Michael James Nelson Comedy

By Michael James Nelson

“That reminds me of the time Fabrice, Chloe, and myself took the Euro to Switzerland,” he says, sifting his very expensive glass of Madeira wine. “We took a spiritual hike through the Alps and then parachuted off one of the summits. (deep breath – hand over chest) It was heavenly.” The surrounding individuals gasp in bewilderment and slight envy. And me? I am lost, shaking my glass of $1.99 Charles Shaw. The wand of fancy never has sprinkled pixie dust de la sofisticación over my head.

“Michael, let us hear your story?” Everyone leans in. I have nothing to say. I have never left the country. The only exotic travel tale I have is when I was six years old, missing the cup and pissing all over the back seat of the family Cadillac. “We are not stopping for the bathroom,” my Dad would yell over his shoulder. “We need to make Cincinnati in fourteen hours, grab a cup!” I knew that this story would never hold water.

“Well, I have another one,” he says, with a small smirk on his face, recapturing the audience. “So, it was Fabrice, Judith and myself in Roma…” What an ass. I leave the group, pound my Charles, and vow to one day have a dazzling out-of-country travel story of my own.

AMERICAN LEAVES COUNTRY FOR THE FIRST TIME: AP

Months later, I got off an airplane in Cancun, Mexico holding a list in my hand. The list was from my employer, a production company, of items that I would deliver to the set of a television show they were shooting. This was my only task and the list was as follows:

1. Four bags of camouflage netting
2. Women’s clothing for executive producer
3. A bottle of Patron for executive producer
4. Satellite phone

I arrived at the baggage claim in Cancun and instantly became depressed when I realized how difficult it was going to be to transport the four sixty-pound bags of camouflage netting through the airport. I found a very small aluminum cart and slid them on. This cart took every volt of energy I had to push and as I made my way through the airport, the front right wheel screeched, as if to say, “Hey, look at this douche bag trying to push all these douche bags!”

I rounded a corner and the momentum of my leaning tower of bags almost took out a small Spanish family of five. “¡Ah dios, corre!” He screamed, clutching his children. After stopping and steadying the bags, I looked up to see that I was at the end of a very long line. As I squeaked closer and closer to the front, a customs agent grabbed my arm. “Excuse me sir, what is in the bags?” The agent asked.

“Um, you know, just my stuff,” I said, downplaying it.

He paused. Then… “Come with me,” he said, signaling to some of the other agents. Three Federales followed with AK47s over their shoulders.

TERRIFIED AMERICAN ALMOST SHITS HIS PANTS: AP

They led me into a dark room that housed two tables and two chairs. It was dimly lit and one of the halogen lights overhead was flickering. I wondered if one of the Spanish announcements draping the walls warned of Americans trying to enter the country with camouflage netting.

“SIT DOWN!” The agent demanded as the room filled with more people. “Now, what is in your bags?” He lightly tapped them with his black boot. I thought about it for a split second and I knew that however I answered the question, eyebrows would raise. I took a deep breath. “Camouflage netting,” I said as my heart sank to the bottom of my stomach. Terrible scenarios flashed through my head.

AMERICAN CAPTURED IN MEXICO. US SAYS IT WILL NOT INTERVENE AND GIVES PERMISSION TO ANALLY PROBE: AP

“Do it slowly.” The Federales stepped forward, guns trained on the bags. I opened them while trying to free-style whistle to mask my nervousness. But in actuality, I was so nervous that I couldn’t pucker my lips properly so all I was doing was violently blowing out air. “Relax. Would you like some water?” An agent asked as he held out a glass of water with a very wicked smile. Tremendously parched, I took the glass and drank it, trying to relax as the cold water rushed down my dry esophagus.

AMERICAN WISHES HE HAD PAID ATTENTION IN SPANISH CLASS: AP

They inspected the camouflage netting while speaking Spanish. The Agents got around to my personal bag and fear rushed down my dungarees. This would look terribly bad. I had forgotten about the other items. The agent pulled out the satellite phone, the bottle of Patron, and the women’s clothing. I panicked as the agent elevated a small pink tank top out of my bag. “Look, I know this looks very, very bad,” I said, hands up in the air. “But trust me, it is legit.”

