Category: Humor

Ben Rees

Digging Deep

The Pyramids of Giza, the ruins of Machu Picchu, the lost city of Troy and the ancient Mesopotamian structures that dot the Middle East are all massive archaeological finds and undertakings. These seemingly otherworldly realms remind us of what we used to be and symbolize the forward progress of humanity spanning over millennia.

Imagine three thousand years from now, someone burlier than Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones is digging through the rubble over what used to be Miami. What would he find?  There would obviously be ancient structures, strange skeletons of organisms past and words from some dead language scattering the buildings and streets. These things are not all the archaeologist would discover. He would come across a myriad objects made of the same odd material: plastic. Amongst the rubble rest water bottles (BPA free of course), empty Target bags and more trinkets than one could ever imagine. Is this the most idolatrous society to have ever lived or is this strange material simply the vessel that brought on its downfall? The sad answer is that it is neither. Instead of discovering beautiful pottery or magnificent tapestries depicting daily life, all the archaeologist will hear is: “Docta Jones, Docta Jones! What is Furbee?”

I am no environmentalist, nor am I one to forgo a good plastic spoon instead of doing the dishes, but I do think we humans need to plan for the long haul when it comes to our advertising and design. If some poor soul were to unearth Chicago 2,000 years from now, he would think, based on our billboards of course, that we were the most alcoholic, law-suit filing, pretentious group of people to have ever lived. I don’t mean to say that we aren’t all of those things, but let’s at least attempt to make people in the future believe otherwise. 

Simply put, while we currently search for ancient water gathering tools on parched river beds, people millennia from now will be finding jellyfish without legs that say WalMart, and strange rubber disposables that resemble snake skins, which come in all sizes, textures and colors.

I propose that we begin planning for the long haul. We must make ourselves look good for generations and centuries to come. There are certain things that should remain, as they perpetuate a positive image. The American Girl Store, Major League Baseball and Gatorade are all products and organizations that contribute to the greater, more attractive good. On the other hand, places like PINK must go. 

All in all, people of this day and age have done an immense amount. Our productivity, technology and global nature greatly overshadow many of the developments made in the past. Although we have contributed magnificently to the track record of the human race, all will be for naught if we fail to eliminate or modify the objects we leave behind. Nobody will remember how the iPad made it easier for radiologists to show and share x-rays if all that can be found in the rubble of Boston, Mass. is a plastic pair of white sunglasses and a half-empty tube of puffy paint.

Ben Rees

Writer

The Columnist Manifesto

A couple of weeks ago I did not get a column done–oops! Like everyone else, I was inescapably swamped with loads of schoolwork, and in the midst of my scholarly flurrying, I neglected to write. While entrenched in the intellectual firefight preceding Thanksgiving break, my creative spark was nowhere to be found. Not to say that I failed to attempt a column; in fact, I tried to come up with something halfway decent on more than one occasion. Regrettably, the ideas I came up with were nowhere close to pleasant and even further from endearing. I do not know whether rigorous intellectual pursuits necessarily stifle creativity, and as many of my scholarly endeavors are dedicated to English literature, I would assert that homework and creativity go hand in hand. For some reason, I just couldn’t get it together.

William Faulkner once said: “I only write when I am inspired. Fortunately, I am inspired at nine o’clock every morning.” I, on the other hand, seem only to write at a mildly successful level anywhere between six and 12 hours before my deadline. There are two possibilities for this: one, the increased need to produce stimulates whatever comedic abilities I may have, or two, I get stressed and bitter enough that my anger ends up sounding funny. Take a look back, and I think we can all agree that the latter is probably right on the money. All my columns either rant, tell people what not to do or make incomprehensibly juvenile jokes about body parts.

An embittered columnist cannot produce comedy forever, as he is not on stage to make goofy faces and provide filler jokes bashing the ugly couple in front. Rather, from now on, I, Benjamin Rees, will try to be a little more optimistic in my writing. The glass is no longer half full of poison, it is just half full–maybe of Fanta or something else pleasant.

Now don’t forget, my goblet still overfloweth with bubbling scorn, and I rather dislike most things; however, in the spirit of the artistic process I will attempt to create some original, positive jokes in order to make everyone’s day shine a tad brighter. Call this column my metamorphosis: a once sour larvae blossoming into a beautiful, yet decently funny butterfly. With immense grace, as if erupting from its cocoon like the Alien from an unsuspecting abdomen, it spreads its wings and lightly flutters upon the generally confused synapses of those misfortunate enough to encounter this questionable transformation.

Disclaimer: If you have laughed at all during this column, you should be shamefully aware of your cynical chuckles. Every word espouses a delicate, personal transformation, and any humor this may have aroused in my audience is at the expense of my personal progress. Essentially, my happiness is a joke. Thanks, jerks.

