be the most psychedelic and intense drive of my entire life.

On the way to Los Angeles, about four hours outside of Orlando, we stopped in our old college town and had a very long night, a sort of a final hurrah. The next morning we were so hung over and didn’t know if we could even make it an hour on the road. As we packed the car, a buddy of ours handed us a small bag. “Here. It will help you with the hangovers. Happy driving.” We opened the bag and there, smiling back at us, were eight pills of Adderall.

Now, for those of you who aren’t familiar with Adderall, Wikipedia will say it is a psycho stimulant composed of amphetamine and dextroamphetamine, which is thought to work by increasing the amount of dopamine and norepinephrine in the brain. So, basically, it is cocaine. If you take enough of it, you will constantly have the adrenaline rush that you get right before you skydive or execute a highly secretive covert operation with Seal Team Six. It will wake you up like no cup of coffee or power drink can and it gives you the focus of a rocket scientist. In fact, when you take it, you want to perform ambitious acts like building a rocket and/or solving time travel. And if you have it without a prescription, you can go to jail for possessing a controlled substance. I had never taken Adderall and was like, “whatever.” I didn’t know what my buddy had in mind and I really didn’t know why we would need these pills. I think I treated it like an old man giving his apprentice an object that meant nothing at the time until the end of the movie when the object actually would save the day. Whatever. We hit the road.

While driving along Interstate 10, there is plenty to look at until you hit Texas and then it is just infertile land that looks like it was abandoned by God. Driving at a comfortable speed, listening to music, we settled into a desert induced trance and maybe noticed the occasional gas station, but for the most part, nothing. And then it happened. He came out of nowhere and when you first see him, sitting on the side of the road, lights atop the car, painted a dark color with a gold star on the door, your heart drops. We didn’t see the cop. But after we did, we saw that our speedometer was at ninety. “Holy shit!” Matt jerked his gaze to the rearview as I turned around in my seat like a copilot searching for a Mig 22 that had just zipped behind us. His lights illuminated and dirt sprayed from behind his back tires as he accelerated onto the two-lane road. I knew it wasn’t possible, but I could have sworn I heard that ford engine roaring to life. He was gaining fast.

“The pills!” I realized we had eight pills of a controlled substance with no prescription. “Dude, if he searches the car and finds this, we are done!” And the last thing we wanted to do was spend time in a Texas jail. The laws of the United States tend to get a little lost in Texas. The cop was getting closer. “We have to eat them! We can’t throw them out, he’ll see us do it!” We were screwed. We had no other choice. We could hear the siren and see his mustache. I think I caught the reflection of my cringed face in his aviators. “Fuck it, we have to eat them. Four pills each.” We each grabbed four pills apiece and swallowed them. He was right on our ass and our hearts were racing. He then pulled up next to us, looked over, and continued on. “YEAH!” We were in heaven. We were so happy. But then, we froze. We had both just swallowed four pills apiece, each pill around 20mg of Adderall. I don’t know why we didn’t pull over or try to vomit the pills; I think we were just in shock. We slowly looked forward and said nothing. Absolutely nothing.

That much Adderall is like going on a five-day cocaine binge. Thirty minutes later we started to sweat profusely and grind our teeth constantly. We rattled off abstract stories and theories about the universe being nothing but a small marble on a board game that two aliens and Jesus were playing in a city that existed on a floating mountain in the Atarian galaxy located under God’s beard. At one point, I remember having an out of body experience, looking down at the car from above as it was driving down the vacant road. The car passed on through a translucent plasma wall and I looked back to the east to see a giant dragon circling a volcano. What? Come to think of it, who knows if we were even on the highway. We could have been forging our own road through the desert. I have no idea. But, we did know that we were involved in a colossal chemical. So, we pulled over to buy tons of water to try and delude the Adderall and we also purchased loads of chewing gum to save the enamel on our teeth. After the supply stop, we were pounding water and chewing ridiculous amounts of gum. Our jaw muscles were being overworked and our brains didn’t even notice the distressing nerve signals being sent from the jaw muscles, screaming for help. Our brains were too busy thinking about the next story to tell.

