So, House is being his surly self, belittling staff, annoying Wilson, snipping at Cuddy. You’re with me? Pretty standard stuff so far. Okay, so a patient is rushed in by his parents. House doesn’t even look at the kid. It’s just a kid. House just keeps his head down. He’s doing something more incongruous with the serious situation. He’s whittling wood. Maybe fashioning a boat out of a block of Honduras mahogany. No. A stethoscope. He’s carving a stethoscope. He never whittled on the show before, but that doesn’t mean he can’t, right? Anyway, he’s still at it with his chisel or knife or whatever. Wait. Scalpel! He’s whittling with a scalpel. Genius. He keeps his head down and just says: “Pituitary microadenoma.” Long pause. Close up on House. Then he adds “Releasing way too many hormones.” He just knows where and what the problem is without even looking up. We sorta give House superhuman powers, but we do it subtly.

Anyway, this kid’s pituitary gland is messed up or whatever. Our physician consultants can add detail.

House wants to try a new procedure. No. The procedure doesn’t even exist. There’s not a research study in the country — in the world — testing what House has in mind. He just invents it on the spot.

You guys are dying to hear what it is. Look at your faces. Okay, hold on to your lattes.

House wants to use a high-powered vacuum to suck the patient’s pituitary gland out through the ear. He builds it himself out of stuff lying around the hospital — you know, a little nod to MacGyver, but not so overt.

House makes a bon mot about getting frisky in the janitor’s closet with Cuddy and got the idea when he saw a Hoover canister vac.

Like I said, there’s no precedent for this, so House gets one of his doctors on the case. Maybe the hot chick with Huntington’s. She calls the patient’s health insurance company. And here is where we make television history: A full 38 minutes of the show is dedicated to the staff fighting, pleading and begging the insurance rep, whom we never hear on the other end of the line. The docs take turns on the phone. They’re asking to speak with a manager, but no dice. We have the most talented and respected doctors explaining to someone who possibly has a high school diploma why the insurance company needs to cover this.

It’s excruciating to watch. That’s the point. We juxtapose House’s seemingly unlimited capabilities that we established earlier, with the frustrating experience of dealing with an insurance company. This will resonate with anyone who’s ever had to go through that phone call of hell with a miserable insurance rep who makes the experience as unpleasant as humanly possible.

Finally, House takes the phone, and everyone is looking at him. But he doesn’t speak. You think he’s gonna speak, right? Nope. He just unscrews the bottom part of the receiver, and puts the phone down. It’s one of those older phones with the round ear and mouthpieces that have lots of holes in them. Yeah, you know the ones — usually a creamy light beige color? Anyway, he uses it to finish the vacuum.

Now the intensity is ridiculous. There’s no time. The insurance company is gonna have blood on its hands. Viewers are thinking, “who is gonna pay for this? Is this some to-be-continued crap?”

Cut to the O.R. House delivers another witticism. Maybe, “I’m a doctor not David Oreck. Let’s hope this works.” Then he raises the vacuum to the patient’s ear.

Success! Our physician consultants can invent some remotely realistic way in which a doctor can suck a pituitary gland out of an ear. We pay them plenty. So, surgery’s done and the kid comes to — instantly. The anesthesia wore off at the exact moment the pituitary came out because House administered the anesthesia himself — he anesthetized the kid and he’s not even an anesthesiologist! House did it perfectly of course. So the kid gets out of bed and skips over to the windowsill where House’s unfinished wooden stethoscope is. He turns it over in his hands and looks at House and says: “I want to be a doctor like you.” House rolls his eyes and says something like, “Well, enjoy the several hundred thousand dollars of student loan debt, kid.”

Cut to a month later. House is at his desk, looking pensive. Wilson walks in and says, “I never mentioned it, but I respect what you did with that vacuum procedure. That took guts — and suction, lots of suction. Hopkins, Lahey, Mayo, all the clinics are clamoring to perfect it.” House doesn’t seem happy. He says good night in his rude way, flicks the lights off with his cane and snaps, “Lock up my office when you’re done.”

