It’s one of life’s greatest unsolved mysteries. Conspiracy theorists and devotees alike have spent their lives chasing ghosts, poring over scraps of old papers hoping that they might contain clues as to his origin. And yet, for all their effort, they still can’t answer the one question they are literally dying to know, “Who exactly is this Optimistic Pessimist?”

Born Bocephus Chigger on the planet Tralfamadore in the (earth) year 1943, to Cletus and Mary Jane Annie Sue Chigger, Bocephus grew up a poor Southern boy, forced by his parents to listen to country music every waking hour of the day. You hicks out there might be doing the country version of fist pumping (lasso swinging?) right about now, but there is something you should know about Tralfamadore’s particular flavor of country music: Tralfamadorian country music sounds like a cross between Uncle Kracker, Auto-tune Cher and a burping contest. It was known to drive listeners insane after prolonged exposure.

Upon reaching the age of adulthood for a Tralfamadorian (3 earth years), Bocephus escaped his parents’ country music crazy factory. He moved to the capital of Tralfamadore and became involved in politics for a brief time. He was even elected as a congressman before being banished from his home planet for making a sexual hand gesture on national television. After “Jerk-offgate,” Bocephus headed to the only other safe haven in the galaxy, Earth.

Bocephus already knew from his grade school exobiology class that humans would easily mistake a Tralfamadorian for a hand puppet. This gullibility would work to both Bocephus’ advantage and disadvantage for his first couple of decades on Earth.

The sock puppet routine worked so well that Bocephus worked his way into the swanky mansion of a New York mob boss, known by his associates as “the Don.” The cost of staying warm for the winter meant witnessing beatings, drug deals and even murders. Eventually, the boss got whacked and Bocephus was the only witness.

Until then, the mobsters all thought he was just a puppet, but upon seeing the Don pumped full of lead, Bocephus couldn’t help but shed a tear. One of the hit men heard Bocephus sob and the secret was out. Bocephus managed to escape, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before the mob had him.

He needed help, so Bocephus turned witness and entered protective custody where he was given a chance to start life over as a butcher named Jerry Smith. No one is sure why the feds had a grey furry alien work in a butchery when it would have made much more sense to have him keep hiding as a hand puppet. That’s government for you!

Believing he could do a better job of protecting himself, Bocephus soon left protective custody and went underground. Little is known about this period of his life, but there are many rumors. Some say they served with him in Vietnam. Some claim to have served time with him in a supermax facility in Colorado. Others say he lived a hard life of prostitution, pimping, gambling and hustling.

By 1996, Bocephus was lower than he had ever been. He was living in a Goodwill parking lot and his only remaining possession was a magic blue T-shirt with a picture of Mickey Mouse next to the word, “Indiana.” The members of the mob had either been thrown in jail or had moved on to more “legitimate” scams like credit default swaps and derivative trading. So, Bocephus stopped running.

As he lay on that pile of random Goodwill offerings, he thought to himself, “Things are going to change,” and soon they did. A few nights later, a mysterious teenager and his friend found Bocephus in the parking lot and took him home where he was given a comfortable walker to rest his tired fur upon.

Bocephus and his new friend grew close. Eventually, the mystery teen even got Bocephus to talk again. They shared their experiences and struggles with one another. Through the teen, Bocephus finally learned what it was like to be free. He saw amazing things, smoked the best weed and listened to the dopest rap music in the galaxy.

When Bocephus wasn’t listening to Dr. Octagon and getting blunted, he wrote. He wrote so much that his arms and legs fell off and he had to learn to use his mouth. In early 2008, a young Sacramento upstart magazine, Submerge, took notice of Bocephus after he used his magic Indiana/Mickey Mouse T-shirt to make them think he was a brilliant writer. Bocephus told them he would write about funny shit like sweatpants or would just complain about something that bothered him.

“The Optimistic Pessimist” debuted in April 2008, and Submerge has regretted it ever since.

-Words by Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com

Life is a fragile thing. There was a point last week when I didn’t think these words would ever make it down on paper. Hell, two days ago, I wasn’t even sure if I would make it from my bed to the toilet, let alone put together a coherent thought. A particularly virulent strain of the flu took hold of me last week and appeared ready to ride my pale horse carcass to usher in the apocalypse. The following is an account of the six days it took me to reenter the land of the living.