The hours went by and so did the cities and states. The sun went down and it came back up, but our energy stayed the same. Every topic known to man was discussed and every dream and aspiration analyzed. We rejoiced our greatest achievements and broke down in sobs while explaining our biggest failures. We imagined what it would feel like to fly. We speculated if dead relatives watched people jerk off. We wondered if the moment was real or if we would awake in a cocoon on an alien ship, hooked up to some machine. My head was pounding and my face was hot. I fell into a vortex where light met sound and an old man dressed as a knight was telling me, “only the penitent man shall pass.”

About twenty-four hours later somewhere in Arizona, we started to energy crash and decided to get a hotel room. After awaking to find that an entire day had passed, we were still exhausted and felt a little weird. The drug felt like it was still hiding in different little pockets in our bodies. So, we delayed our exit and got out the Nintendo 64 and started playing Mario Kart for hours. Of course, this is what we thought was happening. Maybe a local was watching us both sit in front of a bush in the middle of a field, using leaves as controllers. We had no idea. We had never felt like this before and wanted to just chill and relax and let the drug make its way out of our system.

We got back on the road and the small trucker town disappeared behind us. The rest of the ride was quiet. No big dreams or ideas or stories, just music and the ambient of the driving car. Soon enough, downtown Los Angeles revealed herself and suddenly we found ourselves in her traffic, barely able to keep up with the surrounding cars. We were tiny and insignificant on the ten-lane freeway that was absolutely packed. BMWs and black Range Rovers bellowed their horns as they angrily sped around us. But, we were not going to speed. Oh no. The last time we broke the speed limit, it led to a nightmare so we decided to just follow the speed limit and not draw any attention to ourselves. I had a weird feeling so I turned around to look for the Mig 22 and just for one split second, in the center of shifting traffic, about a hundred feet behind us, I could have sworn I saw a a dark cop car and grinning behind a mustache and a pair of aviators was a giant Adderall pill.

Filed under: Writing by Michael James Nelson
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By Michael James Nelson

Published in The National Lampoon

At some point in your life you will have a run-in with a celebrity. What ever the run-in may be, it will always resonate in your mind. And for some of you, with your leather jacket, tight leather pants, shades, and two hundred dollars worth of hair care products, it might get you laid.

For me, it happened around 1993 when I was in seventh grade. I came home to the most unbelievable message on my answering machine. I couldn’t believe it! The message was inviting me to go hog hunting with Orlando Magic superstar center Shaquille O’Neal. After that message I was, to say the very least, flabbergasted.

When I arrived at the hunting camp, I could feel the redneck rays omitted from every motor home, broken down car, and dip-spit cup on the property. It was a peaceful place. A slow place. A place where weather patterns coincided with knee swelling and concepts like the Internet and toilet paper were told with great mystery around campfires. It all fit together like one tranquil puzzle, until… THUMP! “Wait a minute, that wasn’t right.” I said to myself as I scanned the horizon. THUMP! “What the…?” That dominating sound interrupted the flow of peace again. THUMP! What was that? It got closer and closer and then I finally realized what it was.

A couple of luxury cars and an SUV broke the undergrowth and slowly crept towards camp. The sub-woofers installed in the slick looking machines floated only the loudest of beats. I stared at the tinted windows trying to get a glimpse inside one of the cars only to see my reflection, a small white boy with a tucked in Orlando Magic shirt and a bowl cut. Time stopped as the caravan of hip-hop tracks and bling-bling pierced a world coated with restricted views and rust. The caravan came to a halt along with the music. There was absolute silence as both worlds felt each other out. It was reminiscent of Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind, except communication would be executed not in musical notes, but in rapper Little John’s, “What!”