House leaves. Wilson stays. He turns on the light and looks on House’s desk. We see a bill from the insurance company — they rejected coverage for the vacuum procedure. We also see a check — and wait for it — it’s from House’s personal checking account. Made out to the insurance company. He’s paying for it with his own money. The check is for thousands — no, hundreds of thousands of dollars.

You know how we do that a lot? Give glimpses into the soft side he rarely shows?

Episode name? “Cleaning House.” Because of his name and the fact that he uses a vacuum cleaner.

Look at you. You’re all speechless. You love it, don’t you?

1-866-742-8794 extension 895 — the new 9-1-™ is made possible by the Altria Group (formerly Philip Morris Companies Inc.) and other corporate sponsors dedicated to keeping this emergency service free.

Please listen to the following menu in its entirety as it changes hourly.

For fire-related issues and emergencies, press 1.

For situations requiring police assistance, press 2.

For situations involving the ingestion of a potentially dangerous substance, press 3.

For all other questions, comments and concerns, press 4 for our automated additional help menu, featuring a voice-guided tour to help you maximize your 1-866-742-8794 extension 895 — the new 9-1-1™ experience.

To hear this menu again, press 5.

You pressed 1. If this is correct, press 1 or say “Yes” after the beep. If this is incorrect, press 2 to return to the previous menu or say “Previous menu.” I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Please wait for the beep and try again.

Okay, so you’re having a fire-related issue or emergency. If you just have a question about fire safety or would like your local fire company to make a presentation at your child’s school, press pound to return to the main menu, then press 4 for the additional help menu.

If this is a fire emergency, please remain calm and tell us how urgent you think the situation is by using your keypad. Enter your number based on a Likert scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being something equivalent to a small grease fire and 10 being along the lines of a full-fledged conflagration or a regretted act of self-immolation. When you enter the number, it must be two digits followed by the pound sign. For example, if your toaster caught fire and you have wooden countertops, you might press “05#”. If you have granite countertops, you might press “02#”.

Sorry, I didn’t recognize that command. Try again, and remember to press pound –

You entered 9. If this is correct, press 1 or –

Okay, 9 is a serious emergency and time is of the essence. Enter your five-digit ZIP code, then press pound.

We’ve done away with the need to enter your four-digit ZIP code extension. But if you know it and want to enter it, do so now, then press pound. Entering your four-digit ZIP code extension could expedite the response time. But 1-866-742-8794 extension 895 — the new 9-1-1™ makes no guarantees as to response times.

You entered 0-8-4-0-2. If –

Before we connect you to the Margate, New Jersey Fire Department, enter your address. Press pound after each part of your address. For spaces, use the star key. For example, for 510 Main Street, press 5-1-0-#-*. Then press the numbers that correspond to your street name, and press pound. In this case, Main Street would be 6-2-4-6-*-78-7-3-3-8-#.

You entered 1-1-4-8-*6-6-7-8-4*-4-8-6-7-8-4-6-4-8-6-6-*2-8-3-6-8-3-#, indicating your address is 1148 North Huntington Avenue. If this is corr–

Now tell us whether it’s a “business,” “apartment complex,” “single family home” or “multiple family home” after the beep.

I heard “single fam–

On which floor of your single family home is the fire? Use two digits followed by pound. For example, if the fire is on the second floor, press 0-2-#. If it is in the attic or basement, press the numbers that correspond to the letters, then press pound. To save you time, the number for attic is 2-2-8-4-2-#. For basement, press 2-2-7-3-6-3-6-8-#. If the fire is in a crawlspace, press those corresponding numbers. Due to the small number of calls for crawlspace fires we’ll skip telling you the number. If you would like to hear the number for crawlspace, press 1 or enter it on your own.

