<ul>
 <li>Anyone who says Disneyland is the happiest place on earth has never been on the set of Masterchef Jr.</li>
 <li>The competition are all under 14 years old</li>
 <li>Kids under 14 years old are as mentally and physically weak as you’d expect</li>
 <li>You’re automatically the coolest guy in the room if you’re not a loser ten year old who likes to cook</li>
 <li>Gordon Ramsay doesn’t look a day over 70</li>
 <li>None of your opponents have the cognitive skills to defend themselves against rampant verbal abuse</li>
 <li>None of your opponents have the motor skills to defend themselves against stealthy physical attacks</li>
 <li>“Pussy-ass bitch” is inappropriate language for national television</li>
 <li>Masterchef Jr. is not broadcast nationally</li>
 <li>“Pussy-ass bitch” is inappropriate language for children who are pussy-ass bitches</li>
 <li>About half of the contestants are pre-diabetic</li>
 <li>The other half are actual-diabetic</li>
 <li>There’s food everywhere and you can eat any of it at any time if you’re high enough</li>
 <li>The on set safety team takes its job way too seriously</li>
 <li>The on set safety team believes blood in the food to be a safety hazard</li>
 <li>You can curse out children on a show hosted by Gordon Ramsay and no one will notice</li>
 <li>Cooking sure is harder than it looks!</li>
</ul>

Anyone who says Disneyland is the happiest place on earth has never been...

What I Learned On The Set of MasterChef Jr.

Robert: So, crucifying hard or hardly crucifying? Sorry, don’t mind me, I have kind of a twisted sense of humor. 
Jesus: (stops praying, exasperated) I am the son of God, King of Kings and Lord of Lords. 
Robert: I know. So what! 
Jesus: So please stop yelling “and women” in a sarcastic tone every time I finish a prayer. 
Robert: You’re not even going to ask me what my name is are you? 
Jesus: I know all things. I know your name is Robert. 
Robert: That’s not my name. 
Jesus: Yes it is. It’s the name my father gave you. 
Robert: If you know all things then you know what people call me... 
Jesus: I’m not calling you that, Robert. 
Robert: Dingbat. Because I ding Romans on the head with my bat. 
Jesus: (annoyed tonal muttering) 
Robert: That’s actually why I’m up here on this cross. All the dinging. Well, I guess more the crushed skulls, but that was mostly on account of the dinging. 
Jesus: Maybe you could just do your crucifixion and I could just do mine. 
Robert: You know what I always say, though, if you can’t take the— 
Jesus: If you can’t take the dinging make stronger helmets. I know. I know you always say that.

Robert: So, crucifying hard or hardly crucifying...

Guy on the Cross Next to Jesus

Time Traveler: People of Salem, stop this madness! These women are innocent. 
 Executioner: What? 
 Time Traveler: What you’re doing disproportionately discriminates against a subset of society on the basis of identity. 
 Executioner: (high-fives other Puritans) 
 Time Traveler: This woman committed no crime other than the crime of being strong and beautiful. 
 Executioner: The witch? Goodie Brenda? She burned down a school. 
 Time Traveler: Probably to protest the lack of schooling she received! 
 Executioner: Look man, when you’re stabbing other kids with pencils, the board pretty much has to consider an expulsion. 
 Time Traveler: I wish you could see the gender and sexuality office of my private New England liberal arts college. Your worldview is so small. 
 Witch: (pokes head out of rat-filled burlap sack) 
 Time Traveler: She’s alive! 
 Witch: To be honest, I’m like—I’m a pretty bad person. I kind of deserve this.

Salem Witch Trials

One Thursday, Little Walter Chairfork was trudging home from school, mind filled with the events of the day. He had spilled milk all over his “Dad Jokes Are How Eye Roll” shirt at lunch, right in front of his crush, Nancy, and her boyfriend. J-Dog, everyone called him. It was the type of nickname you could shout while doing sports or having sex — two things Little Walter had yet to experience. Little Walter’s idea of sport was catching Pokemon on his Nintendo DS. His idea of an orgasm was basically the same thing but under his covers at night.

After spilling the milk, the day had gone from bad to worse. As Little Walter looked up at Nancy, he had tried to ease the tension with a gentle quip. “Some weather we’re having, huh Nancy? It’s raining milk and cookies!”