I proceeded to explain that the camouflage was going to be used to drape over equipment while filming, that the satellite phone was to talk to the main office, that the Patron was for pleasure, and that the clothing was for a female producer. They still weren’t happy and after ten minutes of Spanish banter, the lead guy told me to stand up and then he got in my face. “We keep the camo,” he said, waiting for me to challenge him. I could tell he was very angry. “You take your bag.”

“That’s cool,” I said, raising the pitch of my voice to come across as non confrontational and weak as possible.

“I guess I can just come back by later today to get – ”

“And another thing,” he said, the halogen light overhead now flickering out of control, in tune with his every nostril flare. “Get out of my country.”

AMERICAN RUNS FOR HIS LIFE, CRYING LIKE A LITTLE BITCH: AP

Not too long after, I stormed down the isle of the airplane and took my seat, looking out the window for the Federales. “Sir, please watch where you swing your carry on,” the flight attendant demanded. I violently jammed my bag into the compartment and took my seat, an isle seat because the glass of water the customs agent so cleverly gave me instigated the worst case of Montezuma’s Revenge. From my seat to the bathroom the carpet was meshed down, a path created by my frantic shuffling to the bathroom every five minutes with the palm of my hand pressed firmly against my ass as I lightly sang Dave Matthew’s “Don’t Drink the Water.”

I entered the bathroom and suddenly laughter started to echo all around me. “Chloe, Fabrice and myself pity you,” The voice in my head said, laughter everywhere.

“Go Away!” I screamed, covering my ears and rocking back-and-forth on the toilet.

“Let’s hear about the tinkle express non-stop to Cincinnati,” the voice said, laughter echoing. They just wouldn’t leave my head. I sat there on the toilet recalling my experience and softly said to myself, on the brink of tears, “I will never leave the United States of America ever again.”

© Michael Nelson – All Rights Reserved.

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To all reality television producers,

With all of the attention on Iraq and Iran, it is easy to forget about our little diamond in the rough, the country that we saved (a.k.a. bombed the living shit out of) and started to build back up in our own unique way. Our little Sim City… Afghanistan.

Yes, rooting for the success of Afghanistan is something that we all should do. But, we should also root for and embrace Afghanistan’s pop culture. You might think American Idol is the primo entity of reality television, but in fact it would be a late night infomercial compared to the reality show that is Afghanistan.

Watching a pop culture take its very first steps would be an immaculate thing to witness. Picture this if you will… It is a hot day with a nice cool breeze out of the west. The Taliboy Band 198 Degrees has just stepped off the stage after an encore. The crowd of over ten thousand people is going absolutely wild. But, every one in attendance is really there for the big headliner… The Al-Qaeda Kids. This ultra hip band first grabbed attention with its hit, “I Wonder What You Look Like, Girl.” With four buckets, some old oil barrels, and the ammo casings of a Russian assault riffle, these four young men jived themselves into prime time. Now, they spin and gyrate on stage as thousands of women scream through their veils, with some going as far to flash an ankle, later to be featured on the VHS tape’s “Behind-the-Scenes” section.

Sure, the country gets a slow start by jamming out to Right Said Fred and chewing condoms because they think its bubble gum, but time will tell and mistakes will be broiled into gold. Afghanistan will start to recycle fads that American pop culture abandoned years ago. Men will be seen wearing jean shorts and hyper color shirts while jamming out to a Walkman. (What the hell is a Walkman?) Women will ultimately go whip happy with their slap bracelets and proudly sport their jelly sandals. A young man will pass a friend and say, “Ahmad, radical day for some hoops?” In which Ahmed will answer with a double-sided hand slap identical to the one used in the hit movie Top Gun. (The top movie in Afghanistan.)

Inevitably, trouble will rumble through the communities when one of its beloved pop stars is booed off the stage for not singing “live.” A short cut that is strictly shunned in Afghan pop culture and should be looked at identically in American pop culture as well.

But, the showstopper would be when Aknar, the lead man of The Dirt Road Boys, removes the veil of pop diva Shaloma, revealing her face during a live feed of the Camel Cup 500’s halftime show. Brought to you by Shantari Mouth Dry. “Tired of your camel spitting all over you? Try Shantari.”

But I digress… The entertainment value condensed within an Afghanistan pop culture will explode to insurmountable proportions. When reality television’s extortion of everyday people fades away, just when we thought the entire concept was dry, they will find a sweet drop of relief in the deserts of the middle east. Besides just the Cabbage Patch Kids, Ataris, Light Brights, big haircuts, and Pogo Balls, Afghanistan will bring a new dimension to reality television. It will become the primo entity on television and you will find yourself scheduling your entire life around it. So, make it happen.

