Sherman Alexie Interview

January 27, 2012

Originally published in Boulder Weekly


I am a 14-year-old girl at a Justin Timberlake concert. I am wearing glitter nail polish and a T-shirt with the word “Juicy” pasted on it in puffy, pink letters. I am in love. When the music starts, my heart goes pitter-pat-pitter-pat, and I scream so loud that dogs in China begin to howl. People look at me strangely, but I don’t care because I am a 14-year-old girl at a Justin Timberlake concert…

I know it’s not exactly professional, but this is how I feel about interviewing Sherman Alexie. I want to giggle and invite him to my house for a sleepover.

Book critics are not supposed to admit we have personal reactions to prose. We are just literate androids that consume novels like flavorless bowls of oatmeal and then spew out dispassionate, semi-witty quips about the authors who write them. But I can’t help it — I love books, and I love the people who write the books I love. If you want to read a cold, impartial review by some priggish academic, pick up the New Yorker. I’m a fan.

Alexie’s latest novel, Flight, is a short, tender satire about a young American Indian/Irish orphan named Zits who has spent the better part of his 15 years bouncing back and forth from foster homes to juvenile detention in Seattle. He has been scarred — emotionally and dermatologically — by life.

On one of his visits to juvy, Zits meets a handsome anarchist named Justice who inundates the angsty American Indian with left-wing revolutionary dogma. Justice supplies Zits with an amoral philosophy and a pair of handguns. The journey ends in a public massacre.

However, just as the brain matter begins to fly, Zits is transported by postmodern powers through time and space into the body of a white FBI agent in 1975. The rest of the novel follows poor Zits as he jumps back and forth through history witnessing (and sometimes participating in) horrible acts of violence.

In another writer’s hands, this could be a really corny book. But as always, Alexie deftly imbues his characters with equal parts cynicism and compassion to form a sophisticated, modern parable. It’s a bit like Catcher in the Rye meets Gunsmoke meets Quantum Leap.

I spoke with Alexie about his novel while he was doing laundry at his house. (His favorite red shirt was recently stained during a book tour.) He greeted me kindly with his soft reservation accent and then proceeded to shatter all of my political and social opinions one by one.

Boulder Weekly: There’s a scene in your novel where the main character goes on a public shooting spree. Did the events at Virginia Tech change the way people perceived that narrative?

Sherman Alexie: It’s interesting. I think there has been some reaction to it but not a whole bunch. I don’t think people have a way of talking about it. Nobody seems to have connected [the shootings at Virginia Tech] to the fact that we’ve been in a war that’s lasted longer than World War II. We’ve been watching our president’s amorality for years. How can people not think those amoral decisions are going to influence sociopaths like this kid?

BW: Were these all themes you were thinking about while writing this book?

SA: Yeah, I was trying to explain war and talk about it in one way or another.

BW: How do you feel about the way this book has been received so far?

SA: It’s about what I expected. It’s about 60 percent positive and 40 percent negative. I knew there would be an elitist literary reaction to the time travel factor — that I would dare to have a genre element.

BW: Some critics thought it was strange that Flight was not published as a hardback.

SA: Actually, we did that for a number of reasons. There are so many returns of hardcovers that it’s an economic model that’s broken for most writers. So I did this to try to remove some of the stigma from publishing a paperback original. I took a lower advance, and we published in paperback to send a message: This is the way [writers] are going to be more successful. It’s also the way more first-time and experimental writers will get published.

BW: But not everyone saw it that way?

SA: This is the first time I’ve gone public with the idea — with the Boulder Weekly. Part of it is that I’m responding to a review in the Rocky Mountain News by Jenny Shank. She thought Black Cat (Flight‘s publisher) hated the book, and publishing a paperback original was like a studio not allowing a movie to be reviewed before its release. It was shocking to me that someone with very little experience in publishing like Jenny Shank would even have a guess at that. The arrogance was astonishing. So I’m telling the Boulder Weekly all this so you guys can hammer on your competitor, the Rocky Mountain Fucking News.

