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In His Own Words

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Justin “No E” Milligan. This seems like an opportune moment to take this opportunity to thank Nat and Corri for giving me this opportunity to partake in this opportune community of unity. I must note their graciousness in allowing me to write on this site, for I am an admitted conveyor of jokes containing extremely cheesy puns and occasionally some about wee, and it is my understanding that this type of humor is frequently looked down upon, much like Shaquille O’Neil would look down upon his annoying yet adorable midget stalker, if he had one, and I like to think he does, because everyone should have an Little Person who spies on them like a creepy guardian angel. The world would be so much more interesting and hilarious. Especially if we got in a war with them and they charged at us with their incredulous midge voices a-screamin.’ Some would be on fire.

Let us discuss who I am, starting with the most important category, physical attractiveness. I am roughly 5’7”, which means Corri and I will never be able to date because she’s taller than me and it would just be weird. Honestly, I’m not really sure how attractive I am, because I’m always getting mixed signals. I might be ugly because I have discovered it is physically impossible for me to wear contact lenses because of my dilapidated forehead protruding over my eye sockets, disallowing my upper eyelids to be peeled back far enough for the contacts to fit inside my eye. I also took this girl from India to get ice cream and she wouldn’t even go inside the store with me so we ended up driving to the park and she insisted we hung out underneath a bridge. On the other hand, I had a very fruitful relationship with TV’s attractive comedy actress, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, but only after tricking my friends into thinking she had met a horrible death at the hand of the most recent Mount St. Helens eruption so they wouldn’t get jealous.

I am very egotistical. I refuse to write things about myself in third person such as my Plucked from Obscurity compatriot Nat Gruca seems to have done. I am roughly the most important person in the world. I can prove it, too, but only to females from ages 17 to 22, for their minds are the only that could possibly comprehend how completely awesome I am, and, even then, I usually make them drink several shots of absinth and pop a couple ecstasy pills to expand their mind. I say, “Hey, ladies. I’m Justin, but some call me… “No E.” But fortunately I have some E right here in my pocket. Let’s split some and make all of our wildest feelings come true.” If any woman would like to know more about what makes me so cool, my contact information can be found on this webpage as well as many other places on the Internet, as I have extensive Internet-related experience, including webcamming. On a side note, Microsoft Word just underlined the word “webcamming” in red because it’s not an actual word, but the first correction suggestion it gave me was “webcam Ming” which made me chuckle.

My humor is approximately 47% darker than the rest of Plucked from Obscurity’s, so if you’re a sick, twisted bastard, read my stuff and you will not be disappointed. I sometimes use the ‘F’ word. The ‘F’ word isn’t bad anymore! It was only bad in the 60’s when all sex was dirty and filthy because our parents did it. I like the ‘F’ word for a couple reasons. First of all, it’s very punctual and refreshing, much like having a grape thrown at 80 miles per hour into your mouth. Secondly, every time it’s said, for most of the ‘cool kids’ such as myself, it brings back positive memories and feelings of sexual conquest. It’s like subliminal advertising for modern day culture. The word is said so much that practically our entire modern day society is based on its many meanings. For more information, see George Carlin.

Anyway, I am sorry to say you may not see me in many of Plucked from Obscurity Comedy Troupe’s fine films for now, as I moved away to Bettendorf from Ankeny to maintain my artistic integrity. However, I am very loyal to the Troupe and will help them in any way possible. In the mean time I will attempt to embarrass myself as much as possible by posting things I’ve written such as sketches for my performing improv troupe named Grandma Mojo’s Moonshine Revival. There will be a lot of sketches. I may or may not use the site as a blog of sorts, but I haven’t decided because on one hand, I get really bored here in Huck Finn towne and writing seems like a productive thing to do, but, on the other hand, I don’t really have much to report for now because pretty much all I’m doing here is catering and listening to old people at Hy-Vee explain how their son is a druggie, their daughter got knocked up at Harrah’s Pizzeria, and how the clock on the wall looks like the Jolly Green Giant’s wristwatch.

Goodbye for now, and my love goes out to that special lady out there, somewhere, with sandy blonde hair.