Day One
Something wasn’t right. It was cold and raining, yet here I sat sweating through my clothes. Work was inescapable that day, which meant that I had to repeatedly explain to clients why I couldn’t shake hands with them, as I thought I was coming down with something. Some demanded it anyway; pity those poor fools. The day went by without too much discomfort. I was aided by the delicious Romanian mulligatawny from Muntean’s on J Street (don’t sleep on this place!). I was sure this would pass within a couple days.

Day Two
Day two welcomed me with a sweat outline of myself imprinted on my sheets. Every muscle in my body ached. Work was again unavoidable and this time in the far-off land of Modesto. Repeats of the no-handshake conversations transpired and soup was again on the menu (this time minestrone), which I had to pay for by check since my now flu-addled brain caused me to forget my wallet in the car. I made it home just before all semblance of stability left me. The ensuing fever was harsh and so, lacking any control of my internal thermostat, I was forced to set up a hot bed and a cold bed to make sleep possible. I slept 11 hours that night.

Day Three
Finally, a day to recover–or so I thought. My lack of preparedness was beginning to get the best of me. The only soup in my house was three packs of Top Ramen that said “best by 2007.” Too weak to leave home, I ate one of them anyway. It was all I could stomach for the day and it was pretty foul, so I guess Ramen can go bad after all. At some point I was lulled into a Game of Thrones marathon on HBO, which did not lend itself well to my already fragile mental state. In my half-conscious daydreams, I began to believe that it was up to me to save Ned Stark from those Lannister pricks. Needless to say, I failed miserably. Sorry, Ned.

Day Four
I woke to find myself naked, disoriented, sore and shivering in the cold bed believing my fever had finally broke, but as I would discover through a series of hot and cold flashes to come later in the day, it was all just a cruel jape. To add insult to injury, my sinuses were now plugged and my throat was on fire. Making matters worse, I also began to drool uncontrollably, requiring the assistance of a spit cup for my waking hours and a spit towel for my sleeping ones. Today’s soup was an awful pile of shit that Raley’s calls vegetable soup, but is actually closer to plant mulch with tomato juice.

Day Five
This fucking flu had the nerve to wake me up to a clear head and no fever only to transform me into a coughing, slobbering, wheezing, dripping mess 30 minutes later. My only savior was the icy hot patch on my lower back that allowed me to attain the fetal position that I needed oh so badly by that point. By 2 p.m., I had already sent out a preemptive, “Not coming in to work tomorrow,” email. This fucker still had legs and jumped up and down on my face for the rest of the day.

Day Six
When I woke up, the drooling, fever and body aches had gone, but the rest remained. The idea of eating another bowl of soup was about as appealing as eating my three-day-old spit towel, so instead, today’s soup was a roast beef sandwich. On Demand was malfunctioning and apparently 25 movie channels can only manage to play 10 different movies each day. Kinky Boots just doesn’t speak to me and one can only watch the Back to the Future trilogy so many times before you want to jolt your brain with 1.21 jiggawatts of electric chair goodness.

And yet I had to smile. The worst was apparently over. My swine bird turducken flu had tried its hardest to take me down, but I’m a goddamn marvel of modern science. Oh, and you best believe I’ll be getting the shot next year!

Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com

When I was a teenager, I had designs on becoming a famous indie comic book creator. This, of course, was an impossible dream because there is no such thing as a famous indie comic book creator. I would have had a better shot aspiring to be a unicorn (that was my fallback option). I locked myself in my room and drew and drew and drew, because I figured that was the tough part. Anyone could write. In fact, I prove that every other week in this very space. I had a problem with art, though. While I loved drawing all the wicked-awesome characters I had in my head, I had trouble with stuff like tables and doors and just about every other everyday object you’d see. That shit is boring (especially when compared to drawing boobs), but so vital to creating a realistic comic book world. Also, hands are harder to draw than a motherfucker.

So drawing went by the wayside. All that money I spent on Bristol board and gummy erasers and fancy 2H pencils probably would have been better served going toward drugs or more cigarettes or something. Luckily for you, I stuck with writing.