With enthusiastic anticipation,
Michael Nelson

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Bard Fupah poses on his couch minutes before the cribs tour

By Michael James Nelson

APOPKA, FL – Apopka High School junior Bard Flupah was heavily criticized by fellow students for giving a very uneventful and embarrassing “cribs” style tour of his family’s three bedroom, two bathroom home.

“I don’t understand,” confessed a very baffled Bard, sitting on the edge of his family’s above ground pool. “I showed them every room in the house, including my parent’s shower with a water resistant radio in it.”

Although Bard gave what he thought to be a great tour of a really cool house, everyone in attendance thought otherwise. “Man, where the hell were all the plasma screens and imported chinchilla,” demanded a very disappointed Alfred King, a huge Diddy fan. “I mean, at least he could have put on some Scarface or some shit.”

The tour began in the family room where a fake aquarium with coral reef wallpaper and a lazy boy chair with a makeshift armrest/beer dispenser immediately triggered sighs of annoyance and disenchanted familiarity.

After quickly being ushered down an off white painted hallway that Bard claimed was a rare plaster only found in Oriental farmlands, the classmates reached even higher levels of flabbergast at the site of Bard’s room. “What the fuck?” Asked Chip Truman, one of the coolest freshmen at Apopka high. “The kid had a water bed littered with Cabbage Patch Kids.” Bard later legitimized this by explaining that the dolls were very rare and were imported from Oriental farmlands.

The tour continued and Bard struggled to keep the very vocal group focused. At one point, he attempted to regain focus by explaining that his house was being used to shoot a new 1980’s themed Spielberg movie starring Mario Lopez and the fact he had brought them “on set” without clearance was a risky undertaking that could get “my ass canned”. This alleged bait-and-switch technique was met with an arsenal of vulgarity that pushed the tour into a state of panic. In a desperate attempt to gain control, Bard did a Google image search for the word ‘Vagina’.

After a lot of laughter and Blue Collar Tour parallels, everyone immediately left the house giggling and pushing each other into bushes. Bard was left behind, knowing that this horrific ordeal would cause his popularity numbers to plummet just prior to a time he needed them the most… homecoming season. “Now, he’ll be lucky if he gets a date with that huge Goth chick that writes poetry in the east staircase all day,” said Mike James, a junior with high numbers due to a hilarious Carlos Mencia joke he delivered at lunch. “I don’t think he can bounce back, not even for homecoming next year, let alone next year’s prom (a pause) Beaner.”

Bard’s tragic cribs tour has spread across the entire county. Roy Pelt, a senior at Edgewater High School, about twenty miles down the highway, confirmed that rumors are already trickling in. “I hear he jerks it to Oriental paintings and showers with his parents,” explained Roy. “That shit is trailer.”

“My buddy over at Lake Highland Prep told me that he pissed himself while doing the cabbage patch,” laughed Drew Gilliland, a senior at Bard’s high school, who best remembers Bard from the time he ran for freshman class president on the grounds that every Friday would be ‘dress up like your favorite Star Trek character’ and that forth period would be reserved for ‘freestyle walking’.

These days Bard is verbally abused in the hallways of school, kids constantly shouting out things like “This is the house that shit built”. But, Bard is moving forward. In second period English class, Bard used his allotted essay reading time to formally announce that his house would be receiving an upgrade that would make Extreme Makeover: Home Edition look like “a little bitch” and by the end of the year he would be giving another tour of his house that will “leave you questioning everything you thought you knew about cribs”. He also announced that Spielberg’s 1980’s themed movie had been temporarily put on hiatus.

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By Michael James Nelson

I think a ghost took a dump in my house. No, I don’t have any proof, but I am sure it was there, floating in my toilet. It smelled like death. And, a lot of people will think I am crazy and think I am just seeing things, but none of that matters to me for I know there is a presence lingering in my house.

Beyond that one rotting smell, there are other things. I get these senses that I am not alone. “Hello?” No one ever answers. But sometimes, when I enter my house, I always find a tension filled quiet, like I just interrupted a conversation and all parties involved are silent, holding their breath. Yes, this is all new to me. I don’t have any past dealings with spirits stricken to a life of limbo here on Earth. I am trying to adapt best I can, but it has been a bumpy road.