The room, which had previously erupted in laughter at his mishap, fell silent. “What does that even mean?” asked Nancy. “You’re not even eating cookies. I mean, the tone was fine, but the premise just fell flat.” Then J-Dog spit on him and gave the lunchlady his autograph.

After the great D-Hall Debacle, as Little Walter had termed it in his head, he had failed his Spanish test. You see, Little Walter wasn’t the kind of bullied nerd who could find solace in the fact that one day he would go to a great college and make more money than his peers. He was quite dumb. Next to a bag of potatoes, Little Walter looked like a bag of rocks, which was the sort of thing he would often say about himself in an attempt at self-deprecating humor, but everyone else would just find sort of sad due to its accuracy. Little Walter was also fat. Obviously.

And so, Little Walter was trudging home from school after his worst day of the last three. In all honesty, bad stuff happened to Little Walter all the time. Today he had failed the Spanish test and spilled the milk. Yesterday, his father had died in a brutal car accident. The day before, the ice cream truck had run out of Chunky Monkey (Walter’s favorite flavor). It was while attempting to capture a wild Charizard that Walter tripped, fell, rolled 4 feet, and found himself staring over the edge of the sidewalk into a gaping void of eternal darkness.

Jump, a voice echoed.

“Come back here, Chawizard!” said Little Walter, still engrossed in his videogame. Little Walter had a lisp, which came out in moments of stress.

What the — are you even listening, kid? A mysterious voice tells you to jump into a gaping hole in the middle of your neighborhood and you’re worried about a Charizard? Oh God – I can smell you from here.

“Chawizard?!” The hole had gotten Little Walter’s attention with the word. “Holy guacamole!” he exclaimed. The boy was prone to replacing his swear words with foods. His mother had always told him swearing was “a sign of the devil.” His father had always told him “shut up, go to your room, but get me another beer first.”

Uhh – yeah, yeah that’s right kid, the void said. There’s a Charizard down here, and if you want to catch it you have to jump.

Little Walter hesitated.

What are you waiting for?

“I guess...” he sputtered. “I guess I’m just worried that when I jump my shirt will ride up on my stomach like it does in gym class on rope climbing day, and that J-Dog or Coach Applebee will be nearby and say I’m a “tub of lard” or “trying my best” like they do at school.

Jesus Christ.

“But I can get over that,” Little Walter continued. “And plus, I jump every day when I’m trying to play hopscotch during recess. One day I’ll make it to the tenth square without tripping!”

Um. Okay. Well, yeah. I’ve got hopscotch down here, and ice cream, and all the Pokemon you could ever want. And... your dad just died, right? I feel like that was kind of glossed over, but he’s down here too. And he wants to see you! And there are no bullies or gym coaches. Nancy’s here, and you didn’t hear it from me but she’s wearing her good chapstick – the cherry-scented one, and she looks just about ready to kiss behind the bleachers. So tuck that shirt into those neon athletic shorts and get jumping!

“Wait... Nancy wants to kiss me? I gotta get down there.” Little Walter was confused but excited. Something was beginning to happen in his pants and he moved to cover it with his Nintendo DS, which was more than large enough to hide the problem.

I don’t know, she was saying something earlier about being in love with the unphukular kid and wanting to turn him into Prom Queen? And how she knows everyone else would see his inner beauty if she could just give him an 80s rom-com-style makeover?

Little Walter asked what song the makeover would be paired with, and the void said Take on Me or maybe The Power of Love, and Little Walter was sold. “Stop drilling, you’ve hit oil!” he chuckled.

What does that even – oh, okay yeah. Come on down.

“I’ll be down faster than you can say ‘my dog has cancer and I’m worried I won’t be able to emotionally deal with her death!’”

There was a pause.

“I mean hey, whatever’s down there it’s gotta be more spacious than the locker I spend half the day stuffed in. So is there a trampoline or something down there ready to catch my fall?”

Again, no reply.

“Hello? Are you there? You’re sounding almost as absent as my father!”

Look man, I think I’d just – I think I’d feel bad if I didn’t ask: is everything, like, okay at home? All this stuff you’re saying... it sounds like... really sad? Like pathetic even? And it’s just, this whole thing I’m doing... usually I have to tempt people into abandoning their lives with all of these false promises about what’s down here, and you just seem sort of immediately ready to go.

“You got snacks down there?”

Oh my –

“I like twizzlers. You got twizzlers?”