But a couple weeks ago my love for drawing returned. A friend of mine had pointed out a new game she was playing on her iPhone. “Have you played Draw Something?” she asked in the same tone she used to introduced me to Words With Friends and Temple Run; a tone that suggested, “Welcome to what you’ll be doing most of your waking hours for the next five weeks.” Of course, I immediately hit the App Store.

I’m not sure what it is about these iPhone games that is so addictive. About a month ago, I dropped over $150 on Soul Calibur V and Final Fantasy XIII-2 Collector’s Edition (who really collects these fucking things?) and its corresponding Bible­-sized strategy guide to play on my fancypants Xbox 360. The Final Fantasy game has provided almost 70 hours of playtime, but I still don’t obsess over it like I do these ephemeral little game programs that have me hunched over my phone for hours at a time.

Angry Birds was my entry drug, as I think it was for most people, but then I moved on to Robot Unicorn Attack: Metal Edition, which I excelled at while sitting on the toilet. Those were great and all, but it got really bad when I got hooked on Words With Friends. I love me some Scrabble. Also, it’s one of the only things I’m really good at. It’s so rare that I get to show off, but WWF had given me a tool to flaunt my mad skillz to people around the country–while I was riding the bus home from work, or, you know, in the john.

I’m still on the Words With Friends trip, but it’s died down. Most of the people I know–my own sister in particular–refuse to play with me. I thought about letting her win, but really, that wouldn’t be doing her any good. No one likes to be patronized. Now I’m down to just a paltry four or five games, one of which is a deathmatch with my column brother Bocephus Chigger.

But Draw Something is an entirely different animal. It’s more about teamwork as opposed to racking up triples against your opponent. It’s like digital Pictionary, where you and a friend try to guess a word based on a picture you drew. It’s fun, and ridiculously addictive. Plus, you can accumulate coins to buy new colors!!! How cool is that?!

As it turns out, my years away from drawing in any serious capacity have left me quite rusty. Also, my thumbs are not nearly as nimble tools as a well sharpened pencil and a Rapidograph pen. I strain to move my ponderous digits over the iPhone’s smooth and frustratingly small screen; I scrawl semi-decipherable hieroglyphic clues that may pass as characters from our alphabet. It’s not pretty, but it gets the job done.

Originally, I set aside one slot of Draw Something time right before bedtime. This was easy when I had a manageable amount of games. But once I posted one of my masterpieces to Facebook, my number of games grew exponentially. I’m currently running 16 games with friends far and wide–a couple of whom I only vaguely remember. It may not seem like a lot, but this is ART. It takes time. Now if only I could get my thumbs to draw a decent pair of boobs.

Go find your fat pants… Thanksgiving is here! Turkey Day is one of, if not the best, American holidays. For a nation known for mass proportions, it’s always comforting when gluttony is openly encouraged. Each year toward the end of November, families battle through traffic and with each other to get at plates loaded with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie. Some even honor the day by actually giving thanks for what they have. This “thanks giving” truly is a lovely gesture with all the right intentions, but I don’t think it’s exactly what the pioneers of Thanksgiving had in mind for their holiday.

Historical figure and signor of the Declaration of Independence, John Hancock, created Thanksgiving in 1621. Hancock loved to get down, and in late November of that year, Johnny boy decided to throw a rager. He invited everyone who was anyone at the time, promising those who made the trip that they would be swimming in booze. The invitations read, “Happy Dranksgiving!” but due to Hancock’s flowery script, most invitees read it as “Happy Thanksgiving!” Believing they were being honored by Hancock, some prominent celebrities of the day turned out for the shindig.

The first to arrive did not have to travel far. Wilbur Butterball III was John Hancock’s well-to-do neighbor and family friend. Butterball had made a name for himself in the quail and dodo bird business up until 1620, when he had begun hawking a new kind of bird, the turkey. He liked to tell people that his birds represented those jive turkeys otherwise known as the English and he invited his customers to go home and rake the Brits across some hot coals. He even installed a thermometer on each turkey so that buyers would know when justice was served.

Also in attendance that day was Betsy Ross. After catching a glimpse of Butterball’s turkey, Ross was inspired to create an icon we have all come to know and love: the turkey hand. Ross traced the outline of her hand on everything, adding beaks, feet and that flap of flesh under the chin I lovingly refer to as the gobbler. Kindergarten would never be the same. It was also at the first Thanksgiving that Ross met the wealthy Butterball. The two fell in love at first sight, much to the chagrin of Ross’ date, General Custer.