BW: We definitely will.

SA: Good.

BW: I’ve heard that you don’t actually like to write novels.

SA: It’s not that I don’t like them. It’s just not my natural form, so it takes a lot more effort.

BW: Do you feel poetry is your natural form?

SA: Yeah, it’s still what I write the most. I’m always working on a poem.

BW: What do you feel is the state of poetry in America right now?

SA: Poetry has always been, is now, and will always be mostly ignored. But that’s only in its most literary incarnations. I hear poetry whenever I turn on the radio. Eminem is a better poet than just about everybody. He’s better than Billy Collins; he’s better than Richard Wilbur; he’s better than me. “Cleanin’ Out My Closet” is better than Sylvia Plath’s “Daddy.” People’s elitist notions of what poetry is prevents them from seeing that it’s everywhere all the time.

BW: You surprise a lot of people with your views. Quite a while back, Boulder Weekly published a review of the movie Narnia, and you wrote a letter to the editor defending Christians. I think that surprised some of our readers.

SA: Well, I am a Christian. I’m a Catholic. The reflexive, anti-Christian thinking in that particular review was just lazy. It was as shallow as any attack by Rush Limbaugh or Bill O’Reilly. We liberals pretend to be smarter, but we’re not.

BW: Do you think America is filled with reactionary junkies?

SA: Yeah, and I’m a born-again gray-issues guy. I was fairly fundamental before 9/11, but that morning everything changed. What really got me pissed was Ward Churchill blaming the victims, saying that the people in the Trade Towers deserved their deaths. He’s just an evil bastard, and those are evil words, but what killed me was people’s rush to defend him. My defense would have been: “Yeah, he has a right to say what he wants, but he’s completely wrong, and it’s evil.” The problem for me with liberals is that we’ve abdicated our moral responsibility to the universe.

BW: Do you have any idea where we lost that?

SA: Looking back, I think it was when white liberals abdicated the Christian church. They lost their tribal identity. Their religion became less about tribe and justice and more about self-help. Facetiously speaking, I think yoga fucked us.

BW: Do you think there’s a liberal politician out there who would be a good president?

SA: The guy who won in 2000: Al Gore. I’m still pissed at the Nader-ites for that one. Talk about fundamentalism. And I’m sure Boulder voted for Nader about 90 percent. Dumbfucks. (Editor’s Note: Actually, it was 20 percent, Sherman.)

BW: Have you ever been to Boulder before?

SA: Many times.

BW: Do heads explode when you come here?

SA: Generally, yeah. But I get away with so much because I’m an Indian. Everybody feels like shit in the presence of an Indian. I get invited to speak at all sorts of stuff: Christian conferences, right-winger events, diversity business things. People just like to be beaten up by an Indian. I’ve made a lucrative living pounding on the left and right white people of America.

BW: That’s so fantastic that I don’t have any words for it.

SA: I know. And recently, I’ve been getting grief from people because I’ve become an optimist. I love my country, and people have such problems with that.

BW: You’re a patriot?

SA: Well, I have to speak autobiographically. I live in a country where a reservation Indian boy, whose parents didn’t go to college, who used an outhouse until he was 7, is now one of the most published and awarded writers in the country. That does not happen anywhere else.

Worst Fear

March 15, 2011

I used to work with an idiot. This girl, this “coworker,” I hated her with a passion I cannot describe in words. Everything was more difficult when she was around. She wasn’t stupid, just consistently and infuriatingly incompetent. The job in question was retail, so it wasn’t as though we were building rockets to the moon, but she couldn’t seem to grasp the most basic details: enter the correct price into the cash register, make sure the customer signs the credit card receipt, when the phone makes the ringy-ringy noise that means you’re supposed to pick it up.

The strange thing was that this young woman was actually quite intelligent. She was in her early twenties, about ready to graduate with a bachelor’s degree, and her next step was med school.