Suddenly, the door of the SUV swung open and out stepped Shaquille O’Neal. He was wearing fatigues, black Reebok pumps, and a black hood over his head. He was massive! Shaq slowly scanned this new world of scruffy white men and flannel. Then, like a commander of a hidden army, he turned and signaled to the luxury cars. Suddenly, Shaq’s posse emptied out. They were not the freshly dressed, iced out “soldiers” you’d expect from an NBA superstar. No Shaq’s entourage was the whitest, lamest posse I could ever imagine. Agents, trainers, lawyers. The Yiddish expressions flowed like the finest Manischewitz.

We stood around for a while and got to know the big guy. He was fresh off an NBA fine for punching a Detroit Pistons’ player in the face, so I kept my distance. And when he playfully grabbed a friend of mine, placed his fist on my friend’s cheek and said the words, “Drum punch. This is where I hit him,” I knew that I was going to have to reinstate the use of diapers in my life. But as time went by, I really liked Shaq and I started to realize that this day would linger in my mind forever. We grabbed our gear, loaded the trucks, and headed out.

To be a seven-foot black man with a three hundred pound bench press puts a damper on your hunting. And a size twenty-two shoe crashing on the forest floor is like a burst of tourettes at Wimbledon right before the serve. Everything about Shaq is loud. His looks, his size, even his whisper. Shaq’s whisper smacked everyone in the face, alerted every animal within a thirty-mile radius, and knocked up one of the guy’s daughters. Let’s just say if Shaq were huddled in the attic with Anne Frank and family, they would have been screwed.

We explored the property for a couple hours and realized that the thick Central Florida humidity was forcing all of the hogs into the shady depths of the forest. Finally, we spotted a family of hogs trotting across a field. Shaq positioned himself on the other side of the truck and the redneck elder threw in his words of approval and encouragement, “Get ‘er done.”

At first, Shaq held a gun like a man who had never held a baby. It was awkward and I remember thinking to myself, “Oh man, this is never going to work.” Shaq concentrated down the barrel of the gun at the family, but it was too late. They had spotted us and ran out of range. We kept on.

The day progressed in a very relaxed and laidback manner with little action expected. People cased up their guns, got out cameras, and just sat back and enjoyed the view. Not Shaq. He was ready. In his mind you could tell he was running through different scenarios, a down-to-the-wire game mentality. Sitting in back of the pick-up, gun ready, Shaq knew we would need a strong fourth quarter to win the day. The sun was low, the bugs were rousing, and the energy of the day was slowly drifting away. Then, like an explosive dunk, it rocked the group out of limbo. A piercing shout: “Hogs!”

I popped up and saw a family of hogs running toward a watering hole. Everyone jumped into position with a lot of excitement. At first I thought Shaq was doing snow angels, being attacked by bees, and posting-up in the bed of the truck. But, then I realized he was having trouble getting up and getting into position to fire. When he finally did, everyone had at it. It was a free-for-all. From the amount of shooting, I expected Paul Revere to haul ass over the hill with the British army in hot pursuit. But, when the smoke cleared, I saw our result: three hogs downed.

Despite mediocre results, the attack was still considered a success. Three dead hogs are more than zero. In celebration, Shaq grabbed a small Magnum and started firing at an Armadillo running by the truck. No dice. Not even close. But, a true champion, he regrouped, reenergized, and focused his attention on the finale of a successful hunt.

The sun was setting and everyone prepared to head home. Shaq signed some of my cards and my basketball and climbed into the SUV. As the cars disappeared, I waved them one last goodbye. I turned around, kicked a rock, and collected my thoughts. “I hope this gets me laid.”

Filed under: Writing by Michael James Nelson
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By Michael James Nelson

Published in The National Lampoon

A Bar Mitzvah is the Super Bowl of a young Jewish man’s life. It is when he turns in his diaper and begins a journey that will end with doing your taxes. When I was a kid, I went to so many Bar Mitzvahs I had to hire my mom as my “Mitzvah agent.” Every Friday I would walk in from school, sift through the fridge, and she would chime in with, “Okay, you have a 2pm Weiss Mitzvah followed by a 4pm Sherman Mitzvah after party,” as she thumbed a big calendar. “And Cory is holding on three. What should I tell him?” I would leave the room with a snack, a thumb up and a forced smile.

