The DHS Flipside » Ask Mr. Motzko

Ask Mr. Motzko: Senioritis

jake — Sun, 25 Apr 2010 20:09:26 +0000

Dear Mr. Motzko,
OMG SO BORED! After spring break, anywhere sounds better than school. I think I have Senioritis. This debilitating condition is wreaking havoc on my life. And the worst part of all– I’m just a sophomore. Do you know of any cures or treatments?
Sincerely,
Done-with-school in Deerfield
Listen up, carbon-based chair-covers. Stop dipping into my precious oxygen reserve with your litany of woe and get hip to the scene that is real post-haste. Focus your rage about the injustice of the world on something important, like why we can’t get an Orange Julius franchise in the teacher’s lounge. Teen angst is the province of teens and one visited without reason (much like the province of Alberta). Teenage worries should be about lunch table Balkanization and whether or not Poseidon is indeed your father.
In my day, Senioritis was a terminal disease that could only be cured via a brutal, civil-war quality amputation. It has since been renamed “graduation”. This was followed by senior ditch day, otherwise known as the first day of our career as ditch diggers. The world needs them too, you know.
That said, I would be violating my hippopotamus oath if I were to deny you cut-rate medical advice. Senioritis translates literally to “inflamed senior”, which should not to be confused with “senior on fire” (senior ignis) for which all charges have been dropped, provided I never teach chemistry again in Illinois.
This malady is one of the most self-diagnosed diseases of the matriculation-related spectrum and is certainly one of the most annoying for all parties involved. By comparison, Freshmeningitis is a lower grade infection. The initial onset of Senioritis can be quite subtle, if your definition of subtle is a black velvet painting of Elvis killing a lion.
Unfortunately, for you, Senioritis has no cure and will pass with an ease comparable to the male-birth ritual of kidney stones. It would be best just to accept this knowledge calmly and with dignity. And by screaming your self hoarse into a tear-stained pillow during your free periods.

Ask Mr. Motzko: Day Off

jake — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 22:17:26 +0000

Dear Mr. Motzko,
For the most obvious reasons, I really want a snow day! I’ve been doing my part to get one; expressing my hope via Facebook status, whining, and sacrificing Freshman to the Snow Gods, but nothing has worked. The weather forecast shows rising temperatures and sun. How do I ensure a snow day, or a day off in general?Much obliged,

Desperate in Deerfield

Dear Desperate,
The lack of foresight and planning exhibited in your query rivals that of the fated Donner party. Fortunately, you may only have to eat your words. Perhaps you have yet to be crushed under the karmic wheel. If you plant cotton candy seeds, you’re gonna harvest snakes. Proof positive: it has not snowed in Jamaica every year after they entered the Olympic bobsled competition. By that measure, for every snow day there must b e an equal and opposite day of unquenched fire and burning. I, for one, do not wish to repeat my 8 year-old’s last birthday party. One could pine for a snow day but haven’t we been using homeroom to drill for such inclement events (fire, tornado, flaming tornado, blimp attack)? And if we keep drilling, we’re gonna win Nationals in Daytona this year. Go homeroom!
If you are indeed bent upon spitting into the wind or stepping on Superman’s cape (or worse, spitting into Superman’s cape), consider that perhaps all you want is the novelty of a school cancellation, not the actual time. Who can forget DHS’s greatest school cancellation: Gas Leak Day. The best thing about that day was how it fell into our laps like a box of kittens dropped from the heavens (note: do not drop kittens from heights above 0.5 meters). What you actually did on Gas Leak Day (sleeping, socializing, furious caber toss) mattered less than its random entrance stage left. That is why Gas Leak Day Part Deux must never happen. Besides, I use the current gas leak in my room to explain the low test scores. Patience, gentle reader. Eventually you will awaken to the dulcet tones of the Honeywell system, informing you of our latest unexpected day off in honor of some dead guy like Casimir Pulaski or John Arbor. When that happens, you’ll be like a hog in mud; filthy and ready to be processed into bacon.