And that is what frightened me most. I had never given much thought to hospital staff, but it must be like any other field: there are a few bright ones, a few apathetic ones, and plenty of people who can memorize every bone in the human body but can’t figure out how to turn on the vacuum cleaner. (Hint: There’s a big red button on the top that says ON).

One of my greatest fears is that one day I will be in a horrible automobile accident. (This would involve a bus, of course, since I don’t drive.) The paramedics come with their flashy lights and woo-woo siren. They put me on a stretcher and hoist me into the back of their vehicle. They say things like, “Stay with us, son,” and, “This guy’s a fighter. I can see it in his eyes.”

When I get to the hospital, they rush me to the emergency room, where I am hooked up to a variety of beeping and blipping machines. “It doesn’t look good,” someone says. “We have to perform emergency exploratory surgery. STAT!” (You know they mean business when they say stat.) I stare at the bright lights on the ceiling as they put me under. And just before I drift off to sleep, my former coworker sticks her bulbous head in front of my face and says, “Oh, my God! Dale! Is that you? Totally cool. I haven’t seen you in years. Don’t worry, I’m totally going to be your doctor today. For the reals! You’re in good hands… Now how do you turn on this defibrillator? I have to restart that gross red thingy in your chest.”

So unfortunately the last time I was drunk and writing this blawg, apparently I said something ridiculous about posting one every week and the two people that read it got all pissy with me for not meeting my intoxicated-induced deadline, and that is why you are being forced to suffer through another one of these narcissistic stories about my life. If you don’t like it, take it up with Michelle Crouse and Nate Cook. Bastards.

ANYHOW, it’s another episode of “Where The Buffalo Roams” brought to you by Hungry-Man dinners. If you’re lazy and don’t care that your body looks like a bloated bovine carcass that has been rotting in the sun for a few days, try Hungry-Man. Huzzah! Let’s hear it for American ingenuity and obesity!

Speaking of food, as Michelle so graciously pointed out, I forgot to mention in my last blawg that The Buffalo regularly brings me canned food from the Food Bank here in town. Specifically, black beans and pears. You might be asking yourself: Well, Dale, are black beans and pears your two favorite ingestible items? Perhaps you have a mouth-watering recipe for black-beans-and-pear pie. Nope. Pears creep me out because of their grainy texture (it feels like I’m eating fruit-flavored dirt) and as for black beans, well, I’m just an old-fashioned racist at heart who doesn’t like anything with the word “black” in it.

(Boulderites, before you call the NAACP, that was a joke. I love black people… Now Jews on the other hand!)

(Haha, also a joke. Zay moykhl.)

I have no idea why The Buffalo brings me black beans and pears, but I currently have…

(pause while I count the jars in my solitary-confinement-like apartment)

…seven cans of pears and…

(pause for a second count because I’m not very good at math and didn’t think I could remember the first number while I was counting to figure out the second number)

…twelve cans of black beans. That’s right, I said TWELVE. That is a ridiculous number of beans for one person to have, I don’t care what color they happen to be.

Yesterday, The Buffalo showed up with two more cans of black beans and said, “Could you use some more beans?” Which is always his question. I said, “No.” Which is always my response. And then he stood in my doorway awkwardly until I took them.

When I was a kid, we used to have this Siamese tomcat named Leroy who would go out hunting all night long and the next morning he’d leave a dead mouse at the front door. I would be headed off to school, tra-la-la, and then, oh, a dead rodent on our Welcome mat, how nice. And I would pick it up by the tail and chase my sisters with it all the way to Yuma Elementary School, Home of the Little Indians!

I kind of think that’s what The Buffalo is doing. It’s some sort of offering he makes, although I’m not sure what exactly it is for. It’s his strange way of saying that we’re friends. Which is completely cool but also weird and unnecessary.