No, I don’t “have twizzlers,” said the voice, exasperated. Little Walter patted the rim of the hole comfortingly, worried he had offended it. “Aw, that’s okay,” he offered. “I also like Twix and Kit-Kats. Any candy, really.” He flashed a gap toothed smile. Little Walter’s penchant for sweets had landed him with 17 cavities before the age of 12.

I can’t believe I’m saying this but I... don’t have a lot of candy actually. Maybe you should ease off the sweets? Could help with the acne? And you might do a little better in gym class. Do your parents really not pay enough attention to you to care what you eat?

Walter felt something stir in his chest. He looked at the ground. Or rather, he looked down at his stomach, then leaned forward so he was able to properly see the ground. It was true – his parents were usually too busy arguing to remember to make him dinner, and he spent many a supper on the curb of 7/11, forlornly stuffing lukewarm taquitos into his mouth. Most nights, he would follow it up with a pack of four of twizzlers. Sometimes he would stare at the intersecting red strands, imagining them to be two people in love – not like Mom and Dad. Not like him and Nancy. Or maybe they formed a piece of DNA, he would think. A double helix of a gene that could make him a different person. An even marginally less pathetic person. It was his greatest wish in the entire world.

And though he was generally relentlessly optimistic, Little Walter felt sad.

Oh... look kid, I wasn’t trying to bum you out. You know, it’s just like, you gotta at least try to improve your life. You know, try deodorant or something. You can’t expect magic holes to appear all the time and start offering you everything you’ve ever wanted.

Little Walter considered this. He did not consider things often. and it hurt his little walnut-sized brain.

And most of the time those offers of paradise would probably be a trick anyway. Just a ruse to – taking purely hypothetically here – harvest your soul or something like that. I don’t know.

“So you’re saying I... shouldn’t jump in.”

Well, yeah. I guess you shouldn’t. It was the first time the void had ever said this.

“And I should wear deodorant? That would make people like me more?”

Yeah. Correct.

And so Little Walter continued on his way, circumventing the void by carefully maneuvering around the street and through his neighbor’s yard. He hummed Take My Breath Away to himself, thinking of one day when he would kiss Nancy. He would be like “Hey Nancy, you take my breath away” and she would be like “you’re so handsome” and they would totally smooch, maybe even with tongue if the moment was right.

As Little Walter trotted home, he felt nothing but appreciation for the advice the void had given him. He imagined doing his Spanish homework that night without his classic “reverse pomodoro method,” which included 25 minutes of Pokemon for every 5 minutes of studying. He pictured making eye contact with J-Dog the next day in school without cowering, speaking without spitting all over the place, and walking through the cafeteria without spilling his food. And yes, oh yes – he would even put on deodorant, he resolved.

And as the pit of despair and desperation into which he had almost stumbled shrunk in the distance behind him, he remarked to himself that maybe – just maybe – he would eat one fewer taquito that night.

“Only 11,” he whispered to himself defiantly. “Only 11 taquitos tonight.”

Little Walter eventually moved to Hollywood and became who we now know as Tom Cruise.

Screaming Into The Void

When Billy was about five years old, his parents informed his teacher that his reading comprehension was just fine and he was keeping up well with the rest of the class, but he might be struggling a bit with seeing the bright side of things. Billy’s teacher had noticed that he was much more wary than other children and would always over-fill his glasses of milk, cautious of letting them rest at half full. So, his parents decided to send him to the internationally renowned local optometrist and run some tests.

“Just go ahead and cover your left eye and read out that line of letters for me.”

“A... Q... Z... P... U... R... attempting to put a bandaid on a bullet hole.”

“Okay, right eye please.”

The doctor diagnosed Billy with a case of short-sighted pessimism. He was fitted with a pair of -2.00 prescription rose-colored glasses for his optimism and a pair of blue-light glasses for when he wanted to stay up late at night watching TV.

After that, Billy’s outlook on life changed for the better. When Billy got a D in school, he figured that if you add a colon to the left it makes a smiley face, and a smiley face for a grade couldn’t be all that bad! The exam was on identifying the issues with American Imperialism. When Billy’s soccer team lost their match 2-27, he remarked to his teammates that at least all the pretty girls had come to watch them play, and when his teammates beat him up for embarrassing them, he commented on how his bruises would go just swell with the pinkish hue of everything else in the world.