Custer had spent the last few years wooing Betsy, and they were finally set to wed in the spring. The General was not a fan of Hancock on account of his too-pretty signature and had planned to skip the event until Betsy convinced him to go. His attendance at the first Thanksgiving proved to be disastrous. Once Betsy got drunk enough, she began to freak dance on Butterball. There were gyrations. Thrusts were made. Custer’s temper flared.

Sitting Bull also received an invite and he could never turn down a free meal (especially since the food being eaten by everyone was rightfully his). Custer, who was not a fan of Sitting Bull, spent the whole night mocking the native’s long braided hair and beaded leather pants. Sitting Bull was no chump and he offered to meet Custer at Little Bighorn to settle their disputes once and for all. Custer said he was prepared to make a stand; little did he know it would be his last.

The argument was a real buzzkill, and Hancock’s party was near ruins. It was at that exact moment that Quetzalcoatl, the Aztec feathered serpent god of fertility, showed up. The deity had been stuck in traffic for three hours while “some asshole just sat in the middle of the road with his hazard candles lit.” The other guests were in need of some fun, and Quetz (as all the hep-cats called him) was the craziest guy they knew. He quickly introduced everyone to the new drinking game he had created just for the event called, “I Am Thankful For.” Each person was to name something they were thankful for. If the thing someone was thankful for makes the person before them look like a worse human being for not coming up with that same response, then that person has to drink. It didn’t take long for everyone to get trashed and all of that positive thinking (and excessive drinking) raised everyone’s spirits. Quetzalcoatl had saved the day!

They might not have known at the time, but these pioneers created something special that day. Hancock’s party that day was so successful that we still celebrate it 390 years later. We honor them by eating until our belts must be loosened and our pants unbuttoned. We praise them by drinking until we can barely stand. We relive their good feelings by going around the table and saying what we are thankful for. Perhaps this year, you will remember these titans of history and give thanks to them for this wonderful day known as Thanksgiving.

Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com

Fall is back and you know what that means: new TV shows! Each autumn our network overlords throw us a fresh batch of random shit to watch. I took a peek at the actual shows premiering this year and it’s not good. What will I mindlessly stare at for 30 to 60 minutes at a time? Saddened by the dismal showing, I got to thinking of a few ideas of my own. What you are about to read will change the face of television forever.

Whatever happened to Don Knotts? Dead. Humphrey Bogart? Kaput. Corey Haim? Too good for this world. It’s like all the big stars are gone! Wouldn’t it be great if these fine fellows and all of our other deceased favorites could be back in the spotlight again? Well, that’s exactly what happens in The Comeback Kings. Modern-day Hollywood is collapsing on itself and needs an injection of life, but there just aren’t any good actors left. All that changes when a mad scientist (played by former Friends star David Schwimmer) approaches the studio heads with a plan to reanimate the corpses of Hollywood’s biggest former stars and usher in a new golden age in film. All of your favorites will be back and better than ever (well maybe the same as ever, but that’s still good)!

It seems like every year we get another drama about doctors or lawyers. I, for one, am sick of it. When are these people going to try something truly risky? What we need is a medical malpractice drama! Now that’s television! Think of the potentially juicy storylines involving defective prosthetic legs, erectile dysfunction/hyper-function and leaky colostomy bags. Isaiah Washington (who left Grey’s Anatomy for hating the gays) has expressed interest in playing the lead. Negotiations over the sexual preferences of Mr. Washington’s cast mates are nearly complete and filming is scheduled to begin soon on Juris Doctorate.

The supernatural is huge right now, and I’ve got a plan to cash in on the hype. A werewolf, Frankenstein and a vampire (played by Malcolm Jamal Warner, Dustin Diamond and Charlie Sheen, respectively) own a tenement building for monsters in Brooklyn, N.Y. Things are going well for the guys until one of their tenants (a witch) disappears from her apartment in the middle of the night, leaving behind her recently born witch daughter. The guys are forced to raise the young witch with hilarious results. It’s The Addams Family meets Three Men and a Baby meets Good Times. Monster House will be great for the family no matter how much of a beast you are!