–Justin “No E” Milligan

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Nat J. Gruca’s Words on Justin “No E” Milligan

No one has mortal enemies in this day of age. How is this even possible? I mean, how can people be so incredibly nice to every single person they come across? It’s impossible, and I’m determined to find out what went wrong between the times of Alexandre Dumas and now, which we will conveniently refer to as the time of Jane Smiley, for lack of a better author who writes about excruciatingly interesting topics, only to make them unavoidably dull through the use of excessive wordage and run-on sentences.

I believe it to be in my best interest to refer to one, Justin “No E” Milligan, as some sort of official-sounding enemy of mine. However, I highly doubt he would fill the caliber needed to be listed as my mortal enemy. I mean, the guy’s got somewhat of a soul, and that’s got to count for something. No, this enemy, this friendly at-odds acquaintance, we enjoy our time together, which is mostly comprised of glaring, exchanging witty banter and pithy remarks about the various degrees of death wished upon one another and generally feeling the mutual aura of loathing that connects us and brings us together as adversaries. It’s not just a matter of “I hate this guy’s guts,” nay, because I couldn’t really say that for sure until I’ve actually sat down and had a nice, non-biased chat with his spleen and such. I hear his liver is a bit overworked, but really, I shouldn’t be devolving into senseless gossip, even if he is on the rather high end of my list of people I don’t care for.

There are several reasons I consider this upstanding fellow to be one of my rival equivalents, and they nearly all deal with me trying to hurt him in some way (mostly foiled and comical in nature, although the spats have been known to grow to ludicrously blood-filled events). The earliest contact that when reminiscing fondly over our histories comes from a time when I really didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life.

This period, only lasting approximately 8% of my life, was filled with troubling thoughts about desensitizing things, all of which dealt with topics I wish not to bring up any time soon. Needless to say, I wanted to maim, and it was only natural to direct this primal urge upon the first person who came up to me and made fun of my hairstyle by cleverly alluding both several works of Proust and three poems by Baudelaire himself, the crazy bastard. Justin just so happened to fill this requirement stealthily, and so then and there a solemn pact was formed, through our mock lightsaber duel involving gardening tools, my foe providing his own sound effects, and I, my own.

In following years, we kept tally of our victories, and while both of us earned numerous marks, neither seemed to inch ahead of the other. With every zamboni collision he won, I would regroup and return with a strategically-placed fake-out shoulder tap. When I began to grow too powerful with each spitball spat, he would strike back by demolishing whatever house I was living in at the time. It was as if we were the purest of equals, each upper hand I possessed was made moot by each talent he displayed.

Soon, we grew tiresome of calling do-over after do-over, and settling melees by the time-honored one-potato-two-potato depended entirely on the honesty and counting skill of the opponent who began it. Either of us was simply not to be trusted. We were pretty evil back then.

And so it continues to this day, albeit in a very slothful and apathetic fashion. Mostly, we just invite each other around for our favorite drinks, only to lace them with arsenic or other such poisons. Sadly, we’ve built up such immunity that it’s really not all that harrowing or entertaining when the only thing that comes of the evening is a bit of retching. Maybe we should just take up online gaming.

–nat j gruca

Justin “No E” Milligan’s Rebuttal to Nat J Gruca’s Claims

Nat J Gruca’s words truly hit deep into my flesh wounds — the flesh wounds I received from accidentally turning a corner too sharply and nicking my arm on a wall. But Nat’s words just poured into the wounds much like a flesh eating bacteria would, which I am always deathly afraid of in such cases of flesh wounds. He mentions in his article that we are rivals. In all my days I never would have thought our friendship would be knit through the loom of bigheadedness, showboating, mincing, and other such unfriendly metaphorical wordings.

When I think of rivals, I think of Gary versus Ash Ketchum. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you are one of the lucky few children who made it through middle school without having a ketchup packet thrown at you in the lunchroom for being a gigantic nerd. I speak of Pokémon. Ash only wanted to help the world with these mystical creatures, but Gary only wanted fortune, fame, and women. While I do want fortune, fame, and women, I believe there is more to me and I don’t know if Nat understands that. I, too, seek the eight gym badges from across the land, and to face the Elite Four in an epic showdown that has different music from normal boss battles. I am no Gary, Nat. But if Nat wants to face me in the end, I will be ready for him, because my Venusaur will totally kick the shit out of his Blastoise because plant Pokémon beat water Pokémon.