Billy was living a beautiful life in blissful ignorance. There was just one problem.

Every night before bed, Billy would take off his glasses, and everything would go neutral. He would scream in agony and fear over the state of the world, crying himself to sleep until he woke up the next day and popped those bad boys back on. Those eight and a half hours were petrifying, and his parents had no idea what to do. So, they took him back to the optometrist.

This time, Billy was given LASIK surgery with rose-colored lenses. And all was swell again, only now Billy had the opposite problem. With his rose-colored lens on twenty-four-seven, he was just too darn excited about the “possibilities of tomorrow” that he wasn’t able to fall asleep. He would stay up all night, laughing about how the world looked like God had left a red sock in the wash.

Due to the lack of sleep, Billy struggled a lot with paying attention in school. His teacher recommended he see a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist supplied Billy with adderall, and after that, well, Billy was just fine.

Rose Colored Glasses

HULL 
Integrity of RMS Titanic seems somewhat dubious due to series of giant holes throughout the bow, stern, and middle part of hull. Cited to reviewer by architect as “intentional design choice, it’s not like you would know anything about aesthetics anyway, have you ever even been to New York?”

GIANT PATCHES OF SHEET METAL STAPLED ACROSS HOLES IN HULL 
Not structurally sound. Insisted upon by previous reviewer who was asked if he even knew who architect’s dad was before being dismissed by architect. Previous reviewer can no longer find work in the industry.

ARCHITECT 
Self-described as “trans-disciplinary cultural provocateur working at the intersection of memory and materiality.” Makes 2 million dollars a year, reviewer was informed. By architect.

CAPTAIN’S WHEEL 
Not attached to rudder in any way, given rudder does not exist. Architect informed reviewer he wanted to be able to do “this” without the boat turning, then spun wheel all the way around like wheel of fortune and informed reviewer the “solution to the puzzle” was “F-U-C-K-O-F-F,” which in reviewer’s opinion seemed unlikely.

STERN 
Cited by architect as “resistant to all naturally occurring elements except ice.” And when reviewer was like “well ice is pretty common, especially on the ocean,” architect just sort of repeated reviewer in nasally sing-song voice that implied his concerns were invalid.

UPTIGHT BITCH 
What architect referred to reviewer as, despite being informed that reviewer does not appreciate name calling and actually used to let loose back in college quite a bit.

STATE SCHOOL 
Where architect mockingly assumed reviewer went to college. Architect went to Brown, apparently.

CRYING 
What reviewer did not do at any point during the review process, despite the shine architect thought he saw in the corner of his eye that was actually just the sun reflecting weird through the porthole.

SOME OF US GOT INTO SCHOOL ON MERIT, NOT LEGACY 
What reviewer should have said to architect. Yeah, that would’ve shown him. That’d have been perfect.

Integrity of RMS Titanic seems somewhat dubious...

Final Notes On Pre-Launch Structural Integrity

Intergalactic War is what me and my younger brother Terry play in the basement when we want to escape the sound of Mom and Dad arguing.

Me: Pew Pew! Got you with my laser gun, Terry! 
Terry: Did not! 
Me: Did too! 
Terry: Yeah, well I just hit you with my freeze ray! 
Me: (standing still) Curse you, moon aliens! 
Terry: And guess what? I’m gonna blow up the whole Earth with this epic laser. 
Me: Not if I blow up the moon with my epic laser first. 
Terry: Hey. Don’t do that. 
Me: Why not? 
Terry: The consequences would be cataclysmic. 
Me: (pretending to fire a large laser) Peeeeew-wowwwwwwww! Too late, just did, haha. 
Terry: The chunks of debris from the explosion hurtle towards Earth, promising unfixable terrestrial transformation and certain death for millions. 
Me: Jeez Terry it was just— 
Terry: The surviving Moon People mourn the losses of loved ones, children, and spouses, in the mere moments they have left before their own inevitable deaths. 
Me: Well, I guess my laser worked pretty good. Earth wins, right? 
Terry: Yeah, if you consider the melting of Polar ice caps, rising sea levels, millions displaced, skyrocketing immigration, post-apocalyptic dictator-based governance, and an unstable axial tilt a “win.” 
Me: I don’t understand where you learned all this. You’re seven years old. 
Terry: I’m what Mom and Dad are fighting about.