Bottom line, I am trying to be polite to this ghost because I know he can rock my shit if I pissed him off, with his cloaking capabilities and dark powers. How do I know it is a he? Well, no woman, dead or alive, would drop a deuce like the one that sucked the oxygen out of my bathroom, and now I realize that a fart joke probably kills in the underworld. Good to know.

So, the other night I turned the television off and announced that any spirits in any dimension in any room of my house may use the toilet. “…But you must flush the toilet and flush twice if necessary!” It was my first action towards total acceptance. Would he listen? Well, it’s tough to say. I am not sure if ghost can hear. I think they might be deaf because every time they are depicted on television, it sounds like they are moaning like a deaf person.

And, the thing is that I – See! Did you hear that? (Editor Note: the Author gets up to inspect a noise that came from the back of the house. He returns.) Bastard opened the microwave door. See, it’s shit like that that really gets me. He needs to stop with the petty stuff and get down to business; you know, try and communicate with me or tell me he is a long lost relative.

Anyway, what am I to do? Its not like I can evict him. If I did demand him to leave he would just slam a door and then be quiet. A couple weeks would pass, me thinking he was gone, practicing my usual naked Wednesdays (helps the week to go by faster) and then he would scare the shit out of me by knocking something over or just take another colossal dump. But, as the days pass it really does bother me that I truly do not know if he is really in my house. Knowing flat out that he was in my presence would relieve me of so much stress. Sometimes I just fill with rage, lost in the unknown. So, I went out a bought some “ghost gear”.

I got on the Internet and ordered a handheld ghost meter that detects any sudden spikes in electromagnetic energy. I also threw on what is called a “glide suit” made out of rubber, covered with these small, dark blue plates that supposedly make you invisible to the invisible. After a couple beers, I slowly crept around my house, holding the meter in front of me and holding a bag of flower in my other hand. The purpose of the flower was to throw in the air when my electromagnetic meter spiked. That way it would land on the ghost and make him visible. Now, I had a couple big leads and at one point I thought I had him cornered. My electromagnetic meter was spiking like crazy. But, an hour later I had nothing and my entire house was covered in flower.

So, I have made a deal with him. Now, I can’t prove that said ghost was at said meeting but what I said out-loud was that all ghost in my house please come to the kitchen. After five minutes, I sat down and began the meeting. “It is apparent to me that certain ghosts at this table will not leave.” I said, waiting. Silence. A noise! I quickly jerked my head and then realized that it was my air conditioner humming to life on the other side of the house. “So, I have drawn up a lease agreement. I am not sure what year you left us, but these days we sign leases.” I slid a copy across the table and stared at it, just waiting to see any movement. It did move, but that was the breeze from an open window. I shut it and proceeded.

“You may stay in my home. You may call this home. But, I have rules… Ma’am.” I waited, hoping the ghost would object to my calling him, ma’am. Nothing. “Rule Number 1: Any ghost to live under my roof shall never reveal themselves to me for it would scare me beyond belief. And if English isn’t your native tongue, please speak up.” Pause. I scanned the room. “Rule Number Two is a given: Any ghost under this roof shall always flush after a bodacious dump.” Pause. Nothing. “Rule Number Three: There shall only be three ghost under this roof at a time. If you have friends over, and there are four of you, take it out to the patio.” Pause. Scan. Nothing. “And finally, rule number four: if my dog is barking and I am not home, please let him out to piss and run around.” I put the paper down. “Fair?”

No answer. But, I think he got the point. I have not seen any signs of my friend for some time. I confess, I do miss him dearly. And if he went to drier pastures, well, I hope he is happy. But, I do miss the guy. The place hasn’t been the same anymore. I hope he knows he always has a home right here. And I hope he knows that if he shits in the toilet, then son-of-a-bitch he needs to flush it.

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JCC Locker Room

By Michael James Nelson

“Gotta drop dem knees down now,” shouted a tall black man to a bunch of small Jewish kids on a basketball court. “Make sure you protect that basket! Don’t let ‘em drive the lane! Clog the middle!” I grabbed the ball, cut right, cut left, weaved in-and-out of each defender, and took it right down the middle to the basket. A whistle blew.

“No, no, no,” the tall black man said, moving onto the court, directing some of the kids. “Ovi, you let him go right past you. And Ben, you gotta get low to the floor. Guys, you gotta clog the middle so he can’t go straight to the hole!” I just stood off to the side, with a grin on my face. It was 1995 and I was the “Michael Jordan” at the Jewish Community Center’s (JCC) Summer Basketball Camp. And that tall black man was our coach, Dennis Scott.