Ask Mr. Motzko: Pets

jake — Sun, 13 Dec 2009 04:29:23 +0000

Dear Mr. Motzko.
I am lonely and allergic to almost everything. I really want a pet but it can’t have fur, scales, or feathers. My parent’s said I could get one if I found one that met these guidelines, but so far I’ve had no success. Do you have any ideas for a really non-traditional domestic pet? I’m really open to anything.
Sincerely,
Pet-less in Pasadena, Texas
Dear Pet-Less,
While I do understand the nagging malaise that accompanies the knowledge that we are ultimately alone on this fragile rock, hurtling through space with no destination, I fail to see how you can offset said emotional freight with a hamster. Watching him toil on his wheel like a miniature Sissyphus, one would think that you’d be crushed on the anvil of irony. To suggest the pointlessness of pet ownership is heresy to the domesticators and enslavers of nature’s denizens. Frankly, the line of picketers around Chez Motzko is already ten-deep. To ameliorate the masses, if I must recommend an insensate companion, make sure that said pet is A) unique B) able to defend your property C) able to outlive you and D) edible.
As to the first point, avoid the tried and true pets as they ultimately disappoint. I’m no fan of dogs, certainly since I assumed the title of Lord of Baskerville Manor. But what of the soulful eyes of the basset hound, you say? I get the same effect from the googly eyes glued to my pet rock, still going strong since 1972. Cats may have a cool independence about them but they stink like the bathrooms at the Atkins Institute. Cat urine may indeed glow under blacklight but so does my Jim Morrison poster. Let me counsel you against considering anything from the superfamily Muroidea (rodents, for the Latin-challenged). One minute you’ve got a mouse for a friend, next minute you’re strangling Curley’s wife.
To the second point, consider that behind defense, we spend almost as much money in this nation on pets. Somehow I doubt that old Rex is going to keep the Viking hordes off my doorstep (again). Third, make sure your pet has the ability to outlive you. How many tear stained shirts do I have to burn, courtesy of “Where the Red Fern Grows”? Avoid the childhood trauma of burying a pet (or worse, burying a pet alive) through the careful selection of a long-lived companion (e.g. Joshua Tree).
To the last point, a simple gravy can be made with flour, salt and any former best friend.

Ask Mr. Motzko: On Being Funny

jake — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 04:24:08 +0000

Dear Mr. Motzko,
Yesterday I fell down a flight of stairs after being chased by pack of ravenous alley cats. Needless to say, it hurt a lot, but it wasn’t the most pain I’ve ever been in. Whenever people tell me The Flipside isn’t funny, it causes me more pain than any predatory house cat ever could. So my question to you is what is funny?
Sincerely,
Hospitalized Flipside Writer
In these trying economic times and the hovering threat of angry bees, I find myself screaming at the sky the very same question issued by Robert Plant during a version of Stairway to Heaven that could only be described in length, pace and heaviness as glacial: “Does Anybody Remember Laughter?”
Indeed, it seems that there has been some serious downsizing at the chuckle factory. When one is in dire need of their sides being split (or knees slapped), one could embark upon the Heart-of-Darkness excursion into absurdity and madness that is The Daily Giggle. Or one could ask for a punch in the chops. While Miss Manners would take issue with my scolding of this revered humor goldmine for the paste-eating crowd, Miss Manners frankly needs to lighten up. Either that, or plan to spend the rest of her days alone in that big Victorian mansion, lecturing her cats on the finer points of tea service.
Granted, it is difficult to find (or remember) a good clean joke that does not offend any ethnicity, species or hat size. Generally, when one needs to bust up a group, be it the Friar’s Club or a carefully arranged menagerie of stuffed animals, remember the equation you learned in Freshman Physics: Comedy=Tragedy+Time. Nothing leads to spontaneously soiled pants like a zinger about the Mt. Tambora eruption of 1816.
For you visual learners, might I suggest TV Azteca’s humor repository, Ay Caramba! For those of you not glued to the unidirectional sludge pump between 1997 and 2006, this was America’s Funniest Videos if “funny” required somebody trying to ride a motorcycle across a bridge of vines suspended between a flaming oil drum and a crate of greased pigs. Like the ice cream truck says, good humor.
Have a question for Mr. Motzko? Email it to us at dhsflipside@gmail.com.