Intergalactic War is what me and my younger brother Terry play in the basement...

Intergalactic War

I am wolf. Not big, also not that bad. Growing up wolf, life is tough. My momma and papa are rug now in rich guy’s house. My sisters and brothers in Brooklyn Zoo.

When I am small, big foreign Hollywood producer barge into den. “I need actor. Play big bad villain. Many movies.” My parents already rug, so I say, “No, go to other den.” He shoot me with tranquilizer.

I wake up on set. 6 a.m. First day, they tell me to blow down three houses. I’m like, what I look like? Whale? I cannot blow. Then they want me to eat three pigs. These pigs pretty smart, know what is gonna happen. Start running around set, knocking stuff down. I give them good chase. More tranquilizers, “Bam bam bam.”

Six months later, movie is done and I am big star now. Go to Oscars and lose. Director give me some whiskey. I like. I like a lot. Have to meet with douchebag PR agent who has big vision for rebrand. I audition for lead role in Fantastic Mr. Fox and get part. But social media say, “Only fox can play fox.” I tell director, “I have lot of range. Wolf who hug. Wolf who cry.” He laugh right in my face.

Next movie, when I see I have to eat Grandma, I try to walk off set. Director tell me Grandma is volunteer who ready to pull plug and that I will get some whiskey, so I say ok. Just when I do the deed and think movie is over, some big muscular actor barge onto set and try to cut my stomach open. He think he gonna be big hero and rescue Grandma. I try to resist, but the whiskey has made me fat. When they try to get Grandma out, she is just bones. I’m like, what you expect to happen?

Next thing I know, movie come out and it is very so-so. Out of nowhere agent call me and say “You fired.” At first, I’m like hee hee, very funny. But then they give me whole spiel about how nobody need wolf anymore. Everyone want Adam Sandler instead.

When I get call for Jack London’s Call of the Wild, I very happy. Finally, drama role made for wolf. On set, I prepare for big fancy monologue where I reject domestication and rediscover my true nature, when director come up and tell me, “We cut that. You mostly fetch stick.”

I get so mad I actually go wild. I bite director. Not hard bite, but director is French and very dramatic. Somehow this become international incident and I am banned from seventeen country.

Now I only act in commercial for pill that fix erectile dysfunction, which I get from whiskey. Life is not good.

Autobiography

Edward Michael “Bear” Grylls is a British adventurer best known for his show Man vs. Wild, in which he spends days alone in the wilderness, testing his strength, discipline, and survival skills.

For our interview, Bear picks me up in his Grylls-o-Copter, which is what he calls his bicycle. “Hop in the basket,” he tells me. “Roll your suitcases on the sides of the bike, like training wheels. I can ride a bike, but I like the comfort of training wheels.” I tell him I didn’t bring a suitcase, because it’s an hour long interview. “That’s fine” Bear says, “Just sit in the basket and I’ll push. I can ride a bike though.”

As we roll towards Bear’s Cave—which is what he calls his duplex—Bear tells me about his childhood, where he learned how to lie. “I wasn’t always a liar,” Bear tells me. “I learned from my mom. Like, one time she made us a special dinner that she called ‘Salmon Surprise’, but the surprise was that she was getting a divorce.”

Once we get to his duplex, Bear peers in the window. “No one’s home” he says. “Let’s be quick about this.” Bear throws his bike over the fence, hops it, and then breaks into the basement. “I learned how to do that from Genghis Khan.” Genghis Khan has been dead for almost 800 years, I tell him. Whenever Bear gets caught in a lie, he just doubles down on it. “I met him when I was on The Voice,” he replies.

“Is this your house?” I ask him. This is the first question I’ve asked so far, because Bear was pushing his bike so fast that we hit a bird and it died and we were too sad to talk for the next half hour.

“I sleep here,” he says. After four forced ping pong games, Bear makes me play twelve more ping pong games. “I like ping pong because I’m a world champion at ping pong.” He tells me. “What about Man vs. Wild?” I ask him. “Isn’t that your whole thing?”

“Man vs. Wild was filmed during a single week of my life.” He says. “I had no idea they were recording and I got no money.”

“We’ve wasted enough time. Let’s work out right now,” Bear announces. “I’m going to do a super quick workout that I learned from the Peloton, which is a special device I invented, but I can’t tell you what it does.” Bear flails around for a bit, jumping and kicking and pirouetting, before falling asleep on the floor. Bear tires easily.