Michelle asked me why I keep taking these pears and beans, and I honestly don’t know, except that it seems like I would be breaking some sort of code if I refused them. I guess my logic is that if The Buffalo ever decides to go all John Wayne Gacy on the world, I want to be on his good side. One day he might freak out about quality of the janitorial services in the building and start chopping up all my neighbors. If that happens, I’ll barricade myself in my room and blawg about it while surviving off of my endless supply of black beans and pears.

Where The Buffalo Roams

January 1, 2011

So today I decided that I am going to write a weekly blawg about my neighbor, The Buffalo. Therefore, in the future, if you see the words “Where The Buffalo Roams” in the title, you will know what the post will be about. These posts won’t be too arduous, five-hundred words or so, and if they do not amuse you…um…well, that’s life, I guess. Okay? Okay.

First, let me do a little recap in case there are new viewers who are just now tuning in to our show:

The Buffalo is the rather obese, unemployed man who lives at the end of the hall in my rather strange, dysfunctional apartment building. He is an eccentric urban hermit who has cloistered himself in this place like a post-apocalyptic monk, and he will die here unless he wins the lottery one day, which is his only financial plan for the future.

Important Things You Should Know About The Buffalo: A) The Buffalo does not like to wear shirts. I do not know why he has such an aversion to upper-body garments but he does. I suppose I should be happy that his aversion is not toward lower-body garments, if you know what I mean. (Pssst…I mean it would be frightening to see his ding-dong.) B) The Buffalo is called “The Buffalo” because he believes that he was a buffalo in his former life. Why? Well, that’s another story altogether. C) The Buffalo only leaves the apartment building once a month to get groceries. Otherwise, he is here. Always. D) The Buffalo receives exactly $700 a month from the government. He is on welfare because a psychiatrist once said he had “bonding issues.” He attributes this to the fact that he was adopted as a baby. E) The Buffalo was adopted as a baby. Why is this important? Well, it’s not really, except that The Buffalo attributes every negative thing that has happened in his life to the fact that he was adopted as a baby and uses that phrase approximately twenty times a day. F) The Buffalo is thirty-nine years old. G) The Buffalo appears to consume mostly coffee and Hungry-Man dinners. H) The Buffalo may or may not be a virgin. I) The Buffalo has very bad social skills and cannot seem to comprehend when he is making other people uncomfortable. J) The Buffalo is constantly making other people uncomfortable. K) The Buffalo believes in ghosts. L) The Buffalo constantly tries to debate the existence of a spiritual world with me. M) The Buffalo believes that he has telekinetic powers but only when no one else is around to witness them. N) The Buffalo smokes pot. O) The Buffalo has a fungus underneath his armpit. P) The Buffalo feels compelled to show me disgusting things, such as the fungus underneath his armpit. Q) The Buffalo is going bald.

Well, okay, that should give you the basic physiological/psychological picture of The Buffalo. He is not a bad guy, but he is rather strange and frustrating at times.

I guess this was more of a background blawg than anything else. You now have the basic tools necessary to comprehend future stories. Tell your friends. Tell your therapists. Tell your milkmen. (Why don’t we have milkmen anymore? I would definitely purchase dairy products from a milkman. Especially if he drove a refrigerated truck and wore one of those old-timey uniforms.)

Communicating with Nature

December 23, 2010

Sometimes I like to communicate with Nature. For instance, it was gray and cloudy today, but it hadn’t begun to snow yet, so I decided to brave the elements and walk to the library at 2:15 p.m. Ten minutes after I left my apartment—the exact amount of time it takes for me to be far enough from home not to want to turn back but not close enough to my destination to make the trip worth catching pneumonia—it began to drizzle. It was one of those slushy, disgusting meteorological events that feels like Frosty the Snowman is peeing on your face, and I said, “I hate you, Nature! You are an asshole, Nature!”

And Nature just laaaaaaaughed and laughed.