She took twenty percent.

That was my childhood. Bar Mitzvahs, nagging mothers, hairy backs and the decision of which Yarmulke to wear were the major elements of my Jewish life. Despite this, there was still one problem. I’m not Jewish. I am Christian, born and raised. But when I was seven my family moved to a small neighborhood right next to the JCC, the Jewish Community Center, or, as I called it, Jesus Can’t Come in.

The JCC was only a dreidel’s throw away. That’s how Jewish the neighborhood was. If you were a stranger off the highway, requesting directions to a good restaurant, you wouldn’t get, “Go two miles down this road and…” No, you’d get, “Okay, go twenty (throat noise)-adel throws down this road, hang a rrrrright. And then you go two (throat noise)-adel throws and it’s on your left. Try the veal.”

At first, being thrown in the Jewish mix was hard. My family purchased a membership at the JCC for its athletic facilities and it became my hang out. After shaking off such nicknames as “Jesus in the Flesh” and “Pope Nelson,” I eventually became an honorary Jew and this put me in position to attend the hottest Bar Mitzvahs on the planet.

One Bar Mitzvah that has always echoed in my mind was Josh’s. It was in Jacksonville and my Mitzvah publicist said if I showed up, kissed some babies, and threw out a couple “Shaloms” then my name would be written in stone on the guest list of every who’s who Bar Mitzvah on the east coast.

I arrived late at the Temple and sifted through the large container of Yarmulkes. Damn! All the blue ones were gone and I was stuck with a corduroy nightmare. Just once I wanted to get a Yarmulke that had a little personality to it. Maybe one with a propeller on the top or one lined with sparkling jewels. What if NIKE ever tapped into the Yarmulke market?

NIKE TV COMMERCIAL

---

EXT. BASKETBALL COURT – DAY

A BUNCH OF JEWISH BOYS ARE PLAYING A BASKETBALL GAME. ALL OF THEM HAVE A PLAIN COLORED YARMULKE ON AND NO GAME WHATSOEVER. WHAT YOU HAVE HERE ARE A GROUP OF BOYS THAT WEAR THE FINEST ATTIRE AND USE HIP HOP LINGO WITH THEIR OWN TWIST TO MAKE UP FOR WHAT THEY LACK ON THE COURT. WE JOIN THEM AT…

BEN
(WITH THE BALL)
Bling on!

HE PASSES THE BALL TO TEAMMATE CORY.

CORY
(TO DEFENDER)
What son? Check this move.
Check yo Yarmulke!

CORY BLOWS PAST HIS DEFENDER. HE ATTEMPTS TO LAY THE BALL IN THE BASKET BUT THE BALL HITS THE BOTTOM OF THE BACKBOARD, THEN COMES BACK AND HITS HIM IN THE FACE. HE THEN RUNS INTO THE POLE VIOLENTLY AND FALLS TO THE GROUND. AFTER SOME LAUGHTER, ALL THE BOYS SURROUND CORY AND HELP HIM OFF THE COURT.

BEN
Damn kid! We out one.

BOTH TEAMS SUDDENLY LOOK IN AWE AT A BOY EMERGING FROM THE PARKING LOT.

CUE THE SLOW MOTION.

HE APPROACHES WEARING A BLACK SUEDE YARMULKE WITH A WHITE NIKE SWOOSH ON THE SIDE. HIS BLACK BAG SAYS JEW CREW ON IT.

BOY
Need one?

BEN
(STUNNED)
Ayight. It’s you ridin’
(POINTING)
With them. Your rock.

THE BALL IS THROWN-IN TO THE NEW BOY. HE FAKES RIGHT, GOES LEFT, AND LEAVES THE GROUND TO AMAZING HEIGHTS. AND JUST WHEN YOU THINK HE IS GOING TO LAY IT UP, HE REVERSES, GOES UNDER THE BASKET, AND DUNKS THE BALL ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE RIM. EVERYONE IS IN SHOCK. ONE BOY SLOWLY TAKES HIS YAMIKA OFF, STARES AT IT, THEN LOOKS AT THE BOY STILL HANGING FROM THE RIM. THE SHOT TRAILS OFF INTO THE SKY. A VOICE IS HEARD…

NARRATOR
NIKE. Just Jew It.