Ask Mr. Motzko

jake — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 03:46:58 +0000

Dear Mr. Motzko,
In my science class, I was recently asked what the meaning of life was. I was brought to think, maybe it is an equation? Happiness? Chocolate? I was stumped! Even though the teacher gave a legitimate scientific answer, I was apprehensive. I wondered if there was actually a single meaning of life. Please help me.
-Deep-in-Thought
Dear Reader/Supplicant:
If I had a greenback dollar for every time I’ve been asked about the meaning of life, I’d be able to buy a secluded Himalayan mountaintop befitting my role as dispenser of wisdom. Until that happens, I’m keeping the flowing robes.
Life as an equation? Shudder. I’m not one for the tyranny of numbers. Do you really want the mathletes telling you how many fingers you have? It isn’t like you need numbers. Several Amazonian tribes lack the ability to count past two. This has spared them from spending their hard earned goats on visual tripe like Rocky IV.
Nor do I think life’s meaning is best conveyed in the iambic pentameter of verse. Start with the fancy talk and soon you’re dictating your own tombstone. I may live dangerously (as season 3 of Cops can attest) but not that dangerously.
I prefer to think of the meaning of life in biological terms as biology is, after all, the study of life. Now don’t give me any of that “Biology is a soft science” lip. There’s nothing soft about being impaled on a narwhal horn, is there? Biology suggests life’s meaning is to know one’s ultimate role. Since the ultimate role of the Green Goblin was already taken by Willem Dafoe (side note: vengeance is mine, Dafoe!), our backup role is to cave in to inevitable forces of entropy. Perhaps, the meaning of life is to die and decompose, returning our matter to the corners of the universe (although hopefully, not to Sudbury, Ontario. That town is a dump.) Indeed, stop, drop and rot. Doubt

Ask Mr. Motzko: Homecoming

jake — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 18:53:41 +0000

Dear Mr. Motzko,

Homecoming is around the corner and I still don’t have any creative ideas for asking someone to the dance. I’m thinking about Google-ing some ideas but I know that would be the lamest thing ever. Please help me out before I’m forced to ask her in a text message.

Sincerely,

Dateless in Deerfield

Dear Reader/ Supplicant,

While I generally assign a frowny-face to dance-related activities (owing to their tendency to bring on unexpected bouts of rain and Satan), I know there hasn’t been much to do in D-town since the amusement park became haunted. I hope Scoob and his pals resolve that one post haste.

To answer your query, I have to ask myself, WWBRD (What Would Burt Reynolds Do)? As such, the best bet for deal sealing would be to challenge him or her to a cross-country race along with several hundred C-list Hollywood washouts. If you win, he/she is resigned to arm candy status for the shindig. Lose, and become a punchline for the new millennium. Either way, hilarity ensues. If madcap is not in your vocabulary, check your dictionary.

Next, consider something more subtle and tasteful, such as carving your intent into a local large outcrop of granite (Mt. Deerfield, for example) or the timeless touch of a hand-painted dirigible, tethered to the roof of your desired dance partner. If all else fails, nothing gets the point across like a barrel of monkeys. Just don’t forget the air holes in the barrel.

Do you have a question for Mr. Motzko? Email them dhsflipside@gmail.com, and you may have your question answered in a future issue of The Flipside.

Ask Mr. Motzko: Shortcuts and Buckets

admin — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 01:24:16 +0000

Ask Mr. Motzko

Dear Mr. Motzko
I was just driving home from the Burger King in Waukegan, and I thought to myself, “I really need a better shortcut to get home, because the way that I am going is definitely substandard.” Some of my friends suggested a GPS, but I consider myself a little more old school than that. Do you know any good shortcuts from Burger King to my house, or if not, what are your all time favorite short cuts?
Sincerely,

Cardiac Phil

Dear In-Need-Of-A-Doctor-Phil:

Before I dispense with the wisdom like some pale, fleshy Pez geegaw, I want to say how glad I am to be back writing for the Flipside. The writers strike has overthrown the Dickensian workhouse conditions to which guest columnists have continually been subjected. Frankly, it was starting to make the diamond mine from Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom look like a tempting career move. However that is, to borrow from the song, water under the bridge over troubled water…