Ben Rees
Writer

In 1972, George Carlin went on television and performed his comedic monologue entitled “The Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television.” He rattled off a string of obscenities prohibited from cable, and criticized America’s methods of censorship. Forty years later, I, without attempting to equate myself to someone as truly marvelous as Carlin, think we have gone too far. Our civilization is consistently inundated with visual smut, which has inspired a list I have dubbed: “The Seven Things You Should Never Say on Television, But Unfortunately, Due to Lax Regulations and Our Bizarre Interest in Disgusting People, We Are Able to.”

First: “Introducing your host, Ryan Seacrest!” Anything that has his name on it is an intellectual travesty. He was sexy for a few seasons of “American Idol,” but every show that involves a singing contest of sorts is simply embarrassing. All competitive talent programs revolve around false hopes, false eyelashes and falsely emotional obese contestants.

Second: “Spike TV.” Partially excluding “1000 Ways To Die,” this channel is a sad, testosterone-fueled quest for ratings. They don’t show “MXC” anymore, and G4 has “Ninja Warrior;” Spike TV has essentially zero programming that anyone with a functioning brain stem would ever want to watch. Never have I ever heard someone utter: “Dude, let’s see what’s on Spike.”

Third: “You are/are not the father.” We have all sat through an episode or two of “Maury,” and I truly believe each and every one of us pities humanity during it. The universal excuse is: “It makes me feel great about myself,” but this is simply a socially constructed facade. This show goes past being an ego boost; rather, it stymies any sort of hope that people are inherently good.

Fourth: “It will leave you breathless.” Plain and simple–it will not. In fact, the show will probably aggravate you to the point of holding your breath until you have lost consciousness.

Fifth: “On a brand new episode of ‘The Simpsons.’” I do apologize, because it makes me as sad as everyone else, but Fox needs to stop. This show hit the skids a long time ago, and every week I cringe a little more because something I once loved has fallen apart.

Sixth: “World’s,” “Most” or “Extreme.” Whether it’s “World’s Worst Tenants,” “Extreme Cheapskates” or “Extreme Makeover,” any term that implies a hyperbolic comparison of something grandiose is doomed to eternal mediocrity. If someone truly were the worst tenant in the world, then they would be homeless–not collecting alligators in their bathtub. Most of these shows can be consolidated into one overarching character flaw: un-dateable. If the program were entitled, “World’s Most Single,” then we as viewers would probably assume they are extremely cheap, awful tenants and addicted to eating toilet paper. This show could air for an hour per week, thereby saving humanity from the currently inescapable barrage of reality TV.

Seventh: “HWHHHATTTTT?” or whatever that ghastly noise Jon Stewart makes when he attempts to act surprised about something. I think he’s funny the same way I enjoy “Cops.” It’s hysterical the first time someone messes himself in the back of the police cruiser, but after a while, the same old shit gets pretty stale.

Ben Rees

Writer

Sandy

(I would like to preface this by reminding everyone that this is a humor column; I understand fully that these storms are very serious and I mean to be sarcastic, not offensive. I have chosen my words very carefully in order to be respectful.)

Although this column won’t be published until post-Sandy, I would like to think about the upcoming tempest. After staring at the imposing skies, all I can stress is how glad I am that Doppler radar exists–and that I’m not a pilgrim. 

I cannot imagine the day prior to a hurricane without any sort of warning mechanisms. My grandfather’s rickety knee or a salty sea dog’s grumblings wouldn’t help to calm me down if something like this were on its way. If I were to return home from a long day on the farm–which consisted of shucking a couple bushels of corn, adjusting my horrendously uncomfortable clothes and digging the birthing trench for my seventh child, only to find that three sheep had been snagged by rustlers–then the last thing I would want is to be hit by a hurricane.

The main message of my temporal ramblings is to illustrate how fantastically fortunate we are because we are not still fighting off natural disasters with rain dances. If we can learn nothing from Dennis Quaid’s astonishing performance in “The Day After Tomorrow,” aside from Jake Gyllenhaal’s early peak, then we must be aware that severe weather is a force to be reckoned with. Even though we don’t have things nearly as bad as the pilgrims, we still need to be prepared for natural disasters. That means a few things.

One: Go to Costco. Nothing is nearly as comforting as knowing that you have enough pizza bagels and Gatorade to get through the worst. While there, don’t hesitate to push other shoppers around. This suggestion is even more important when dealing with the $5 movie bin. Nobody’s well-being is worth missing out on two copies of “Bad Boys II.”

Two: Buy yourself a kayak. It will provide you with a method of flotation and amusement.  As we found out last year, nothing is quite as fun as paddling through ruined college housing and raw sewage. It reveals a sense of greater perspective. 

Three: Don’t worry about Avicii. His music won’t sound any worse underwater. Isn’t “Levels” about watersheds anyways?

Four: Prepare for power outages. This may sound routine, but when is the last time we went a day without our phones? You only have so many hours of mobile Netflix, so please, please use them carefully. Also, for heaven’s sake, go on Facebook and tell everyone about the storm. Because phone and laptop batteries may die, nobody will comprehend what is happening outside unless they are bombarded with Sandy statuses.

