Free Free-Range Chickens by Simon Rich Page B

didn’t even bother to run it through spell check.
    —Who did he dissect?
    —Harold.
    —Betsy’s husband? Jesus. So this is why Harold was killed. To produce this…“report.”
    —
(Nods.)
This is why his life was taken from him.
(long pause)
    —Well, at least it has a cover sheet.
    —Yeah. The plastic’s a nice touch.

Middle-school telephone conversation
    —Jake, it’s Simon, I have to tell you something!
    —Wait, hold on
    —I have to tell
you
something.
    —Trust me. My news is bigger.
    —Oh yeah? I just won
fifty-two million dollars
in a Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes that I don’t even remember entering. How’s that for big?
    —Dude…I got the same letter.
    —Are you sure? Did it have an official red ribbon on the front?
    —Yeah.
    —And a congratulatory autograph from Ed McMahon on the back?
    —Uh-huh.
    —Dude…do you realize what’s going on here?
    —No, what?
    —Between the two of us, we have over
a hundred million dollars.
    —Oh my God…what are the odds?
    —I can’t even guess. Huge.
    —Do you think anyone else in the class won?
    —No way. Two is weird, but three would be crazy.
    —Have you told anyone else besides me?
    —I sent an e-mail to the class, telling them the news and cursing everybody out. I figure no one can touch me now.
    —Wow. Do you have any idea what you’re going to spend it on?
    —I’ve already offered Mr. Allen twenty thousand to shave his mustache.
    —What do you have against his mustache?
    —Nothing. It’s just a power thing.
    —Has he written back?
    —He will.
    —Hey…now that we have this money…do you think Jessica will invite us to her Halloween party?
    —Maybe. If we pay her, like, forty thousand dollars.
    —Do you think it’s worth it?
    —Nah. What’s so great about a stupid party? For that amount of money, we could buy eighty thousand Laffy Taffys.
    —What would we do with all that candy?
    —Swim in it. Buy a pool and
swim
in it.
    —I’m glad you won, man. It would’ve been weird if it was just me.
    —Same here, buddy.

Bar mitzvah
    After you have your bar mitzvah, you will be a man in the eyes of God.
    —my rabbi
    JUNE 7, 1997
    GOD: Any bar mitzvahs today?
    ANGEL: Yes…Simon Rich has prepared twelve lines of Torah for his congregation at Central Synagogue.
    GOD: Ah, then he must be
very
manly!
    ANGEL:
(hesitating)
Yes.
    GOD: Has this man started a family?
    ANGEL: Um…not yet.
    GOD: I assume, though, that he has prospects?
    ANGEL: I’m not sure I know how to answer that question.
    GOD: I’d like to have a look at this strapping fellow! Where is he?
    ANGEL: In his bedroom.
(Points.)
    GOD: Oh. Well…I must admit he’s not as robust as I would have imagined, given his mastery of Torah. But appearances aren’t everything! He’s having a bar mitzvah, and in my eyes, that makes him a man. What’s that he’s doing?
    ANGEL: I believe he’s playing a video game, sir.
Shufflepuck.
    GOD: Does it…have to do with Torah?
    ANGEL: Well, actually, it’s sort of like air hockey. Except…you play against space aliens, on a computer.
    GOD: Why is he dancing?
    ANGEL: I believe he just beat a challenging level.
    GOD: So this dance is a kind of…celebration.
    ANGEL: Yes.
    GOD: I take it from his enthusiasm that this is the first time he’s beaten this particular level.
    ANGEL: Well, actually, he does this dance whenever he beats
any
level of
any
video game. See…there. He’s doing it again.
    GOD: Yes, I see. It’s the same dance, all right.
    ANGEL: It’s usually not as…frenetic…as this. He’s probably nervous about his upcoming bar mitzvah.
    GOD: Who is that man, on the poster above his bed?
    ANGEL: His name is Weird Al Yankovic.
    GOD: I’ve never heard of him. Is he…a Talmudic scholar?
    ANGEL: Um…yes.

Inside the cartridge:
Duck Hunt
    SCENE: GRASS PATCH RD.
    —Thank God. The barrage is finally over.
    —How many have perished?
    —…
    —Please, father. I’m old enough to know the truth.
    —Thirty-six, son.