Loosely scripted and heavily edited to form a narrative, “reality TV” is so close to politics, it’s a wonder the two haven’t yet formally crossed paths. That’s all about to change with America’s Next Top President. Ten natural born citizens will square off in the competition of their lives. The issues will be glossed over, the catty drama exposed. Candidates will compete on such tasks as baby kissing, hand gesturing during speeches, Orwellian bill-naming strategies and concealing the truth from the American people. When the dust settles, only one will remain standing to claim the title of America’s Next Top President.

Of course, presidential glory is not for everyone. Some people are just trying to live and, better yet, get paid while they do. That’s the idea behind Out of Bounds, a new game show possibly coming to the CW next fall. On Out of Bounds, we take a family from the Waziristan region of Pakistan and have them trade homes and lives with an American family from Tucson, Ariz. Watch as each family does their best to figure out their new culture before the people around them decide to imprison or kill them. The family that survives the longest and/or kills the most infidels/terrorists wins a $100,000 cash prize.

I know. It’s hard to choose isn’t it? They all have so much potential. More importantly, I would not be surprised to find one of these shows on television. It’s everything they want us to want, taken a few levels further. And if TV has taught me one thing, it’s that extremes are always better. Start warming up those DVRs!

-By Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com

I love food. I should weigh 500 pounds. I’ve never met a cuisine I couldn’t enjoy in some way, shape or form. I sometimes do an involuntary little food dance in my seat. It sort of looks like a dog wagging its tail accompanied by some lip smacking. This dance worried my ex, as she thought it meant I could someday need the assistance of a forklift to get out of bed. While I am nowhere near that point, I do find it hard to turn down food.

Food is the window into the soul of a people. You will not learn more from reading about or visiting a country than you will from eating its food. Food offers insight on regional climate and what types of plants and animals rule the land. It can fill you in on religious beliefs. It can help an outsider find the cracks in a seemingly homogeneous population. It’s full of nuance, color and most importantly, flavor.

If you are familiar with flavors and ingredients, food can encapsulate the history of a country. The use of this spice or of that herb will show you who conquered who. Even after people are beaten into submission, their food will often work its way into the conqueror’s heart. It is that powerful.

With such a culinary dynasty at stake, local cuisine needs a defender. Thank God/Allah/Yahweh/Buddha/Vishnu/Xenu for the chef. A good chef is in the details. He knows what’s in season and how to use it in an unexpected yet undeniably delicious way. He slices, dices and juliennes his way into our hearts and minds. He owns a deep fryer and has a vast knowledge of cheeses. For most chefs, it’s a pretty thankless job and a catch-22 at best. The better you do, the more you work and the more you have to deal with idiot customers who have no idea what good food is.

Now when I say good food, I’m not restricting myself to “four-star” dining. A $2 hot dog can be amazing if it’s done right (or if it’s 2 o’clock in the morning and I just drank my body weight in vodka). Asian cuisines are unparalleled for their freshness. When it is cold and raining or when you are sick, a bowl of pho or tom ka gai will hit the spot. Italians (at least in the south) have mastered the combination of tomatoes and cheese. It may seem simple, but pizza is an art form. The French have a rich velvety sauce for everything. Curry and naan make me want to abandon my worldly possessions and move to India. Just writing this paragraph is making my mouth water and my stomach rumble with anticipation.

Speaking of mouth watering, there is one particular food that gets me every time: bacon. Underneath that mass of usually pink flesh known as swine lies a slice of heaven. Regular, thick-cut, peppered, maple, glazed, slab… it matters not; just crisp it up and enjoy. And enjoy you shall, as bacon goes with pretty much everything (sorry Muslims and Jews!). There are the obvious breakfast concoctions, and many of us have enjoyed a rare bacon-wrapped filet mignon, but did you know it even tastes good with chocolate?

Bacon on everything is a pretty great rule, but we shouldn’t sleep on bacon’s breakfast homie, the humble yet versatile egg. Huevos rancheros, egg drop soup, eggs Benedict, eggs in tuna salad…the list goes on. When you have something that is already tasty, but want to take it to that next level of near godliness, put an egg on it. A hamburger is something else entirely when you top it with an egg cooked to sunny side up perfection. I recently ate something in Portland, Ore., that was even more egg-mazing than that. It’s called a Reggie Deluxe and it consists of a piece of fried chicken, topped with thick cut bacon, cheddar cheese, a fried egg and sausage gravy. This heart-destroying mound of steaming goodness is then bookended by a thick, warm, hand-made, buttery biscuit. I nearly died that day, my friends, but what a way to go!