Nat mentions me making fun of his hairstyle. This is simply not the case. Nat frequently wears stylish wigs created by either his wolfman relatives or Chaz, the magical Goodwill wig maker. What does one call a wig maker? A wigger? Anyway, he has a head of wonderfully thick hair which can be molded into many styles, mimicking many different rock stars. When we do argue, he usually wins because he suddenly combs his hair back and suddenly becomes the commanding Gene Simmons, and then tries to do the long tongue thing that Gene does, but can’t because he never got the extensions. But he makes up the shock value by eating a severed baby arm.

I respect Nat quite a bit. Nat can quote more poets than Proust and Baudelaire, while I can only recite part of the poem ‘Eloisa to Abelard’ by Alexander Pope from the film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, using it mainly to impress girls. Girls like guys who have memorized a poem. I suppose I also know the one introducing The Great Gatsby. It goes, Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her; if you can bounce high, then bounce for her, too. ‘Till she cry, “Lover! Gold hatted, high bouncing lover! I must have you!”

Come on, Nat. I know you’re just as high bouncing as the rest of the fellows out there, and we must have you. I’m not sure what the gold hat stuff is about but I assume it’s alluding to the fact that the author is a fucking lunatic or something, what with the experiments with gold he did to prove there was such things as atoms, I think.

Nat and I have had our fair share of conflict and resolution, yes. Quarrels ended by good conflict resolution skills, and fights started by resolution of conflict. One particular disturbance I remember is Nat not wanting to attend the same restaurant as the other members of our Troupe. A fight erupted and a lightsaber battle did occur, but with empty paper towel tubes rather than garden tools because he didn’t want his booties scuffed by an incoming hoe. An innocent civilian did die during the battle, unfortunately. The fight was wearing on into its 5th hour and we had run out of funding for the rest of John Williams’ epic score, so we just weren’t as in to it anymore. Some idiot walked by and Nat whacked my tube right into his face. Immediately the person split in half with a yelp, and the two sides of his body crawled gargling around for a couple seconds and then finally stopped moving, as his brain and lungs were cut and two (and only one half of him had a heart) and nobody can live like that for very long. We stopped and gasped. What had we done!? Then we realized the man was a piano tuner and had become entangled in one of the piano wires without noticing while he was on the job. As he walked away from the piano, the wire became more and more taught until it cleaved him perfectly in two. Nat and I had a good chuckle at this, then slapped each other’s backs as clichéd buddies do.

In closing, I truly hope Nat gets over this false rivalry with me. The only person I consider a rival is this annoying guy who was born with a woman’s vocal chords. One day I hope Nat and I will get along in harmony, like the creatures of Fern Gully rainforest.

–Justin “No E” Milligan

Corri Lade Confesses Her Undying love for Justin “No E” Milligan

Justin…what is there to say about someone who has broken my heart countless times. I suppose our relationship could best be described as a torrid affair, a seductive story of unrequited love, a tragic tale worthy of Shakespeare’s unnecessary wordiness, iambic pentameter, and general … well, you get the idea. I suppose it all stared in fourth grade, fate stepped in and put us both in Mr. Stone’s class, it was love at first sight, at least on my part that is. I could tell right away that we were meant to be, the trick was in making him see that.

I first attempted to speak to him at recess after lunch, at which time he proceeded to shove me and then promptly kick sand in my face. Although I was greatly saddened by this incident, which Justin made fun of me for crying about, shouting the merciless and timeless insult “cry baby!” I had not yet lost hope. This was only the first of numerous playground episodes. We were “married” for a period of about 27 seconds one day when our swings became synced up with one another, he divorced me almost immediately, but I knew it was a sign of things to come, even after the assurance of others that the incident had more to do with physics than fate.

I was there for him the day of his serious head injury caused by a tether ball simulating the earth’s movement around the sun. When I saw that ball make contact with the side of Justin’s head, my heart skipped a beat. Fortunately it turned out to be a minor bump, but I insisted on escorting him to the school nurse, during which time he was kind enough to inform me that I had “cooties.”