Edward Michael “Bear” Grylls is a British adventurer best known for...

Interview With Bear Grylls

Ask For Words From the Audience 
But only accept words relating to the Dust Bowl or infamous American celebrity criminal trials because you’ve gotten really good at doing those sorts of scenes.

Reject Bad Ideas 
Say “No, actually” if someone starts the scene wrong or just scream “NOOOOO” if the scene has gotten really bad.

Take the Scene in New Directions 
If you make a really controversial statement about global affairs, then the scene literally has to incorporate that now. Because if they drop it then it’s like the improv troupe is endorsing that statement.

Have a Few Back Pocket Tropes 
The ones to pull out if you can’t come up with anything. Sexy fireman. Innocent schoolgirl. Dust Bowl era farmer. O.J. Simpson jury member.

Have a Few Back Pocket Phrases 
“Boy it sure is a dusty day out,” or “Look, the glove doesn’t even fit him!”

Your Favorite Guy in the Improv Troupe 
Man, this guy rocks! Make sure to pull him up for every scene and throw him off with a sexual opening line to see what he’ll do. If you end up making out on stage, it’s not a crime.

Your Least Favorite Guy in the Improv Troupe 
Man, this guy sucks. And he clearly has no grasp on the mechanics of the O.J. trial. Shut down all of his scenes by saying “You are blind and deaf and mute and totally paralyzed” so he literally can’t do anything.

Know When to End a Scene 
If both your characters shot each other and are now dead, you can end the scene.

Know When to Keep a Scene Going 
If both your characters have not yet shot each other, you have to keep going. Scenes only end when both characters have been shot.

Tips for Succeeding in Improv

Is it just me, or can you just not say anything these days? I mean, you can’t even massacre a neighboring village because they’re a different religion from you without someone getting offended, ya know? And don’t get me started on serfs. It’s not our fault if you’re too poor not to be indentured. Oh, but, ya know, I guess I can’t say that anymore, can I? God I hate this village.

Anyways. I was talkin’ to this chick the other day, completely riddled with the plague and I told her “Hey. Your organs may be eating themselves, but at least you lost a few pounds.” Last time I give a woman a compliment, am I right fellas? EVERYONE’S OUT TO GET ME BECAUSE I’M OUT HERE TELLIN FOLKS THE TRUTH.

Hey, Service Wench over there scrubbing the floors. Call me a Calvinist, because I’m predetermined to squeeze those sponges. CHECK PLEASE! Any couples in tonight? You sir, how long’s it been since you’ve fired the old cannon? Don’t worry, brother, I once fell in love with a woman with a chastity belt, too. Turned out that the entire jousting team had a spare key.

Hey now, settle down, I love women. IN MY CHAMBERS HEYO! Alright. I’m taking a seat. I’m taking a seat. We need to talk. Used to be, a jester could tell a few jokes about the king’s mistresses, maybe mock the size of his lance, and the worst that would happen is what? Public flogging? A little disembowelment? Now, you say one thing about the queen’s weight and suddenly you’re “problematic.” I’m like, yeah, I’m problematic. My problem is paying rent in this godforsaken castle. No one wants funny anymore.

“Oh, Geoff, can’t you do something wholesome? Maybe a little pun about the harvest?” No. I want to talk about the real issues. Like how I haven’t seen my jester pension in six moons. Also, I’ll say it, the King isn’t God.

Neck snaps in gallows.

Jester

Detective Town is the safest place in the county because no crime goes unsolved. Hell, no crime goes committed. Everyone is a detective, and not one’s gone rotten. The air is full of intrigue, which leads to higher-than-average rates of lung cancer. The lone traffic light in Detective Town has three settings: black, white, and ominous pause. But now there’s a stranger in Detective Town, and he’s got everyone more suspicious than usual.

The newcomer sticks out like a lit match in a blackout because he pokes around at the discarded red herrings rotting in the gutters. Plus, he’s the only one in town without a sidekick. Every detective in Detective Town has a suppressed homoerotic relationship with a sidekick, which remains unconfirmed but clear in subtext. No sidekicks live in Detective Town, but they make the commute.