As I’ve mentioned before, there is a man who lives in my apartment building who calls himself the Buffalo. He is a big man, a talkative man, and a man who would prefer not to wear shirts. He is not ashamed of his body, thank you very much. Although he probably should be.

Fortunately, the Buffalo is also a computer-less man, and since he only leaves his apartment to do laundry and purchase Hungry-Man Dinners, I can safely assume that he will never ever read this blawg.

I am simultaneously awed by and frightened of the Buffalo. I constantly want to have conversations with him, and yet whenever he does start to converse with me, I have an overwhelming impulse to scream and run out of the room. This is also kind of how I feel about Lady Gaga.

If the Buffalo was either evil or good, it would be a lot easier to make up my mind about him. I could simply classify him in a category and then treat him accordingly. For instance, if he were evil, I would say that he’s got a real Jeffrey Dahmer-type vibe and all those hours in the bathroom are probably spent carefully peeling off the tips of his fingers so that he won’t leave any prints on his  victims, a la Kevin Spacey in “Se7en” (and, yes, that is technically how the name of that movie is supposed to be spelled–I looked it up on  Or if he was good, I would say that he is more of the Quazimoto type, a deformed creature that has been rejected by society because of his outward appearance, but inside that extremely hairy, man-boob chest there beats a heart of gold.

But the Buffalo is a complicated guy and he cannot be so easily defined. There is goodness in him and there is evilness (if that is actually a word).

PEOPLE’S EXHIBIT A: There used to be a young Mexican man named Juan who cleaned our kitchen and bathroom. Since there is one kitchen and one bathroom for the entire floor, those facilities have to be used by seven people, and since those seven people are lazy slobs, management has to pay a man to clean up after them once a week, and since management is cheap and doesn’t want to pay minimum wage, that man needs to be willing to work for very little cash paid under the table. Juan was such a man. He wasn’t exactly great with a mop and dustpan but then again he never complained about the insane people who made his job miserable, so everyone decided to ignore his janitorial shortcomings.

Everyone except the Buffalo.

The Buffalo told management that Juan was lazy and then Juan was fired. Let me repeat that: The guy who doesn’t have a job and has never had a job complained that the guy who cleans up after him was lazy.

Okay, so that’s the Evil Buffalo. However, hold on to your knickers, there’s also the Good Buffalo.

DEFENSE EXHIBIT B: I have another neighbor who steals my mail. Well, to be fair, she steals everyone’s mail, not just mine. I guess it’s like her thing or something. Some crazy ladies have cats, some crazy ladies collect campaign buttons; this crazy lady steals mail.

You see, there’s only one mailbox for the entire apartment building. What! you say. Only one mailbox! Why, that’s absurd! Yes, dear reader, it is absurd and I appreciate the exclamation points in your hypothetical reaction. The mailman simply drops all the mail on our front porch like a zookeeper throwing a pound of chum into a shark tank. For the first two months that I lived here, I couldn’t figure out why my Netflix movies never arrived. I found out later that Crazy Lady was stealing them. She waits for the mail and then she takes all of it to her room, where it disappears into a dark vortex of stuffed animals and ceramic figurines. Since I actually have a job, I can’t wait around all day to prevent this woman from taking my “Diff’rent Strokes: Episodes 1-5” DVDs. That would be insane.

I told the Buffalo about this problem and he immediately sprang (well, oozed) into action. Every day, he sits on the front stoop of the building until the mailman comes and he carefully looks at every letter three times to make certain that he has all my mail. Afterward, he either shoves my mail under my door immediately or, in the case of packages, squirrels them away in secret hiding places in his room until I come home, and then he promptly delivers them to me. It’s like having a butler. A butler who lives down the hall, and talks too much about “Unsolved Mysteries,” and doesn’t wear a shirt, and refuses to do any actual work aside from delivering postal products. So not really like a butler at all, actually.