When I heard of the school Christmas play that Justin was auditioning for I knew that I must somehow get a part. Justin was cast as the head elf, but unfortunately for me all of the female parts had already been taken up. I was very disappointed as I had hoped to play the head elf’s love interest. I thought that a girl named Amanda who also had been pining away for Justin had taken the part, and I planned to steal her lunch money, but apparently that part was not written into the script in the first place. I begged to be cast, and even bribed the casting director with milk and cookies, and eventually I was cast as the part of Santa. Unfortunately the fact that I was cross-dressing, wearing a fat suit, and bearded through most rehearsals did little to woe Justin.

This pattern continued throughout the rest of elementary school and middle school, I would formulate a plan to get Justin to realize his true feelings for me, and my heart would be beaten to a bloody pulp by his rejection. Finally, I sought professional help from world-renowned love therapist, Doctor Rosemary Thornbush. He taught me that Justin’s rejection stemmed from his own insecurities and the large amounts of macaroni and cheese he must have consumed as a child. Dr. Thornbush also said that since I was now three inches taller than him, perhaps it was just never meant to be. After all these years my romantic feelings for Justin have faded, but the scars he has left on my heart still remain. I suppose one could feel bitter for having been treated with such disrespect and ridicule for some many years, but I have vented my frustrations in my upcoming book No, Justin Milligan, You Have Cooties throughout which I expose him for the heart-crusher that he is, reveling so many dark secrets that he is sure to never again get a date.

–Corri Lade

From Justin to Corri

Oh dearest Corri! Where doth I begin? Our adventures in elementary school were a fleeting glimpse of life to come, and also an over-the-shoulder glance at my previous life as an ant lion. I think I can sum most of it up by saying she was deathly afraid of me. I wasn’t exactly the most approachable of children, as I frequently decided to flop around barking like a seal and biting the desk legs.

What I didn’t know is that Corri, according to the grapevine and also her bio about me, had somewhat of a crush on me. I admit I was rather flabbergasted. (I hate the word flabbergasted. Whoever came up with it should be flabbergassed.) I feel incredibly sorry for kicking sand in her face, which only happened because I got in a fight with this kid who was legally blind and he ended up kicking me in the head so I was disoriented, and I thought she was him. Kicking sand in his face probably wouldn’t have done much considering he was legally blind, but it may have scratched his ridiculous coke bottle lenses that magnified his eyes so he looked like an animé character.

I remember Corri beaming Amanda, a girl who also had pined away for me, in the head one day with a tetherball and yelling “The moon is no longer in orbit!!!” I didn’t know what it meant back then, but I see now. Corri was making an iconic attempt to kill Amanda with the same tetherball that Mr. Stone had used to accidentally smack me in the head with while demonstrating the moon revolving around the earth. It was also ironic because Amanda’s last name was, in fact, Moon. Corri then assumed the role of Santa in the Christmas play to pursue me (My elf name in the play was “Twinkle Toes”) and wrote me creepy letters about wiping the notebook paper upon which the letters were written with magic elf dust. I kept these notes for many years under the carpet in my room, taking them out whenever I wanted to rub magic elf dust on myself. My family then moved and I forgot to take the notes out from under the carpet, so someday some lucky construction worker is going to be tearing up carpet and find magic elf dust, courtesy of Santa Claus.

Dr. Rosemary Thornbush, Corri’s therapist on the subject of me, was wrong. I did not overfeed on macaroni and cheese, but, rather, Andes Mints. There’s a subtle difference. But she was right about one thing: Corri is 3 inches taller than me. As I stated before, I just can’t have romantic feelings for a girl who looks down upon me. Womenfolk are for me to look down upon, it’s just a fact of life. I’m flattered that Corri tries so hard to get to my heart, but do you think we can always have what we want? Au contrare, mon frere! Remember the girl with the sandy blonde hair.

Besides her stalkerish infatuation with me, Corri is a very wholesome individual. Her father is a ninja who is part of a justice league, I think. She lives in Boston so she can have lobster any time she pleases, which is totally not fair. She also saw the Dropkick Murphys in Boston on St. Patrick’s Day. How cool is that?

Someday Corri’s dreams may come true and I will grow approximately 4 inches. Or she may decide to tie me down, break my legs, and hold me absolutely still for months until the bone grows together to make me taller like in the movie Gattaca. Three cheers for Corri, High Priestess of the Netherworlde.

–Justin “No E” Milligan