While I generally prefer the boot cut, to accommodate the occasional need to sport a python-skin cowboy boot, my favorite short cuts are as follows (in an order only understood by the highest level Stonecutters):

1) The semi-circle route over Greenland. It really cuts down on my daily commute between DHS and Finland. It is even faster with an I-Pass.
2) Robert Altman’s “Short Cuts”. Where else can you see Tom Waits and Huey Lewis in the same scene? It is like watching matter and anti-matter collide. Which is to say, sweet.
3) The short ribs at the Pig n’ Whistle (6048 Kerr-Rosemont Road, Millington, TN). Comes with a side of fried dill pickles, fried green tomatoes and a loaf of white bread for the sop. If you don’t know what the sop is, I have nothing but pity for your soul.

My Least Favorite short cut had to be the short cuts I received when I fell into a patch of Ocotillo cacti in the Sonoran desert. A hummingbird had flown up my pantleg (which happens when you wear boot cut jeans) sending me into a dance that would be the envy of St. Vitus. Angry creatures, those creatures. Eight drops of blood and all of them angry.

Dear Mr. Motzko,

I have spent months trying to fulfill my bucket list, but all I have been able to check off is “make a bucket list.” I mean, it’s not like Bigfoot will just show up at my door. I need more resources than these old snowshoes and two cases of Lugols’ solution. And why the heck can’t I find a Nintendo Wii? I see the stupid thing on TV all the time, but, according to those smart-alec sales representitives at Best Buy, they’re “never in stock.” I can’t even obtain a containter of all red Jelly Bellies, you know, the only good ones. Am I going about this all wrong? Or have I just set the bar too high?

Sincerely,

Lost in Walmart

The conceptual density of your query breaks the devil’s plow, son. If I were a licensed physician (and not just a licensed minister, notary public and jazz dancer), I would recommend that you sit back and take a chill pill. Seeing as how your insurance plan does not cover this, perhaps you can learn from the challenges I am encountering in fulfilling my own bucket quest.

1) 1 Bucket. In the form of a young English lad, first name Charles. Should be a metaphor for the deadly sin of envy. Needed to gain access to the chocolate factory such that I can avenge the demise of my half-brother, Augustus.
2) 1 Bucket of Popeye’s. Extra spicy. All neck meat.
3) 1 Bucket. Filled with the tears of the faithful. Must be collected every August 16th at the Meditation Gardens (3734 Elvis Presley Boulevard). They say that it holds the secret to eternal life. They also say it serves as a great marinade. Who exactly are “they” anyway?
4) 1 Bucket. Galvanized nickel. Needed to complete the costume in my one-man, off-broadway reinterpretation of “The Iron Giant”. You will be moved.

Ask Mr. Motzko: Would You Rather

admin — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 00:44:02 +0000

ASK MR. MOTZKO

Dear Mr. Motzko,
One of my friends recently asked me a somewhat troubling question. It was a ‘would you rather’ question. It was so astonishing, that after they asked me, I passed out in a state of wild confusion. “Would you rather go to the moon with only a toothpick and a Snapple or mooch your way through Ancient Romania with only a bandanna and a Sprite?” How would you have handled this?
Sincerely,
I Would Rather Not Relate the Rest of This Story

Hello Dali!

Dude, shut off the gas because there’s obviously a leak in your house. Something has apparently gone and befouled your stream of consciousness and now this Lorax is pounding on your door. Is this some kind of trick question akin to “Who is buried in Grant’s Tomb?” because I’m here to tell you that the estate of Cary Grant was not amused at all with my attempt to figure that one out. Some people have no sense of wonder.

As it is currently 75% off the holiday season and priced to move, I’m going to go easy on you. While I give your question a 3 for danceability, it gets an 8 for originality. Usually the tired inquiries that accumulate in my inbox like so much literary guano are as worn out as the grooves on my 1971 copy of Grand Funk Railroad’s “E Pluribus Funk”. Have I become so jaded in my ivory tower (which already violates at least 14 Deerfield zoning ordinances) that I no longer remember that somewhere somebody lies awake needing to know how many pancakes it takes to shingle a doghouse? Four, gentle reader, assuming they have no bones.

