Monday, October 10, 2005

Stress level => 50

Struck by the craftiest of ideas, you roll down your window and say, “Frank…”

A. “I’m just kidding. Wrestling is completely real.”
B. “I’m only joshing. I can get you free skybox tickets.”
C. “Those shorts really go well with nothing much at all.”
D. “Please stop balding on my lawn.”
E. “I got you a present. Check my trunk.”

You chose B. Stress level => 45

Frank scans the area warily for his wife before running to you with the air of a desperate man, his face the very picture of neediness.

“You gotta help me,” he gasps. “Sheila says I can’t have any ticket money until I put my kid through college. I told her, ‘But that’s not for another year!’ She made me sleep on the couch for a month.”

“Listen…” you begin.

A. “Sheila’s pregnant. I helped.”
B. “Anytime you’re hungry, y’know, I dropped my Pop Tart for you.”
C. “I double-checked and I still don’t care.”
D. “If you lend me your car, I’ll pick up the tickets on my way home.”
E. “My car will actually turn into a ticket if you get behind and push.”

You chose D. Stress level => 35

“Really?” he says incredulously. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course,” you nod and shake his hand.

He stealthily enters his house through the back porch, sneaks through the den without alerting his wife, and returns to you whipped but proud, triumphant in his impromptu guile.

“Here,” he whispers as he hands you his keys. “I–”

“Frank! I’m doing the dishes right now,” Sheila shouts through the front door, “and I’m not sure what part of ‘drying’ you don’t understand.”

“Be right there, dear!”

Frank turns to you, a wild look in his eyes.

“Please. I need this. Promise me.”

You look at the key, then look at him.

A. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”
B. “What’s that, Sheila? Your husband’s getting tickets behind your back?”
C. “You have my word.”
D. “The real question is, ‘How do they know when to shoot the puck?'”
E. “I…I love you.”

You chose C. Stress level => 30

“Thanks,” he sighs. “You’re the best neighbor a guy could have.”

Frank trudges despondently to his house. You turn your attention to his minivan, which to any onlooker would resemble a shiny galleon of the suburbs, its backseat awash in glittering wrappers, sunbaked clothes, and magazines. You unlock the car and climb into the driver’s seat. Your nostrils reel at a foul stench.

Like a bad omen, the keys jangle in protest and drop through a crack, finally coming to rest in the backseat. What a time to be clumsy. You reach behind and stick your hand deep in the pile of trash, only to be surprised.

Cat vomit.

The garbage heap gives an angry shake and out pops a cantankerous tabby. Did Frank lock his beloved Woof in the car again?

“C’mere, Woof! Do you want to go home?” you say in your best feline voice.

Woof spits at you and hisses.

“Alright, you little fucker. I don’t have time for this.”

You grab the cat by the scruff of her neck and…

A. Set her free through the window.
B. Twist.
C. Cram her in the mailbox.
D. Wish she were declawed.
E. Talk to her as if she truly understands and gives a shit.

You chose C. Stress level => 30

“Frank is busy right now,” you tell the cat. “Let me show you the waiting room.”

You furtively look around for any card-carrying ASPCA members before stuffing Woof in the mailbox, making sure to put up the little red flag. 8:21 AM. You still have nine minutes to make it to work.

“Poor guy. He simply doesn’t get it,” you mutter. “And what’s a skybox?”

Stress level => 22