Unlike the detectives, the stranger doesn’t narrate his internal monologue out loud, which makes it difficult for them to deduce his master plan. So, one by one, each of the 621 residents of Detective Town gift him a framed photo with a hidden camera inside. One by one, the stranger thanks them but declines the gift, saying he doesn’t know anyone in the picture. Awfully convenient. They’ll have to do this the old fashioned way.

After 30 seconds of intense interrogation, the stranger introduces himself as Carl Kowalsky, a 54-year-old plumber from Chicago. He claims he took a wrong turn while driving to visit his mother, which is just what a criminal mastermind who took a wrong turn while driving to visit his mother would say. Carl cunningly suggests they’ve made a mistake and that he’d really like to go home. Likely story.

That night, the detectives host a dinner party to see if Carl will slip up. But no one sits at the table with him; they’re all too busy searching other rooms for evidence. They suspect he poisoned the food anyway. Carl calls it a night and heads out around 8pm to catch the Cubs game. When the clock strikes midnight, all clues point to the butler. But there are no butlers in Detective Town. This isn’t Butler Town.

Eventually, the detectives feel they’ve gathered enough evidence to lock Carl up, but he walks free as a bird. They can’t try anyone in Detective Town; there are no judges, juries, or jailers. Carl makes a beeline for the highway, saying he thinks he’ll get better directions home in Gas Station Attendant Town. The detectives can’t hear him because they’re all monologuing about the ironies of justice with cherrywood pipes in their mouths.

Detective Town is the safest place in the county because no crime goes unsolved...

Detective Town

It weren’t too long after Silas Boone was born that folk started calling him “Toothpick,” on account of his always flossing his teeth. Used his mama’s tooth to pick his banjo, too, which sure didn’t hurt the nickname none. Toothpick could carry a tune almost as well as he could brutally murder people, but he never did get a fair shake from the law no how.

Toothpick’s ma used to say, “There’s gold in these here hills. Why are you wasting your time with all that twanging?” In 1870, Toothpick was sentenced to life in prison for caving in his mother’s head with a banjo. In his lonely jail cell, the songbird wrote the classic tune If McGraw Lets Me Out I’ll Kill Him for Governor Bill McGraw. Governor McGraw was so plum dazzled at bein’ mentioned by name that he set the boy free. Such a charmer, that Toothpick. Toothpick celebrated by killing the town of Reno, Nevada.

The next governor, Ezekiel Perkins, ran on a “Do Not Let Toothpick Out of Jail” platform. It looked like it was the end for ol’ Toothpick. But with the hangman’s noose ’round his neck, Toothpick began to croon his new song Please Let Me Out So I Can Kill Again.

Governor Perkins cried: “Forget my dead parents and neighbors; this root-tootin’ Toothpick here has the voice of an angel!” Again a free man, Toothpick went to church to pray, set on reformin’ his ways. The Good Lord must’a said something sweet to him, because Toothpick shot the preacher dead and the choir never did sing again. And he weren’t near done yet. The Idaho River ran red til Rutherford B. Hayes was elected President in 1876 and personally clapped Toothpick in irons.

President Hayes’ “Seriously Do Not Let Toothpick Back Out of Jail” political sweet talk didn’t scare Toothpick none, but one thing did: Hayes was deaf as a fencepost and twice as stubborn. Poor Toothpick sang and he strummed and he scatted and he sobbed, but old Rud was deaf to reason, and to Toothpick.

So Rud fastened Toothpick nice and tight in that newfangled ‘lectric chair they been building out in New York City, and Toothpick got ready to meet his maker with his banjo in his lap. But blessed Toothpick was luckier’n a two-tailed dog at a bone pile. When President Rud threw the switch, instead of murderin’ Toothpick, they say the lighting shot back up the wire and turned the First Lady into a pile of dust and a blinkin’ pair of eyes. With all that distraction, Toothpick used his namesake to cut himself free and skipped town, flayin’ the skin off e’ry third person he passed. God bless that merciful Toothpick.

No one knows what happened after that, ‘cept that Hayes was found strangled by banjo strings the very next day. Some say Toothpick is still out there singing with a vaudeville show, and some say he’s killing his way through Guadalajara. Some folk reckon he’s up in heaven yodeling to God and stabbing all his angels with icepicks, which is a mighty comfortin’ thought.

It weren’t too long after Silas Boone was born...

Before I Go#.css-1xlpnei{margin:0px -15px 0px 6px;width:11px;vertical-align:-14px;}

Before I Go#