ANYHOW, that’s the situation. Evil Buffalo vs. Good Buffalo. Who shall win the day? If Good Buffalo prevails, I will continue watching crappy sitcoms from the 1980s while writing this blawg. If Bad Buffalo is victorious, you will probably find me in a duffel bag along with numerous cans of well organized food products.

I don’t have a car, so I ride the bus a lot. I enjoy public transportation because it gives me the opportunity to shamelessly eavesdrop on other people’s conversations without them saying things like, “You’re creepy!” or, “I’m getting a restraining order!”

Yesterday I happened to jump on a bus filled with teenagers who must have been coming home from summer-school classes. Directly behind me, two girls were discussing a homework assignment, which involved the Civil Rights Movement.

Girl 1: I didn’t really understand the part about stereotypes. I mean, like, I know what “stereotypes” are, but I don’t understand what he [the teacher] really meant.

Girl 2: I know, it’s hard.

Girl 1: I know, right?

Girl 2: Totally.

Girl 1: Yeah.

Girl 2: I think it’s like when people label you.

Girl 1: Right… Totally… Right… Wait, what do you mean?

Girl 2: Well, it’s like, you know, when some people at school stereotype you as “pretty” and some people stereotype you as “smart.” It’s like that.

Girl 1: Oh, right. I get it.

Girl 2: Totally.

I thought about Rosa Parks getting on a similar bus in 1955. What courage it must have taken for her to stand up for all those people who had been unfairly labeled as “pretty” and “smart.” If she were alive today, I’m sure she would be happy to know that her legacy is being passed on to the youth of America.

And then I had a dream…

I had a dream that one day this nation would rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: We hold these truths to be self-evident that all popular girls are created equal.

I had a dream that one day on the white mountains of Boulder the daughters of former organic coffee-shop owners and the daughters of former llama farmers would be able to sit down together and watch “The Hills.”

I had a dream that one day even the state of Colorado, a dessert state, suffering from a lack of low-fat yogurt and non-dairy creamer, will be transformed into an oasis of thin people with nice tans.

I had a dream that these two Boulder girls would one day live in a nation where they would not be judged by the color of their lip gloss but by the contents of their Gucci bags.

I had a dream…

Abercrombie at last! Abercrombie at last! Abercrombie at last!

HIYAH! That was my totally awesome roundhouse kick. HIYAH! That was my totally killer kidney punch. HIYAH! HIYAH! That was me beating the crap out of a dinosaur.

Hello, I am a single, white male in excellent (EXCELLENT!) physical condition. I work out sixty-two times a day. On the weekends, I thumb-wrestle grizzly bears and participate in beard competitions all over the world. Did I mention I have a beard? Well, I do, and it’s totally awesome. In fact, it’s probably the awesomest beard in the whole dadgum world and I love it and I can cut down trees with it. Seriously. Just give me five minutes with a redwood and BZZZZZZZZ…TIMBER!!!

But enough about my beard. I also have a cowboy hat. Yeah, it’s large and black and it totally smells like my sweat. Which smells like the manliest sweat in the world, kinda like a the sweat on a lion’s ballsack—if that ballsack could kill a man with a paperclip. HIYAH!

So, yeah, I have a beard that can cut down trees and a cowboy hat that smells like a homicidal lion’s genitalia… What else? Oh, right, I also have these sweet-ass cowboy boots that could totally kill a small hippo even if my feet weren’t in them. If my feet ARE in them, my boots can kill twenty-three full-grown hippos carrying bazookas. HIYAH!

You also might have guessed that I’m a huge movie star and I once had a totally awesome show called “Walker, Texas Ranger” (and no, it’s not like “Matlock” with karate, a-holes, so shut up) and I also made like a bajillion dollars selling exercise equipment. So there! HIYAH!

Please send an email with a recent photo or I will roundhouse you in the face. HIYAH!

Greetings, attractive female citizens. Pardon me if I am a little shy, but this is the first time I have done this sort of thing. A few details about myself: I have a beard. I was born in a log cabin. I have been dead for more than 140 years, so if you’re one of those judgmental people who only wants to have relations with the living, don’t even bother contacting me.