Dennis Scott was a local star at the time. He played for the NBA’s Orlando Magic, but more importantly, he was a celebrity that drove a “pimped-out ride” and was on television every other night. So, as he would stand there, holding our shoulders, placing us where we needed to be on the court, we just kept telling ourselves, “Oh my God, Dennis Scott is talking to me.” We were star struck, all his words went in one ear and out the other.

After camp, we would always congregate in the men’s locker room to get into our street clothes, discuss the activities of the day, and just hang out. But before we would enter this very large locker room, one boy would always peak inside first and then give the “all clear” sign. What were we trying to avoid in that locker room? Old, naked Jewish men.

The men’s locker room at the JCC was notorious for it’s old, naked Jewish men. These old men would roam the locker room, their wrinkly asses reflecting the ultraviolet light from the bulbs above as their testicles demonstrated the true forces of Earth’s gravity.

We got the “all clear” and moved in. Fifteen minutes passed and we were pretty much dressed in our regular clothes, just talking about camp and planning the rest of the day. Then, all of a sudden enters Dennis Scott. All goes silent. No way!!! Dennis Scott!!!

After what seemed like a month, a kid named Jordan stood-up and slowly approached him. “Hey Mr. Scott, how are you,” Jordan nervously asked, extending his hand. “I’m fine Jordan,” Dennis said, his enormous black hand encasing Jordan’s. “Good job out there today guys. A lot of hard work.” And then Dennis looked right at me. “And nice game today, Michael,” Dennis said. “Loved that last drive to the hole.” And then he started walking towards me, extending his hand. At that moment, time slowed to a snail’s speed. A sink ran in the other room. A basketball bounced in the gym. The air conditioner softly hummed. And I was a deer in headlights. Dennis Scott, a pro basketball player, complimented me on my game and was about to shake my hand. This moment would go down in Jewish history.

Suddenly, a white, wrinkly ass appeared two inches from my face. I immediately jerked my head back. An old Jewish man had come out of nowhere, blocked me, and shook Dennis’ hand. At first, I don’t think that Dennis realized the man was naked, but after the shake, Dennis jumped back a foot or two.

Then, like zombies rising from the dead, old, naked Jewish men started slowly walking towards Dennis from every direction. They came from the showers, from the steam rooms, from behind lockers. Everywhere! How did these old men move as if one entity? Did they communicate in some flagellant language, but at a frequency too low for the human ear?

Dennis was trapped with only one way to go, out the door. He announced he was late for a meeting and bolted. The old, naked Jewish men looked at each other, shrugged it off, and went back into the depths of the locker room. I was crushed, and then decided that I was going to get my handshake. I stood up and in between the door and I stood three old, naked Jewish men. I took a deep breath, grabbed my bag, cut right, cut left, weaving in-and out each old man, and went out the door.

I rounded the corner outside the JCC, caught up with Dennis. “Hey, Dennis, its Michael,” I said, sweat sliding down my forehead. “You know, down the middle?”

“Yes, Michael. Again, great job out there.” Dennis said, extending his hand. “You got some game, son.”

I was fixated on the enormous black hand suspended in front of me. That hand looked huge, like it could take out my mom’s house with one swipe. But, this mammoth hand was the same hand that cuddled the ball ever so gently and flung it through the air, floating to the hoop like poetry. Swish! He was a very skilled celebrity.

So, I snapped out of it and reciprocated. Shaking his hand, I was in heaven. Then, from somewhere behind me, I heard a door aggressively open, accompanied with some shuffling and muttering. It was the herd of naked Jewish men, now fully clothed. I have to admit it was odd to see the old men clothed because I had become so accustomed to them grazing everyday with not a centimeter of clothing on them.

They all slowly walked past Dennis and me as we shook hands. I am pretty sure Dennis kept shaking my hand because he needed to look occupied. I kept shaking his hand because he is a professional basketball player. The old men slowly continued to walk by, squinting their eyes, as if to say, “The locker room is our turf little boy. Be careful. Be very, very careful.” I suddenly imaged them all in the locker room, creeping towards us like in West Side Story, but instead of snapping, with each step, they would release a pungent fart.

© Michael Nelson – All Rights Reserved.

Filed under: Writing by Michael James Nelson
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