Out of Whack

       She moaned with unrestrained ecstasy as he cupped her surprisingly hefty breasts with perspiring hands. His tongue slowly roamed her neck... probing... seeking... searching... hunting... questing for the place that would make her snarl with pleasure and demand that he service her sweet spot.

       Okay, I have to apologize for that. I wanted a nice opening for this book, and “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” was already taken. It was either this or the meat loaf recipe, so consider yourself lucky.

       Anyway, my name is Seth Trexler, who you may, but probably don’t, know as one of the founding members of the comedy troupe Out of Whack. I was the sensitive one. This sure-to-be bestselling book that you’re holding (or listening to on audiotape, or reading off a computer screen, or having beamed directly into your brain by state-of-the-art alien technology) is my life story. Granted, I haven’t been alive all that long, but there’s no story so short that you can’t pad it to book-length. Trust me.

       If reading about my life doesn’t thrill you, that’s okay, because even if you don’t read a single word beyond the introduction, this book is still worth the cover price. It makes a handy weapon if thrown with the proper velocity at a soft, protruding part of somebody’s face. It contains a wide variety of words that can be cut out and affixed to any ransom note, allowing kidnappers to practice their livelihood without fear of the police recognizing their handwriting. And the glue in the binding is mighty tasty. (If you’re reading an electronic version, you’d do well to avoid licking anything.)

       In addition, every cent I earn from this book will be donated to make life better for babies, puppies, and kittens. Adorable ones. Ones that would be taken outside and stomped with steel-heeled boots if not for the extra money.

       So, buy this book! Buy a copy for your mother, who thinks you just don’t care anymore. Buy a copy for your senator and see an instant improvement in performance. Buy a copy for that guy you see every once in a while who is always staring vacantly at the ground going “Oooooh dirt!” Buy every copy you can find, and the next morning when you look at your reflection in the mirror you’ll be able to say, “Good God, I’m attractive!” and truly mean it.

       And remember, I love you.

       Hey, Kids! If you checked
Out of Whack
out from the library to use it for a book report, have I got a treat for you! To reward you for your incredible taste, I’ve already written the report so you can spend the extra time playing outside and getting some fresh air, or rotting in your mildew-laden rooms playing mindless video games.

       I took the liberty of writing this report so you won’t have to actually read
Out of Whack,
because it’s an evil book that will make you into a bad person if you experience it at an impressionable age. It’s got sex and violence and unclean language and an ample helping of regurgitation jokes and even somebody wetting their pants. Adults can enjoy this for the gleeful entertainment that it is, but you children will be worshipping Satan by the end of chapter six.

       So, copy this book report, making sure to misspell all the words you would normally misspell, hand it in to your unsuspecting teacher, and enjoy yourselves.

OUT OF WHACK - A Book Report

by (
Your Name Here
)

       For my book report, I read the book
Out of Whack,
by Seth Trexler. It’s the story of Mr. Trexler’s comedy troupe, named Out of Whack, which provides the book with its fascinating title. I found this to be the best book ever written, excluding, of course, the materials our brilliant teacher selected for us to read in class. He/she knows the value of literature in the educational process, let me tell you. If we had more teachers like him/her, we’d be stomping those Japanese twerps into the ground.

       What I appreciated most about
Out of Whack
was its use of foreshadowing, symbolism, and foreshadowing of symbolism. “Watch out,” says Travis, one of the primary characters, “because in a few minutes I’m going to throw this conch shell at you.” The shell symbolizes money, which is something that the teachers of our nation should be given in large quantities. Symbolism practically bleeds through the pages, making
Out of Whack
a challenging yet joyous read, one that enthralled me so intensely I read the book eight times.

       While the author’s use of symbolism is on a par with the great literary geniuses of the past, such as Ernest Hemingway, Charles Dickens, and Hugh Beaumont, I would be remiss not to discuss how the use of character development, atmosphere, simile, metaphor, and punctuation blend to form an unbeatable word stew. What can I say about character development, atmosphere, simile, metaphor, and punctuation in such a short space that can truly do justice to the power of its use in this book? As much as it pains me to deal with such a thing, I simply cannot discuss these brilliant concepts in the space allotted without doing the author a grave disservice, and therefore I shall refrain.

       Overall,
Out of Whack
changed my life. After the fifth reading, I took up meditation, and I have become a more fulfilled person because of it. On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d give this book a 10+. It has made writing book reports fun again. Hooray for the world!