We eat to survive, but there is so much more to it than that. I would argue that food, as much as if not more so than music, art and politics, defines who we are. It connects us when everything else tries hard to drag us apart. They say we are what we eat; truer words have never been spoken. Bon Appetit!

By Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com

What do I got to do? Your boy is about to be the big 3-0 and I’m still single. Oh I’ve tried… even came pretty close once, but it just ain’t happening for me. I probably won’t be in People’s “Sexiest Men” issue any time soon, but I’m not ugly. Maybe I could hit the gym a little harder, but my sciatica might act up. And sure I often find myself mildly depressed, but I swear it’s only during the winter (usually). I am so about to kick this crazy porn habit, I just need your help, girl. Oh and I’ll apologize in advance for acting a fool when we get wasted some night. On the positive side, my abandonment issues are almost entirely under my control (so close!), and I’m really thinking about flossing more.

I know what you’re thinking, “Who wouldn’t want to date this guy?” I can’t figure it out either. I guess that’s OK since I’m not really good at dating. Things just always seem awkward, but I guess that’s just the nature of the beast. After all, you are trying to get to know someone in a very public and likely non-intimate setting. Each person tries to feel the other out hoping that “sparks fly.” It’s sort of like kicking the tires on a used car. The negotiations begin.

There are basically two different approaches to dating: loud or shy. The loudmouths come to bare their soul. They tell embarrassing stories about themselves, all while making fun of you. They probably bring up things that no one should know for a good month or so. Some may call them “intense.” Obviously, I am this type. The shy person has as many secrets as the loud mouth, but chooses to hide them by keeping the topic of conversation focused on the other. Seemingly better, their shyness only makes them all the more sinister. At least with the loudmouths you know what you’re getting into. The shy people just explode into a ball of crazy one day after you’ve been dating for six months. Have some decency people!

Speaking of decent, let’s talk about what I’m looking for. We’ll begin with the ideal, because I always shoot for the stars. The one for me would be college educated with some sort of career direction in mind. She would be a lover of music, the arts, food and wine. She would be aware of the rest of the world and its general situation and have a good sense of adventure when it comes time to see it. A good sense of humor is a must. As far as looks go, I don’t really have a type. Despite my longest relationships being with blondes, I have no problems with brunettes and sometimes red heads (Devil women!). I like them tall and short, so let’s say between 5’3″ and 5’10″. Weight wise, I like anything from petite to curvy, it just depends how you carry it. However, if we are in the same weight class than I’m gonna have to put the nay-no on it. I won’t be sharing clothes with you unless it’s something to sleep in.

That’s all good and fine, but I know this ain’t a perfect world (see my last column). The older I get, the more I’m willing to settle for less. Maybe you didn’t finish high school and you got a missing front tooth. We can still talk… if you put this Chicklet in that gap in your mouth. I know most people consider a job as a “sandwich artist” at Subway temporary, but I think you have made a fine career out of it. And hey, I like sitting on the couch and watching movies too; I guess all the time would be OK. I see you in the club, big legs, makin’ eyes and whatnot. Play your cards right, it could happen. Put the word out! This dreamboat is available and I think you would make an excellent first mate! Get to the Internets and leave me a message. Let me holla at cha, girl!

Ghostface is so tight precisely because he says ill shit like that. Dude comes hard and still makes you think. Given that, I’m not sure where we go from here, but I’m hoping it’s at least in the upward direction. I got a feeling it’s going to take awhile though. Quit cryin’, the rap game ain’t done yet! If you don’t believe me, go check out Jneiro Jarel (Myspace it, dummy!). J.J. will make it all better!

Just like me, they long to be close to you. You don’t look like you get it. So, last time I posed a bunch of questions, and these here are the answers. Yes, I’m for real. No, I’m not stupid, just maybe a little more demanding than some writers. It’s like a game! I know it’s sad, but this is how I have made it thus far in life. As for the future, I hope to be the first man to walk on the moon without the aid of a spacesuit. I doubt it will ever be possible, but a man should have dreams! You know you want to. You’re also pissed that you didn’t think of it first.