You said the fire is on the second fl–

You’re likely not a professional firefighter, but in your best estimation, tell us how fast the fire is spreading. Use a Likert scale, with 1 being “at a testudinate pace” and 10 being “with the utmost celerity.” We’ve received numerous requests for the definitions of these words, so we’re excited to announce the launch of our dictionary feature. To hear the definitions of these words press 1. The dictionary feature is made possible by the National Education Association. Use two digits followed by pound. So if your fire is spreading at the pace of, say, an overweight cat that doesn’t scare easily, you might enter 0-5-#.

You know your vocab! You said the fire on the second floor of the single family home at 1148 North Huntington Avenue is spreading fast. You’re being routed to your local fire department. After you speak to them, would you be interested in participating in a short survey? We value your feedback and your participation will help us improve our services and save more lives. To participate, stay on the line after speaking with your fire department, then press *-6-#.

If possible, we recommend exiting the site of the fire. If you choose to participate in the survey, please bring a cordless phone with you.

Thank you for calling 1-866-742-8794 extension 895 — the new 9-1-1™ brought to you in part by McDonald’s, where for a limited time you can get two Egg McMuffins for just $3.99.

Good luck with your fast-spreading fire at 1148 North Huntington Avenue in Margate, New Jersey.

2) A jungle. Title: 10,000 BC. A mass of hairy cave people follow one caveman, who waves excitedly and makes grunting noises. The group comes to a clearing in the trees. Close shot on the faces of the cave people as they gasp. Cut to what they’re seeing: in the middle of a field, there is a brand new, stainless-steel kitchen set. Meg Favreau, in a leopard print bikini, gestures to it with a gleaming, white grin. The cave people approach cautiously. Meg Favreau opens the refrigerator to reveal an entire mammoth, chopped up and neatly compartmentalized. A cheer erupts. Title: “Your past…your future…your Favreau.” Optional tag: A cave woman hands Meg Favreau a baby. Close up on Meg as she says, “I’ll name him…Prometheus!”

3) Close shot on a woman scrubbing her floor. We don’t see her face, but the floor sparkles. The woman moves into the bathroom and shines the sink, the shower, and the toilet. In the kitchen, she makes the oven gleam. Finally, we see her scrubbing the bald head of Mr. Clean. On his head, we see the woman’s reflection: it’s Meg Favreau. Blackout.

4) Night. Title: 2055. A terrified Meg Favreau runs through the dark streets, past neon ads floating in midair. Her footsteps hit hard on the damp pavement, and she is clutching a bottle of premium, gold-label whisky to her chest. Behind her, a mob of pale-faced robots makes chase. Meg Favreau runs with the speed of a cheetah, but the robots run with the speed of two cheetahs. They surround her in an alley. Close to tears, Meg Favreau offers the whisky…but the robots don’t take it. Rather, they reach out their hydraulic hands and fondle her hair. Meg Favreau smiles and takes a shot of whisky. Title: “Meg Favreau: Soft.”

5) Wide shot. A virgin mountain, covered with powdery snow. There’s a sound growing louder: a helicopter. Meg Favreau drops from the copter, attached to a snowboard and holding a meat hook in each hand. She hits the powder standing and starts sluicing down the mountain, jumping off steep cliffs. Suddenly, it looks like Meg is going to hit a tree! But instead, she hits it with the meat hook, spinning herself around the tree and back on track. She does this with one, two, three more trees, and then she hooks a bear. Still sliding down the mountain, Meg Favreau has an on-board fight with the bear, who rips Meg’s ear off. Cut to new scene: Meg Favreau is in a cabin at the bottom of the mountain, cooking something. A brown pelt lies motionless next to the fire. But zooming in close, we see that the bear is just sleeping, and Meg Favreau is roasting her own ear. She slides it off the kabob and offers half to the bear. Title: “Meg Favreau: Expect the Unexpected.”

Go about your day as usual, free at long last from the nagging worry of being struck by snowballs, rocks or even bullets. Any and all projectiles will bounce harmlessly off your Never-Say-Ow™ personal force field, making your attacker shudder with impotent rage and humiliation. This may be the ideal time to respond with your Glock semi-automatic (not included).