“Prenatal Endeavors”

       I’m going to start with a dream sequence that may explain why I’m such a weirdo.

* * *

       Diane Trexler sat up in the hospital bed, holding her newborn son. The birth had been just as painful as the
Adoption: The Smart Choice
pamphlets promised, but now she was truly happy.

       Her friends Maxine, Louise, and Elaine entered the room, bursting with excitement. “Let me see him!” said Maxine. “Oooh, he’s so precious!”

       “What a little darling!” Louise exclaimed.

       “A sweetheart!” Elaine added.

       “Ooooooooooooooooh!” the three women said in unison.

       “Can I hold him?” Maxine asked. Diane nodded and handed over the child. “Oh, isn’t he beautiful?” Maxine pressed her face to the child’s. “Are you beautiful? Yes you are, yes you are, yes you are! Just think, I could be holding a future president of the United States right now!”

       “Or a famous surgeon!” Louise exclaimed.

       “Or a Pulitzer-Prize winning author!” Elaine added.

       “Ooooooooooooooooh!”

       Louise took the baby and cooed.. “And he even has his father’s eyes! See him smile? Diane, he has your dimples!”

       “Of course, you’ll want to start saving for a nose job,” Elaine remarked.

       “What?” Diane asked.

       “Well, look at that thing. It looks like an oversized lump of Silly Putty.”

       The other women murmured in agreement.

       “He has the same nose as my mother!” Diane protested.

       “She didn’t exactly have men breaking down her door after your father died, did she?” Maxine pointed out. “Oh, but look at those little hands!”

       “Ooooooooooooooooh!”

       “Let me hold the sweet angel,” said Elaine.

       “Here you go,” said Louise, handing over the infant. “Just watch out for his breath.”

       “What’s wrong with his breath?” Diane demanded.

       “Oh, don’t be naive. Your child’s breath could burn a hole through an armored car.”

       “Babies don’t have bad breath!” Diane insisted.

       “You’re right,” Maxine agreed. “It must be a medical problem.”

       “There’s nothing wrong with him!” Diane snatched back her baby.

       “So what did you name the little heartbreaker?” Elaine asked.

       “Abner.”

       The other women groaned. “Well,” said Maxine, “I hope you know a good doctor for when the other kids kick the living crap out of him every day at school.”

       “We named him after his great uncle!”

       “The rapist?”

       “No! The scientist!”

       Elaine sighed. “Oh, wonderful. So your son is going to be a total geek.”

       “I’ll have you know that my great uncle Abner did vital medical research.”

       “Then your son stands a good chance of catching an infectious disease in the line of duty,” Louise pointed out.

       “Oh, I hope it isn’t a horribly debilitating bacteria,” said Maxine. “It would be a shame for such a precious child to die a misshapen, pus-oozing freak.”

       “Hidden from the rest of humanity,” Elaine elaborated, “living in misery, sleeping in his own vile excrement...”

       “...cursing the forces that condemned him to this soulless existence...”

       “...holding the rusty razor blade to his wrist, working up the courage...”

       “...and finally, as the hot crimson blood jettisons from his savaged flesh, shrieking ‘Why, Mother, why?’ at the top of his phlegm-clogged lungs.”

       Diane stared at her friends for a long moment, then burst into tears.

       “Oh, now you’re upsetting the little darling,” said Louise, taking the baby. “I hate to see such a lovely child cry.”

       “And he’s truly a beautiful baby,” said Elaine.

       “Ooooooooooooooooh!”

* * *

       This was an actual dream my mom had before I was born. Depending on how much she’s had to drink, when she reaches this point of the story she’ll either say “And then I woke up screaming,” or let out a shriek that could dislodge any kidney stone within a hundred feet. Mom’s pretty laid-back and conservative, but she doesn’t handle alcohol well.

       She was eight months pregnant when she had the nightmare, and had been suffering juuuuuuuuuust a bit of angst over having a child. My dad was having a smidgen of angst himself, considering that they weren’t married, weren’t out of college, and he hadn’t even worked up the nerve to tell his parents. But, as he did every night that she spent in his dorm room, he tried to reassure her.

       “Everything is going to be okay, sweetie.”

       “Oh, Howard, do you really think our child will turn out all right? I mean, he
is
just the product of a discount condom...what if that affects him throughout his life?”