I think about a lot of random shit when I’m driving. Those thoughts become columns, and you (lucky you!) get to read them. Please accept my sincerest apologies. At least I don’t let it affect my driving, like some of you. When driving in town, it’s OK to take a turn faster than two miles per hour. You also shouldn’t stop the instant you see a rain drop hit your window. Similar logic applies to the freeway. There is no reason for you to slow down at the causeway. It’s just like any other road, just slightly elevated and very straight! Somehow you all have learned to survive in the midst of unnecessary chaos. Yes, even that asshole turning into oncoming traffic.

I don’t know who that was, or why she’s here, but she was fine as hell. Oh you know her, but she doesn’t know you. I’ve been there, homie. She seems cool though. Introduce me. Nice to see you. I’m doing well, thank you. Sorry my lovely friend forgot to introduce me, my name is Bocephus. I noticed you weren’t wearing a ring. I was surprised to see such a bare finger on such a pretty girl. What a coincidence”¦ I’m single, too. Sure, I would like to have kids some day. Wow, four kids by the age of 24! That’s”¦ amazing! Four different baby daddies! I’m gonna call you “Marathon” because you been around the track a few times. I’m sorry.

It’s not that I’m attracted to crazy; it’s more like crazy is attracted to me. At least let me get something out of it. You are such a black widow, and I am totally caught in your web. I guess I like to fix things, but I need to learn to let go. Yeah, I’m serious; I want your friend’s number. It’s cool”¦ I know where the door is. There are other fish in the sea!

I write these articles to both torture and amuse. Who knows how I got here? The fact is, here I am. “Here” is wherever I want it to be. I know”¦ I’m getting too esoteric. I’m a deep thinker, I always have been. I talk to myself because I always listen. But I’d like you to hear me too. I hope you can. That’s usually why I act the way I do. It’s also why I say the crazy things I say. I love you.

I thought I received a message from space, but it turned out to be my friend, Kevin. He constantly loses his phone, and yet somehow always retains my number. When he calls, that’s the conversation we have. We call him Cosmic.

Drug dealers are late because they are higher than Cosmic off their own product. Cops are late because it takes a while to fill up a Big Gulp and eat a whole bag of Funyuns. God forbid you make them spill; they will be sweatin’ your ass harder than the swine flu. I’d rather we got along, but some people are just assholes I guess. The ones that aren’t assholes are too busy sitting on theirs. They forget me. I must be invisible.

I get it”¦ you’ve had enough. I saw your friends sneak away earlier. I’m glad you hung in there and I hope you liked my little experiment (or at least didn’t hate it!). I can hang with “sort of like” as well, or “like in theory””¦

Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com

Why is the sky blue? Why is water wet? Why did Judas rat to the Romans while Jesus slept? Why is Ghostface so dope?

Where do we go from here? How long will it last? Is it over yet? Says who? Why should I listen to you? Who could possibly make sense of this? Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near? Do you get it? How many times must we go over this? Are you for real? Are you stupid or something? How have you survived this long? What are your plans for the future? You really think you can do that? Why would you want to?

What is this idiot doing? Why must you make me want to hurt you? Who taught you how to drive, asshole? Why can’t anyone in Sacramento drive in the rain? Or on the causeway? Or in town? Why aren’t more people killed in car wrecks here? Why are you turning into oncoming traffic?

Who the fuck is that? How fine is she? What’s she doing here? You know her? Does she know you? Should I get to know her? Do I introduce myself or are you going to do it for me? How are you? What’s your name? Do you have a boyfriend/husband? Do you want one? How about kids? Oh you already have them? How many? Do they all have the same dad? Jesus, how many people have you slept with? Why should I be sorry?

Why am I attracted to crazy? Why you gotta play all them games, girl? Why do you keep teasin’ me when you know you aren’t letting this go anywhere? Why do you have to looks so good while you’re doing it? Why do I hang on so hard? Why don’t you give me your friend’s number? Why don’t I just let myself out? Why do people think there is only one person for them?

Why do I write these articles? What’s in it for me? How did I get here? Where is here? What’s the deal? Who am I? What was I? What have I become? Why am I talking to myself? Can you hear me? Why do I do the things I do? Why do I say the things I say? Why won’t you love me like I love you?