So back to your original question; if I had to go to the moon, it would be lashed to the hood of a monkey-dung brown ‘74 El Camino captained by the ghost of Evel Knievel, his disembodied hand jamming a gearshift made from the shrunken head of Bob Saget.

Does anybody have the phone number for NASA? They owe me large.

Ask Mr. Motzko: Deerfield Idol

admin — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 00:38:18 +0000

ASK MR. MOTZKO

Dear Mr. Motzko,
I just went to Deerfield Idol last week, and to improve my chances of winning next year, I have started thinking of the songs I am going to sing. I want to go with something classic; something that the crowd knows so that they can get involved. I want it to be upbeat, but I don’t want to injure any of the elderly. I am struggling between a pop rendition of “Happy Birthday” and a classical version of Britney Spears’ “Gimme More.” However, these songs just aren’t right. I need your help.
Sincerely,
Deerfield Idle Hopeful

Dear DIH (or duh)
I have been called a lot of things in my day: sir, hey you, the defendant, the Silesian Stallion, sugar (primarily by waitresses at Waffle House). However, few know that with the untimely passing of James Brown last Christmas, I have had to assume the weighty velvet-caped mantle of High Priest of Funk. Filling music’s vacuum (and cleaning its filthy carpets) has proven quite taxing, what with all the limo rides, dark glasses and profuse sweating. What weighs heaviest on me is not the searing limelight but the inherent responsibility of herding the promising few away from the Boltonesque depths and on to the high ground of soul. Perhaps I can give you an I-Pass to American Idolatry, allowing me to return to my books and professional Jenga league. First and foremost, you’re going to need the right material lest you do a solo turn of the dénouement from The Emperor’s New Clothes. As far as song subjects go, you simply cannot go wrong with maritime tragedy. Nothing “brings sexy back” like a slow-jam reworking of The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Second, once you’ve got the dirge du jour, you’ve got to coat those pipes, lest you undergo a spontaneous vocal modulation on the order of Peter Brady (episode 65 “Dough Re Me”, original airing date January 14th, 1972). Drink a 3 liter bottle of clover honey before you go on and you’ll be set. Or in shock. That said, if you really want to freak their beans, you are going to need to incorporate some of those intangible elements that separate the golden throats from the gutted crows. Non-industrial lasers, dry ice fog, giant inflatable pigs and synchronized albino tigers on bicycles wearing ten-pound beards of bees can cover up the blemishes like a trowel of Clearasil.

Last, always remember to sing from the diaphragm. Using the mouth is optional.

Ask Mr. Motzko: Circus

admin — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 00:33:10 +0000

ASK MR. MOTZKO

Dear Mr. Motzko,
My sister just got tickets to go see the circus and my parents are making me go. This is unfortunate, considering I have a fatal allergy to cotton candy and a deathly phobia of clowns and tight-rope walkers. The circus is tomorrow, and if I don’t figure out what to do soon, I may be dead. I need your help.
Desperately,
Circus Fearing Man

I’m way ahead of you on this one, bro. Treat this situation with the fear and reservation reserved for Montezuma’s Revenge, Hannah Montana karaoke covers and a night out with Mike Tyson. I’ve never been down with the clown. You can’t spell “sinister government plot” without “circus” (although spelling is not my strong suit-thank you Maplewood Elementary!). When the Night of the Rope is upon us, it will come courtesy of Mssrs Barnum and Bailey. While I appreciate a tastefully done freak show just as much as anyone, isn’t getting us all together under the “big top” just another term for soul-crushing group-think? Think about it; there’s one guy in charge, yelling at you about “fun” with a megaphone. The very words “carnival barker” carry a hidden meaning meant to influence our thinking about the upcoming election: Evil Barrack Ran. You think that’s just a coincidence? I haven’t encountered such subliminal messaging since I stopped listening to Judas Priest records. Fall out with the rainbow fright wig crowd and you’re bound for a date with the dunk tank. Down in Gitmo they call that waterboarding. Attach a hundred trapeze artists to black helicopters and you’ve got one unstoppable invasion force.

If Al Gore gets his way, we will all be driving tiny cars.