Q: What about other hazards, such as fists? There are a lot of people out there who’d like to punch me.

The person who attempts it is going to shatter every bone in his hand… and leave himself open to a swift and devastating kick to the solar plexus.

Q: The instructions say that the force field is completely invisible and soundless, so how can I be sure it’s actually on?

Simply approach the nearest female and proposition her in the rudest manner imaginable. You may have flinched when she threw her scalding hot coffee at your face, but did you feel anything? No, because it spattered ineffectively against your Never-Say-Ow™ personal force field. (If you did feel something, then no, it wasn’t properly activated. Reread the instruction manual before propositioning anyone else, then perform a safer test, such as having a friend throw a pie in your face.)

Q: Okay, the force field is definitely on, and there’s a certain sense of invulnerability walking around with it. In fact, I almost feel like Superman. I know I can’t fly, but could I act like a superhero with the help of my force field?

I don’t see why not. Conversely, you might choose to emulate a super villain.

Q: I hadn’t thought of that. My first instinct was to go the opposite route.

It doesn’t matter. More and more people are purchasing the Never-Say-Ow™ personal force field every day. Sooner or later, everyone will be on equal footing again. Whether you lean towards heroism or villainy, we recommend you get to it without too much delay.

Q: What about more conventional situations? Can I take a shower with my force field on?

No. You must deactivate it before showering.

Q: What about eating?

You must also deactivate it before eating.

Q: I guess I could turn it off while showering, because I’m in a locked bathroom. But if I’m eating in public and my force field is down, aren’t I leaving myself open to attack?

You better believe it.

Q: What if I turn off my force field, shove a forkful of food into my mouth, then switch it on again real quick?

Good thinking.

Q: I’ve never felt more protected in my life, but I’ve noticed that it still hurts when people say mean things to me. Is there anything my force field can do about this?

Sorry, the Never-Say-Ow™ personal force field is only designed to keep you free from physical harm. You’ll still be vulnerable to insults, mockery and calls from telemarketers.

Q: What about rude gestures and nasty looks?

You’ll remain susceptible to these, as well. Perhaps if you were a bit less sensitive and more of a man, these kinds of slights wouldn’t bother you so much.

Q: I suppose.

We can’t protect you from every little thing, now, can we?

Q: There’s no reason to be condescending.

It’s obvious that even with your Never-Say-Ow™ personal force field, you’ll continue to play the victim. I sensed this the moment you empathized with heroes over villains.

Q: Can we please move on? I have a question about–

Don’t you realize what kind of power you yield now? Only a coward stays on the defensive when he could take anything he wants without fear of injury. Together, with the aid of our Never-Say-Ow™ personal force fields, we could bring this city to its knees. What do you say?

Q: I don’t think so.

You’re either with me or against me.

Q: Stop talking like that, please.

Or what? You’ll give me a nasty look? Boohoo. The question guy looked nasty at me and now I’m going to cry.

Q: I said stop.

Make me.

Q: I’m not kidding. I’ll hit you.

Go for it. Turn off your Never-Say-Ow™ personal force field and I’ll turn off mine.

Q: There. It’s off.

Mine, too. So go on and hit me. I dare you.

Q: Ow!

Woops. Guess I didn’t turn it off after all. Too bad the Never-Say-Ow™ personal force field can’t protect you from being a naive idiot.

Q: My hand!

Looks like you’ve shattered every bone in it. You’ll have to get it looked at. But first, a swift and devastating kick to the solar plexus.

You know, if you’d told me twenty years ago that one day I’d be standing here on this stage giving the commencement address at my alma mater, I would have said, “You must be from the future…tell me who sent you. Was it Reknar!?!?” You probably would have spit in my face, and I would have pistol-whipped you. Yet, here we are.

As you move out into the world, or outer space, or some alternate fourth dimension involving jumpsuits and holograms, you will face challenges. These challenges will mostly come from people who think they can destroy the world or corrupt your city. But Schwarzenegger U has prepared you to say to them, “Think again,” which they won’t be able to help but do, because, let’s face it: it’s hard to not think, especially on command.