All jokes aside, this storm is scary. It should be over by the time this is published, and I greatly hope that nobody has been affected too adversely. Famous British actor Sir Peter Ustinov said “Comedy is simply a funny way of being serious.” In this very serious situation, I hope that everyone still can find the time to laugh at something, and whether or not it is my column, let’s hope things come out all right.

Ben Rees
Columnist 

C’mon kids, run on over here and sit pretzel style on the alphabet rug. Uncle Ben’s going to tell you all a story. This is the story of Jake’s first summer at sleep-away camp. I was there for the entire time; it was the summer after fifth grade. Now pull out your Capri Suns and Fruit Gushers, and plan to be swept away, off to that first summer years ago …. Wooshhhh.

Jake was a chubby and goofy youngster. It was his first summer away at camp, and he was in Wisconsin, the land of cheese, for four whole weeks before going home. After a great week of swimming, crying over splinters and general camp shenanigans, it was time for our cabin to go on the camping trip. We were going canoeing down what seemed like a torrential river, but what may or may not be currently classified as a creek. That aside, we packed up our knapsacks, bagged our pretzel sticks and set off on our excursion as a group of wholly unsuspecting children.

The first two days soared. We had a blast canoeing and camping; the s’mores were perfectly melted and the mosquitoes were nowhere to be found. All was well until the third day. We arrived at our campsite and set up the tents. The sky was clear and we were all going to go swimming in the river. I put on my hiking sandals and sweet graphic tee, pulled out my SPF 70 sunscreen and prepared to have the time of my life.

While I was readying myself, Jake was getting into some mischief. As I said earlier, he was rather chubby. He also had an unfortunate affinity for climbing trees. Another complication for Jake was that the area in which we were camping had been subjected to logging; the trees that had grown back were stock, meaning they were rather skinny and insubstantial. As you probably guessed, all of this leads to Jake climbing trees that he should not have. The first one he scaled sagged under his weight to just about 90 degrees.

The second time Jake shimmied up a tree, he was not nearly as lucky. There was a dead birch suspended over the river, and he attempted to walk out onto it. While it may have seemed cool at the time, in retrospect, he looked like a rotund Spider Man on a flagpole. As he got out onto the end and roared like a pre-pubescent silverback gorilla, the tree trunk started to creak.

The tree snapped, sending Jake plummeting towards the river; however, he was stopped short of the water by a rather large pile of sticks. His legs broke through the mound of timber, and all of a sudden, he began screaming. We all ran to the banks of the river in order to observe a shirtless chubby child halfway submerged in a mound of mud and twigs.  Jake continued to scream, as something furry was pawing his thigh.

To be continued … tune in next week for the riveting conclusion!

Ben Rees
Columnist 

The world is a cruel place and this November, our nation has an election that many believe will change things. Both sides of the political spectrum have incessantly bombarded the populace with terms, ideas and goals that are supposed to make citizens feel like the situation will get better. The reason these promises mean nothing is because our nation is made up of embittered voters and non-voters who complain about every promise political folk fall short of fulfilling.

The general populace needs to be a bit more imaginative; maybe everything politicians say isn’t a lie, and even if it is, let’s go along with it for a little while. Perhaps, if I may be so bold, my loyal fans will oblige me and permit me to weave them a dream of what our country could be.

In my America, nobody sues for dumb reasons. If a woman spills coffee on herself while driving, she won’t be able to sue because the cup doesn’t say “Caution: Hot.” Rather, she will understand that gnarled, rheumatic hands should stay on the steering wheel of her Buick instead of holding a Styrofoam cup; cup holders exist for a reason.

In a perfect America, Christina Aguilera is still cool, and sharks have eaten the entire staff of TLC. Our nation’s goal is to propagate intelligence, and television like “Dance Moms” has a quota instated on it. This means that those who watch smut TV for more than 20 hours per week will be zapped with a cattle prod by a government-sponsored agent. That’s what I call welfare.

I believe in an America with change … machines on every street corner, so no person will ever have to worry about parking violations. I believe in an America where nobody has to hope that he or she will win Norah Jones tickets. Instead, we will all be able to sit and hear her warble.

In this dream, no longer is America reliant on fossil fuels because sustainable energy is synthesized from a mixture of wind, solar rays and Obama’s basketball game sweat. Milk and honey flows from every sink, while energy drinks have been banned from stores for causing long-lasting testicular shrinkage–people understand no drink is worth turning grapes to raisins.

I believe in an America where words really do matter. All campaign speeches have to start with an original joke, and if nobody laughs, they cannot continue. How much cooler would Romney be if we believed he wasn’t a robot? The word “gubernatorial” would also be scrapped from the dictionary because nobody wants to vote on a goober.

All these ideas would make America so much better. Things would run more smoothly, and I truly believe we would all be happier. This November, dream away, because no matter who gets elected, a lot of things will stay shitty.