Foreword
“How the hell do I know why there were Nazis? I don’t even know how the can opener works!”
-Woody Allen
So there I was, alone in my apartment on a Thursday night, a college sophomore, staring at the unopened can of chicken noodle soup on my kitchen counter. I wasn’t sick, but it was the last edible item remaining on the premises, because I certainly couldn’t stomach heating up my roommate’s month-old leftover pasta that I was convinced was mutating into an alien life-form. A nocturnal jaunt down to the supermarket proved out of the question, for the rain outside sounded downright apocalyptic, and that ten-page term paper due the next day needed my immediate love and support. Hence, chicken noodle soup would have to be the fuel that’d get me through a long and sleepless night of staring at blank Word documents and pulling my hair out.
A normal person would’ve popped that sucker into the microwave and forgotten about it until the obnoxious beep beep beep (machine-speak for “Hey, idiot, your food’s ready”). But since I’ve never been confused with a normal person, I chose this moment to have a go at that old but semi-operable stove that had heretofore only been able to stare longingly at my backside as I cooked up delicious feasts in the much-faster microwave. I guess that, like any form of instant gratification, nuked nourishment had gotten tiring after a while, so I figured that the slower but more thoughtful stove would give me a more rewarding taste experience. Of course, there was the matter of the unopened soup can to resolve before I could begin to flirt with those intimidating blue flames. Unfortunately, the can was one of those metal fortresses with no convenient pop top for mechanically-challenged goofballs like myself, so I decided I had two conceivable ways of penetrating Castle de Chicken Noodle: I could either puncture the thing with an electric drill or I could dust off that strange and frightening device which I had long avoided — the can opener.
Not having an electric drill at my disposal, I swallowed my fear and removed the dreaded apparatus from my kitchen drawer with shaking hands. For the next five minutes I stared at it, trying to determine exactly how to apply its tiny blades to the can and obtain access to my precious soup. At wit’s end, I finally stormed over to my computer, logged on to the ever-reliable Google and entered a search for “how to use a can opener.” However, this skill is apparently considered so rudimentary that even a one-eyed woodpecker can figure it out, so they don’t put instructions for it on Google. At least, they didn’t in 2006. Or maybe I put in the wrong search terms…I did get a lot of links to websites devoted to cans, but not the kind of cans I was occupied with at the time. Just 99% of the rest of the time. I was in college — give me a break!
Anyhow, annoyed but far from defeated, I returned to the soup can, which was leering up at me like that jackface from Kappa Delta Sigma (or something) who was dating the girl he knew I had a crush on. I don’t remember their names anymore, but I’m sure back then they spent multiple nights making out in my brain and depriving me of sleep and self-esteem. Whoever they were, to this day I thank them (especially him, that jackface) for temporarily transmogrifying into a stubborn can of soup.
With a ghastly vision of his slobbering mouth desecrating that of my pristine and perfect angel on my very own kitchen counter, I grabbed the can opener and attacked Castle de Chicken Noodle as if it contained the last meal I would ever consume on this Earth. Fifteen minutes and an armful of sore muscles later, I was left with nothing but an inconsequential series of little dents and scrapes in the top of the can. Although I was so hungry at this point that if my roommate had had a goldfish I surely would’ve swallowed it whole, I couldn’t quit. I couldn’t go crawling back to the cheap thrills of the microwave. I couldn’t allow myself to be defeated by a contraption I’d seen my mother use hundreds of times without batting an eyelash.
So I went back at it. What happened next remains a hazy mystery to me, maybe the haziest one of all my college years (you may choose to believe that or not, doesn’t matter). All I know is that when it was all over, I had somehow managed to poke one tiny hole in the top of the can, just big enough for me to grab one of my huge, nasty kitchen knives, stick it in, and slice off the top for good. A mere half-hour after it had begun, the Battle of Castle de Chicken Noodle was one for the history books, and though I’d later need to put an ice pack on my exhausted biceps, I was positive that the struggle had been more than worth it. The great thing was, I had my delicious (if a tad too salty) soup-dinner, my stove could finally bask in the pleasure of my undivided attention, and my term paper would not have to be delayed until the wee hours.
The bad thing was, I still had no idea how the can opener worked.
I wanted to start this book with an anecdote to show you a little bit about who I am, how my mind works, and why you should care to read the stories contained in the following pages. The fact that I selected my most embarrassing anecdote probably shows you more about myself than you’ll ever want to know. (Yes, that is my most embarrassing one…any dude can fumble around with a girl, but it takes a special breed of awkward to fumble around for half an hour with a basic kitchen tool.) Really the only thing you need to know about me is, as I mentioned earlier, I’ve never been confused with a normal person. My question to you would then be: What’s normal? Who decides who’s normal? Is there a list of “normal” behaviors that people must consistently display before they get to be labelled “normal?”
Yeah, okay, smartypants, being able to use a can opener would qualify as normal behavior. And for the record, I can use a can opener just fine now, thank you very much. But I have a B.A. from a respected four-year university. Is that normal? What’s the ratio of college graduates to non-college graduates? I didn’t fly on a plane until I was 23 years old. Is that normal? What’s the ratio of people who didn’t fly on a plane until they were 23 years old to people who flew on a plane before they were 23 years old? I like hiking, pretending I can play guitar, and laughing my ass off while I sit on it watching Something Funny On T.V. Is that normal? What’s the ratio of people who like hiking, pretending they can play guitar, and laughing their asses off while they sit on them watching Something Funny On T.V. to…well, you get the picture.
I guess what I’m trying to get at here is if you’re a twentysomething, like I am, I’d argue that the pressure’s never been greater to join the ranks of the “normal people.” You see these people everywhere. Heck, you might be one of them. They’re putting photos on their Facebook pages to provide visual evidence of how fun and popular they are, in case their 500 friends needed a gentle reminder. They’re tweeting their every move and thought, hoping that someone cares enough to notice. They’ve got their iPods, iPads, iPhones, MacBooks, BlackBerries, Android phones, Windows phones, and phones that I’ve probably forgotten about already. They’re all listening to that song you’ve got stuck in your head because you keep hearing it in those commercials. They’re all watching that T.V. show that everybody’s talking about on Twitter. They’ve all seen that movie that everybody’s also talking about on Twitter. They all know that viral video of someone/something doing something weird and/or funny because someone/lots of people forwarded them the link.
And yet, even if you’re doing everything I listed above, chances are you’ve been told at some point in your life that something you’re doing isn’t normal. In fact, I’ll bet you all the chicken noodle soup I’ve got. That’s why I wrote this book. Because nobody’s one-hundred-percent certified “normal.” Everyone has a can opener story. No matter how strictly you try to buy the right things and say the right words and act the right way, each one of you has a red-faced little anecdote you’d hesitate to tell your best friend in the whole wide world. Or maybe you would tell it, laughing uproariously at yourself along the way. Whatever works. Most of the stories you’re about to read are fictional. Some are more outlandish than others, one is downright silly, and a few are just weird enough to be true. Or not. And, oh yeah, none of ‘em are about “normal people.”
In short: this book is for you. All of you. All you weirdos,