After you’ve forced them to think (again), they’ll often remember that they have a hostage, and it’s usually someone you care about. “Don’t hurt the girl,” you might say, and they won’t. Challenges, people. Challenges.

You’ll have to be careful, though, because those ruthless outlaws, be they Russian, Middle Eastern or space alien, will have henchmen, or, in some cases, sexy henchwomen, tortured by your animal magnetism into tipping off their boss’s location before plummeting to their deaths from a helicopter, or getting sucked out of the hatch of the space station. And at some point, you’re going to have to go toe-to-toe with the largest of those henchmen. But this is where you can apply the lessons you’ve learned here at Schwarzenegger U. Remember that this particular henchman will usually get the best of you for a while, and he’ll tell you that you just don’t know when to quit, do you? But stick with it, because you’ll eventually turn the tide and knock him out, or, in R-rated scenes, kill him. “I’m getting too old for this,” you will say, though your prowess in combat (and, let’s be honest, the bedroom) suggests otherwise.

I remember the first job I took out of SU: Special Black Ops X-Force Renegade Commando for the Inter-Stellar CIA. Almost immediately, I faced challenges, often in the form of an overbearing captain, or explosions. “This isn’t in my job description,” I used to say in complaints to Human Resources. But I overcame those challenges, often with the help of a wisecracking sidekick or the agonizing memory of a deceased fiancée. And today, as I stand here in Willis-Seagal Auditorium looking out at the Class of 2009, I know that you are well-equipped to handle whatever life or Ortega, the Nicaraguan drug lord, throws your way, and –

I’m sorry, folks, I hate to interrupt my remarks like this, but I’ve just been told that I don’t have much time. In the interest of full disclosure, I was pulled off of a secret mission to the Malaysian jungle in the year 2542 to give this commencement address, and I’ve just been informed by my second-in-command that we’ve got company, and that the fate of the Gorkon-Zeptor Interplanetary Union depends upon my timely return.

So, in closing, I’d like to offer a quote that seems particularly pertinent to today’s ceremonies. The quote comes from Professor Doan Klocket — an alumnus of this fine institution, the Vin Diesel Distinguished Professor of Train-Top Knife Fights, and the man who taught me how to defuse a bomb strapped to the wing of a 747, mid-flight. Said Professor Klocket: “The only thing I’m negotiating, Mikhailovich, is the price of the flowers I’ll be sending to your funeral!” These words are as true today as they were in Doan’s Day, which, incidentally, was the title of Professor Klocket’s last movie.

Congratulations, Class of 2009, and Godspeed. I’ll see you in Hell.

5: I hate to say it, being a solid and all, but 13 is right. 8 is kind of stuck-up–talking only when you ask him a question.

13: And responding like some all-knowing God.

10: Totally. Watch this. “Hey 8, umm, I still have a couple of eggs left in the fridge, but the carton has a sell-by date of two weeks ago. Do you think it’s okay to eat them?”

8: All signs point to yes.

10: See?

14: I’m just playing devil’s advocate here. Believe me, I’m a stripe and I have no soft spot for any solid. But of course he’s a bit self-satisfied–people call him the Magic 8-Ball. Name me one ball in all of cue sports that wouldn’t get a big head with a name like that.

13: Fine, but why does he need to say things like “It is decidedly so” and “My sources say no.” What sources? The cue stick chalk?

1: I’m with 13 on this. Last week I was just rolling by 8, and I said, “Nice weather we’re having, huh?” And you know what the bastard said to me? He said, “Better not tell you now.” Like his opinion on the weather is some big government secret.

11: I hear you. We were ordering pizza the other day, so I asked him if he wanted pepperoni. Simple, right? He just looked at me and said, “Concentrate and ask again.” I swear to God I almost knocked him off the table.

