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In This Issue

• Confessions of a Dangerous Broccoli Head
• English Majors, Decades Later
• How to Spend Your Time After Co-Founding Apple
• The Cyborg Army of Death
• Salvation is a Prophet Away
• Chris Tucker to Play James Bond
• The Fed Point–Counterpoint: You Just Stabbed Me
• What Would You Do-ooh-ooh...
• Loose Lips Sink Credit Reports
• Bowling as Symbolism
• The Wonders of the Undersea World
• It is Imperative that You Spoon that Fruit Indiscriminately
• “They” Watch Reality TV, Drink Coke Blak for Fun
• Behind the Scenes at MythBusters Headquarters
• Good Night, and Good Luck
• Campus Bureaucracy Replaced With Rube Goldberg Machine
• The Seeker
• Tales of the Inexpressible
• The Most Trusted Name in News
• It Swings Both Ways
• They Watch
• The Fed Index
• King Kong Returns

Wake up, dress up. Roll in to work. Director yelling, people rushing. The fuckin' kiddies are late, makeup ain't ready. Sixteen years on the job and they still haven't got their shit together. Whatever, I just hang back and have a smoke. The camera crew'll be screaming at me for that in about a second, but right this moment I don't give a shit. It's all part of the package when you dress up as a giant broccoli for a living. Walk on set, play with the kiddies for the camera, do the same fuckin' song and dance routine, and then get the hell out.

Rain pours down as I make my way down East 14th Street. My costume is getting wet, but it ain't far to my local dive. Rough day at work-I swear the little CBS twerps are gonna implode from their own sense of fuckin' self-fulfillment any day now.

I sit down by the bar, set down my headpiece. I looks at Shirley, the cute bargirl. The sound of those damn kids is still ringing in my ears. "What'll it be, Harry?" she asks. I only got two vices in this world. One is in that bottle she's about to give me, the other I'm gonna see as she bends down to reach me my drink. "Bud Light, sugar," I says. "And make it quick, toots, I got plenty of room in this belly." God, I need this drink. I need it to feel calm again, to drive away the sounds of the kids. It's makin' Shirley's totties look extra fine, too, but I know it's only so long before I'll need to go outside for my fuckin' smoke.

In walks Marv, a buddy of mine. He has a gig down at ABC as a giant ham-pretty sweet show considerin' we both used to do the whole Santa circuit. Back in those days we had it rough. You just kept going from armchair to armchair, some stores wanted you, some didn't, nothing was stable, and the cash wouldn't pay the rent. Plus the little fuckers wouldn't know when to shut their yaps. Harpin' on ‘bout they wants this and they want that-I knows Mommy would buy them all the toys they want once they squeal the in right direction. "S'up, brother?" says Marv as he takes off his headpiece. His costume is ruffled, covered in crayon and cookie crumbs; must've had a bad day. He sits down, pulls out a twenty. "Drinks on me." It's usually his way, always doling out bills like he has the cash to buy hookers.

I scan the room. It's the usual characters. There's Dougie Beaver sitting with Bubba Bear, always whisperin' to each other, never talkin' to anyone non-NBC. Next to them Mickey the Monkey, currently out of work and off the air, playing the card shark and waiting for the next sucker born. Coco the Clown's sittin at a table chatting up some broad-playing the self-righteous card just cause he's a staple on PBS. Over in the corner, there's Porkchop Steve, sittin' all by himself. Usually mutters into his drink-never been the same since that run in with the Alliance of American Vegans.

And just look who fuckin' walks in. Sid Sedechy-plays Earl the Chicken down at Fox Kids. Thinks his shit smells sweeter than most ‘cuz he's all the rage on the 8 AM slot these days. "Can't stand that motherfucker," grunts Marv as he takes another swig. Sid's still in full costume, dancing and flailing his arms as he struts over to land with his boys. From the look of it, their table has female company, too. "More drinks, Shirley," I says-maybe I'll be able to drown the laughter of girls coming from Sid's table.

I gotta take a leak. Spending so much time wrapped up in this damn costume means I've had plenty of practice holding it in, but a dude's gotta go.

And then it happens. Comin' back from the john, I'm pushing back to the bar, but when you're one of the top heavy guys, sometimes its hard to keep your balance. I bumps right into a guy holding an armful of drinks, and they spill everywhere. "Watch it, greaseball." I look up at the chicken constume-it's none other than Sid Sedechy himself. "You heard me, broccoli man, stublin' right round the bar. Clumsy fucker." My eyes narrow. "You wanna start somethin' here, rookie?"

Charlie the Cookie and Dewey Frog stand with Sid. The music stops.

The girls, meanwhile, have stopped laughing, a look of apprehension on their faces. I look round the room, and all eyes are on us. "Well lookie here," jeered Sid, "Think you still got juice in you? Save yourself the breath, old man. CBS punk-think you got any play left on the box?"

Sixteen years in this costume and I know every inch of it. I reach down into a side pocket and whip out my switch blade.

Sid whips out his.

The bar is silent. Each of us is waiting for the other to make the first move. Where the fuck is Marv? The Fox Kids boys are getting antsy; they're ready to reach for their weapons at just a signal from Sid.

Somebody needs to move, somebody has to crack. Why won't someone do something?

And then somebody does. Coco the Clown starts screaming. I panic and spin round; a body crashes into mine, and I tumble over as the whole room launches into the fight. Chairs are crashing, legs are kicking. Polystyrene bodies clash in a swaggering mass of plastic fur as tables and glasses topple over. Nobody knows whose side they're on, but the punches keep flying. I've lost my knife. I fumble around for it in panic as a giant radish appears above me, but a bar stool crashes down on his head before he can strike. Marv surfaces from the john. Realizing what's happened, he lets out a loud guttural roar and lumbers over to the fight. I grab a hold of my switchblade beneath the table. I start frantically slashing at somebody's feet but get kicked over before I can do any damage. I look over and Charlie the Cookie has Porkchop Steve in a headlock. Dougie Beaver's costume shredded, and Coco is screaming.

Then comes the gunshot.

"Alright fellas, break it up!" hollers Shirley, shotgun in her hand. "Get back to your drinks." She has a big box of Band-Aids and a roll of duct tape. The roar of the fight has softened to a murmur as we limp back to our tables, heads hanging in shame. I survey the damage-nothing I can't patch up later. Probably won't even notice during filming tomorrow.

Yup, all in all it's just another day as a C-list celebrity. Just as long as I can drive away the sound of the kids, I got nothing to worry about. In fact, I've got most of what I want right here. "Hey, Shirley," I mumble from underneath my headpiece, "How's about another drink?"