---

The service slowly crept forward and ended, routine. Afterward, everyone headed over to an auditorium for an after party that had a Mardi Gras like feel to it. Breasts weren’t being exposed, but you could feel the energy release of a bunch of parents who really needed it.

About thirty minutes in, things started to get crazy and the parental party agenda was very visible. I suddenly found myself cornered in the back of the room. “Drink this juice, it is tradition, and everyone is doing it,” one boy said as the rest of the group laughed. It was always a riot to play a joke on ol’ Jesus lover. I wanted to get them off my back so I drank. It was Tequila!

Twelve years old + tequila = insta-drunk

I was so drunk I began having flash backs of being three feet up in rice patties about 15 clicks out of Qui Non while my new wife kept sending me pictures of our new born and bitching about the yard getting “out of control.” Not having been old enough to have fought in Vietnam, I just assumed this type of stuff happened the first time someone got drunk.

Everyone around me was laughing. Their faces were blurred and their laughter was coming from all directions. To get away, I barged back into the main room, drunk and overwhelmed by the Jewish parents throwing each other up on chairs and chanting.

The rest of the night was a montage of confusion, spills, and the floor possessing the comfort of a Tempur-Pedic mattress. The next morning, I woke up in the back of a Cadillac with a terrible headache, wearing a sleeveless tee shirt that said, “I rocked out at Josh’s Bar Mitzvah.” I was finished. My life on the Bar Mitzvah tour was over, kaput. My reputation was ruined.

I approached my house later that day with my head down, feeling depressed. How was I going to explain to mom that there was no more twenty percent? I entered the house just as she hung up the phone. “What happened?” She said.

“What do you mean?”

“Every Jewish boy from here to Israel wants you to come to their Bar Mitzvah,” she said. “And Josh called earlier and wanted to thank you for a great show. What’s that mean?”

I slowly sat down confused and rubbed my head. “Oy vey.”

© Michael James Nelson – All Rights Reserved.

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By Michael James Nelson

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring and I had no pants on. (Awkward silence) I sleep naked. (Awkward silence) Anyway, I was lying in bed having trouble falling asleep because I was filled with excitement, reviewing the gifts I wanted Santa to bring me: new clothes, a new black Range Rover, and LOST actress Evangeline Lilly. But, little did I know that this would be the craziest Christmas ever… ever… ever.

For many years, Santa never ate the cookies or drank the milk I left for him to enjoy. What a slap in my face, no? I mean, seriously, I leave him a treat and he won’t even touch it? He won’t accept my thanks? But, for some odd reason, I kept leaving him treats and after a while I got pissed and decided that one day he would bite and I was determined to capture that moment.

In ‘85, I set up a MacGyver-esque contraption that would take Santa’s picture if he were to lift the glass of milk. In ‘90, I upped the technology by setting up a video camera. But, after reviewing the tape, in the last moments of the battery’s life, I watched my uncle grab a cookie.

So this year, I would make sure he enjoyed my treats. This year, I would finally get the thanks and appreciation I deserved. This year, keeping his apparent dislike for cookies and milk in mind, I would leave out a dish that no crazy fat man could ever resist: wings and bourbon.

I threw it all together and went to bed, snuggled in a sea of blankets, too excited to sleep. I tried the age-old trick of counting sheep, but all of them had the shits and kept pooping on my face. I guess they had eaten about two hours prior. Anyway, after a couple hours of struggle, my eyes slowly started to get heavy and as they shut for sleep, I smiled and muttered, “Your move big man. Your move…”

The next morning, I awoke to the sweet chirping birds and crusty eye boogers. After clearing the boogers, I realized it was 6:00 a.m. and Christmas had arrived. I jumped out of bed and ran down the hallway. I dashed around the corner, into the family room and my body froze at the site of the dish… the wings were gone with only a slight trace of barbecue sauce, the bourbon was half empty (half full for you optimists, time to buy another bottle for you drunks) How interesting,” I said, rubbing my chin.