14: It’s true, he could show some tact. But what if it’s some weird neurological disease. I asked him what he did over the holidays, and he just said, “Yes, definitely.” I asked him again, slower, but still he just said something like, “Don’t count on it.” It made absolutely no sense.

13: I’m gonna feel like a real jerk if 8 does have a medical issue. I’ve been kinda cold to him.

11: Well I don’t think he has any “issue” other than being passive-aggressive. I asked him if he thinks my stripe makes me look fat, and he said, “Better not tell you now.” Might as well have called me a cow.

6: So I’m at Cue Ball’s birthday…

12: What? There was a party for a ball that knocks us around all day? Oh, and thanks for the invite.

6: We kept it small. Anyway, I asked 8 if he wanted cake. He says, “Cannot predict now.” I’m thinking, “Jackass, I’m not asking you to ‘predict’ anything. I’m asking if you want a piece of vanilla cake with chocolate frosting.”

2: Drugs. I think it’s drugs.

14: Whoa. That’s a heck of a thing to say. Better have proof.

2: Proof? Don’t you see the white powder on him 24/7?

14: That’s the hand talc, you idiot. All of us get it on us.

2: I’m just saying. I asked him a really easy question, something like “Did you like High School Musical 3?” He just kind of stared at me for what seemed like a full minute. Then he said, “Reply hazy, try again.”

1: Definitely drugs.

15: Oh please. It’s not drugs and it’s not a brain issue. He’s just a conceited jerk. And I’m waiting for the day he asks me a question. I’ll knock his ass into the corner pocket and say “Outlook not so good, bitch.”

Ardha Chandrasana with Pada Hastasana

Yes! I am a half-moon. And I can kinda touch my toes.

Utkatasana

Squatting is awkward. Squatting on my toes is awkward and weird. Squatting on my toes with my knees together and arms outstretched just isn’t happening.

Garurasana

Okay, I’m squatting, I’m twisting arms, twisting legs, twisting like an eagle, twisting, twisting, twisting…and I’m flat on the floor. Sorry about that, folks.

Dandayamana-Janushirasana

Stand with one leg locked, got it, and with the other leg stretched straight out in front bring your nose to your knee. You lost me at “the other leg.”

Dandayamana-Dhanurasana

Stand with one leg pulled back and arced up over the head and the other arm reaching toward the mirror: reach, reach, reach. Okay, I can do this, but it’s sure hot in here. “Fluid yoga,” they got that right. The last time I sweat this much it was two decades back and I was drunk at a disco in a skintight polyester pantsuit and dancing like the outfit was inhabited by a swarm of fire ants.

Tulandandasana

Okay, balance like a stick. I can do this. Yeah, I’m doing this. Perhaps more snapped twig than straight stick, but hey.

Dandayamana Bibhaktapada Paschimottanasana

Stand straight, separate legs five feet, lean forward, and touch your forehead to the floor. Surprisingly, I can almost do this, and it feels good. Although the only thing that could get my head any closer to the ground right now would be a guillotine.

Trikanasana

Wee! I am a triangle.

Dandayamana Bibhaktapada Janushirasana

You want me to put what where? Boy, they’re really into the whole touching your nose to your knee thing, aren’t they?

Tadasana

Maybe I could stand like a tree if I wasn’t dripping in sweat and unable to hold my slippery foot in place. Damn it’s hot.

Padangustasana

She’s kidding, right?

Savasana

Yes, thank you! I never thought I’d feel so happy to assume a corpse pose. What? This pose is over already?

Pavanamuktasana

Is she going to talk throughout the entire class? Where’s the quiet, the stillness, the “shut up and let me think about anything else besides what I’m doing right now, thank you very much?”

Sit-Up

I hate sit-ups, but at least I can pronounce them. There go the trumpets: more farts than at an Irritable Bowel Syndrome convention. I hope I don’t let loose.

Bhujangasana

Cobras: they swallow their kill whole, right? Can swallow prey up to fifty times their size, or did I just make that up?

Salabhasana

Locust, pocust. This is a doddle. I’m so coming back tomorrow.