I was the sixteenth president of the United States. My portrait is on the five dollar bill, so I literally have my own money. LOL. I am tall. Very tall, actually. Like really really tall. And I wear a top hat, so that kind of adds to the whole tallness thing. I don’t know why I wear a top hat even though I’m so tall. It’s just something I started doing as a kid and it caught on. I tried to stop wearing top hats for a while, but then I’d show up at parties and people would be like, “Abe, why no top hat? Are you too cool for top hats now? Are you going to start wearing a beret? Oooo-la-la!” And so on and so forth. It just got tiresome, so I put the top hat back on.

What else?…What else? Oh, I don’t go to the theater. EVER. So don’t even ask, okay? It’s a long story and I don’t want to get into it, but let’s just say I don’t get along with actors. Museums, poetry readings, concerts…no problem. But no theater. That’s a deal breaker for me.

Also, FYI, I’m really into role playing. I know, TMI, right? But it’s true. I’d like to dress up as George Washington and cross your Valley Forge. I’m mostly looking for NSA and maybe some light S&M with a D&D-free partner, but I’m not opposed to an LTR if it’s with the right person.

Okay, well, I’ll stop yacking about myself. I want to hear about you. So please send me a telegraph on this magical box thingy, okay? I can send you a picture as well, or you can just look at a five dollar bill. There’s also this statue of me in Washington, D.C. that’s pretty cool. It’s not a recent statue, but it’s a good likeness.

I live in a student neighborhood in between a fraternity house and a sorority house. Since my apartment building does not have air-conditioning, I have to keep my window open in order to survive the summer. As luck would have it, my window is directly above the spot where the frat boys and sorority girls gather to smoke cigarettes and chatter away like a flock of exotic, drunken, pill-popping birds. Here are some of the conversations I have overheard.

WHITE BOY WITH HAT TURNED SIDEWAYS: Did you hear what happened in Haiti?

WHITE GIRL WITH HAIR EXTENSIONS: My dad owns a house there.

WHITE BOY WITH HAT TURNED SIDEWAYS: Not anymore. There was a tornado. Blew up everything.

WHITE GIRL WITH HAIR EXTENSIONS: I should text my dad. I really like that house.


SCREAMING GIRL APPARENTLY NAMED AMY: You are such an…(drunken slurring noise that kind of sounds like “asshole”). Jack! I hate you! IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou! Jack! Where’s my shoe?

SCREAMING BOY APPARENTLY NAMED JACK: Leave me alone! Amy! Amy! Amy! I didn’t want to come to this party anyhow! Amy! Why’d you pour out my drink? Amy!

SCREAMING GIRL APPARENTLY NAMED AMY: I wanted to go to…(drunken slurring noise that kind of sounds like “another party”). Jack, I need my shoe! Shoe! Shoe! JACK!

SCREAMING BOY APPARENTLY NAMED JACK: I wanted to watch the game! Amy! I could be watching the game! Amy! I hate this party! Amy!


SCREAMING BOY APPARENTLY NAMED JACK: Amy! You left it in the tree!


STONER #1: Dude, there are a lot of squirrels around here. It’s weird.

STONER #2: I know, dude. There are so many hot girls in Boulder.


STONER #1: I said “squirrels.”

STONER #2: What?


STONER #2: There’s this totally hot girl in my bio class.

(Longer pause)

STONER #1: They’re just rats with fluffy tales, dude. It’s strange that there’s, like, so many of them. I wonder what they want.

STONER #2: They want your money, dude. That’s all girls ever want.

STONER #1: Why would a squirrel want my money?

STONER #2: I don’t know. What are we talking about?

STONER #1: You said something about squirrels.

(Extremely long pause)

STONER #2: Oh, right. The girls in Boulder are really hot, dude.

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