Who is this? How did you get this number? Why are you calling me? What do you want? Well, who’s over there? What are you guys doin’? Should I come over? Do I need to bring anything? Wait”¦ Where are you? How do I get there? Who’s gonna be there? When I come over? There?

Why are drug dealers always late? Why are cops always late when you need them? Why are cops never late when you don’t? Why must we fight so much? Why do people lie? Why do people cheat? Why do people steal? Why are some people so damn lazy? Why can’t I get some service around here? What”¦ am I invisible?

What’s the point? Can we go now? Why do you keep talking and talking and talking and talking? What’s with all the god damn questions? Can’t you see that no one is paying attention? Why are you torturing us? Are you some kind of sadist? What kind of sick satisfaction are you getting out of this? Is it driving you mad? Now do you understand how I feel?

Are you still reading this? What do you think? Do you still love me? Did you ever? Do you hate me then? So, you just sorta like me? Would you like me more if I gave you some answers? Do you like cliffhangers?

Stay tuned for our next installment of the Optimistic Pessimist”¦ THE ANSWERS!?!

Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com

I must be certifiably insane. To some this may not be a revelation; in fact, admitting it has been a long time coming. How do I know I’m insane? There have been signs in the past: attachment issues, light compulsiveness, depression, self-abuse”¦ But in the end, it took three years of law school to sober me up to the truth: “Hi, my name is Bocephus Chigger, and I am a lunatic.”

To put it simply, no sane person would go to law school. My daily workload went from nothing to 60 hours-a-week. I mean, I like to read and write, but that shit is ridiculous. Add to that the anxiety of getting called on in class to explain one of the 10 cases you read last night. Now, multiply that by 100 for each person in class adding to the mix and feeding off it and, voilà: Law school! Sure, it gets a little easier as you go, but it’s just a tease. They just need time to finish the barrel you are about to be bent over, more commonly known as the California Bar Exam.

Ah, the Bar Exam”¦ The legal community’s way of saying, “This isn’t over yet.” The party starts right after law school actually finishes. By this point, you have already paid around $5,000 for BarBri courses and administrative fees. Thankfully, you can take a loan out to cover it and make the rest of your $150,000-plus debt just a little cozier. In exchange, you get to wake up early to go park your ass in the most uncomfortable chair in the world, all while listening to someone try to reteach you everything you have forgotten over the last three years. This is your life for the next 10 weeks.

When Day 1 of the exam hits, you are ready to pop. Thankfully, the examiners make this situation easier on you by having more arbitrary rules than the FAA. I don’t know what I was thinking trying to bring a plastic Safeway bag in there. I guess I will have to wait until after the test to suffocate myself (thanks, Bar Association!). I was also glad to see the only source of drinking water allowed in the room was a half-mile walk away. There is no better way to pass a timed test than by wasting five minutes to have a glass of water.

Day 2 features 200 multiple choice questions that you have six hours to complete. Not only is this mind-numbingly boring, but reading 200 fact patterns in six hours melts your brain. After exam day ends, exhaustion, hunger and inability to hold a conversation all kick in. Enjoy the night off in your semi-retarded state, because tomorrow you get to wake up early and do it all over again”¦only this time, you get to write essays all day!

At 5 p.m. on the third day, the proctor calls time. Huzzah! We are finished! As if by magic, alcohol appears in your hand. In one smooth motion it makes its way into your blood stream and up to your brain. Let the drunken wandering begin! If you are like me, you may end up hollering at a lovely woman named Erin while she is on a date with a guy she met on Match.com. After giving up on that one, you have your favorite bi-weekly free magazine hook you up with some tickets to the Ghostface Killah show so you can see the God bless the mic in person. Of course after the show, it’s time to start drinking again. Before you know it, it’s 4 a.m. and you have been up since 6 a.m. the day before.

Now do you see? Only an insane person would voluntarily do this to themselves. And yet, somehow, I survived. Pushing yourself to the limit can be a valuable learning experience, but I don’t recommend the Bar Exam as your vehicle of choice. You don’t want to catch the same crazy I did. Now, if you need me, I will be on a corner in downtown Sac begging for change to pay off my loans.

– Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com