I stood there perplexed and then I heard it. It was coming from behind me. I slowly turned around. My eyes focused on the couch. And there he was, outfit and all. It was Santa Claus. He was passed out, snoring, with an open cell phone on his chest. As I approached him, I could see that the screen on the phone displayed, “Last call: Emily.” I assumed it was an ex or a little “something-something” on the side.

His bourbon-capacitated breath forced me to turn my head slightly to the side for gag prevention. He suddenly jerked and I almost fainted from the scare, “What the…where am I? Rudolph. Blitzen,” he yelled, scrambling. Then, he passed out, cold.

Seeing Santa drunk and unconscious causes your mind to ignite into speculation. You sort of leave that picture of Santa being this perfect, loveable, jolly old man and move closer to the Santa that comes home late after a long night at the North Pole Gentlemen’s Club, hammered and ready to show Mrs. Claus that he still “has it.” Or, the Santa that gets liquored-up and takes the sleigh out for a spin, only to end up hanging upside-down from a tree? And no one can forget the time the elves set up an intervention and Santa arrived with a fresh Bourbon soaked beard. And nipple clamps, hammered. What a mess that guy. Tough times.

All I knew was that I had to get him in tiptop shape and do it quick. My family would be up within the hour and so would our neighbors, but more importantly, what about all the children that would miss Christmas due to my selfishness? What about all the little kids around the world that would run to the tree only to find that below its branches was nothing but open space? I screwed up, I got Santa wasted out of his mind and I had to make it right. I had to get Santa up and off my couch and back in his sled. I had to save Christmas.

Carrying Santa out of the house was a real bitch, but I knew I had to do it before everyone was awake. As I dragged Santa out to our side yard, he kept going in-and-out of consciousness, often screaming the names of his reindeer. When we got outside, he screamed again. “Rudolph!” Suddenly, eight reindeer flew down from the roof.

The eight reindeer landed and we eyeballed each other for a solid minute. Silence. I cautiously watched them and they cautiously watched me. No sudden movements. I couldn’t believe it. I was staring at Santa’s reindeer! And then it hit me. The one reindeer in the front, with the red nose, was actually Rudolph. “Holy shit, your Rudolph.” I said. “I can’t even… I’ve studied you my entire life!” I was star struck.

Rudolph looked at me and it looked like he wanted to bask in the praise, you know, maybe he doesn’t get to stop and talk to fans, but then he snapped out of it, lowered his head and sniffed Santa. “Not again,” he said in a thick Boston accent. “Miss clause is gonna be wicked pissed.”

“You can talk?” I said, amazed.

“This shocks you?” Rudolph asked, as he chuckled with his fellow reindeer.

“Well, reindeer don’t usually talk,” I said.

“Reindeer don’t usually fly either, Sherlock.” He snapped back. “Alright, enough, we gotta move and we gotta move fast.”

Over the next ten minutes, we sobered Santa up by holding his face over a sprinkler. After three spurts of consciousness, Santa stood up and was briefed on the situation. Some barbecue sauce still stained his beard. I got him some Aspirin and told him that I was a big fan. Santa was pleasant, but he had to get moving because the neighborhood was beginning to stir to life. He suddenly jumped into his slay, snapped the reins, and the reindeer pulled him high into the sky.

A little light headed by the experience, I waved goodbye. Then, Santa actually turned around and waved back. I smiled. He threw something at me. I caught it. It was a small box with a ribbon on top. I opened it and laughed. “You son of a bitch,” I said as I grabbed what was inside the box. I looked up at Santa again as he disappeared into the clouds. Then, I looked back down at my gift. It was a glossy picture of LOST actress Evangeline Lilly.

© Michael Nelson – All Rights Reserved.

Filed under: Writing by Michael James Nelson
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