Poorna Salabhasana

And I was doing so well.

Dhanurasana

I’m making such a fine bow someone needs to pick me right up and wrap me around something.

Supta Vajrasana

No way, I’m not even trying that. I’m just going to lie here in corpse pose and luxuriate in the fact that I’ve probably lost five pounds of fluid since hauling my sorry ass in here.

Ardha Kurmasana

Someone’s sure detoxifying! I can taste that stink.

Ustrasana

What does she mean we shouldn’t drink too much water during class? I’m so thirty right now I could hack open a camel’s hump and drink straight from it.

Sasangasana

How many frigging poses are there?

Janushirasana with Paschimottanasana

I can’t get my nose to touch my knees, okay? Not in this pose or any other pose. We’re not all elastic or plastic or whatever it is you’re made of, because you’re not human. I am so never coming back here. They so better give me a refund on my membership.

Ardha Matsyendrasana

This is like that scene in The Exorcist, where Regan’s head spins.

Kapalbhati in Vajrasana

Which one of my stomachs would you like me to snap exactly? And if I only had one stomach that I could snap sixty times in sixty seconds I wouldn’t need to be here, now would I?

Namaste my arse.

After accidentally merging with a parade column, take a moment to panic. Seize the wheel and yank as though a dislodged steering column is the answer. To drive at the speed of tourism behind a thing of papier-mâchéd chickenwire riddled with lip-synching Broadway lifers (and, like them, with no means of escape from hollow spectacle) is certainly worth your upset. Release tension with a few staggered honks — no one will even hear.

People may have heard. Did onlookers react with morose puzzlement and a touch of disbelief? Are they openly weeping? Underneath the flowers and American flag, is the “float” ahead of you a hearse? Badgering the funeral procession of a local dignitary isn’t the end of the world, but so far nothing has been. Get out and apologize.

The sick dazzle of a beer bottle exploding on your skull argues a grave misreading of the situation. Whoever’s dead must’ve been a controversial figure if their memorial service can pivot to wanton riot on a modest faux pas. Get back in the car. Apply pressure to the head wound. Swear the same way twice.

Applying tip #32 — Anarchy Is Just A Poorly Organized Parade — let’s assess the escalating frenzy as we would a ticker-tape celebration. People swarming your Corolla, destroying the futon you spent two hours securing to the roof with twine, siphoning your sixteenth-of-a-tank of gas: These actions give the impression of sheer chaos. In fact, such pack behavior is de rigueur among euphoric sports fans, the only difference being that unaffiliated rioters can hold their liquor.

Ticker-tape parades are only held in honor of a Giants Superbowl victory or the Yankees signing a player whose contract mandated a ticker-tape parade. If you see a fair number of Mets hats and Mr. Met himself, high-fiving like he needs the flu, well, there’s still no way it’s a parade for the Mets, who these days if they balanced the city budget and caught Osama bin Laden could at most hope not to be spat on in their local Duane Reade. Take no chances: Roll down the window, identify yourself as belonging to the nebulous “we” that encompasses an athletic team and the people who pay to watch them exercise, declare victory in no uncertain terms, and for God’s sake, don’t mention hockey.

OK, shameless bandwagoner boasting didn’t play well. Concede the windshield wipers and hubcaps, they’re as good as resold on Canal Street. Ditto the futon — your girlfriend was never going to allow plaid furniture in the new apartment, and those bed bug exterminators were none too thorough. So, karma! Still, time and options are running out: you’ve got to figure out what festivity you’ve ruined.

Yes, from running over balloon vendors to exchanging slurs with the gentleman in a Testaverde jersey hacksawing your radio antenna, everything’s easier with a sense of background. But before you jump to conclusions, recall tip #55: Dates Can’t Be Trusted, as New York City’s overstuffed public events schedule ensures that any parade can fall on any day, subject to the caprices of a giddy City Hall intern. Tip #106 (Color Is King) comes in handy here. Ever ask a colorblind person what a given parade is about? Tears will collect in his/her defective eyes as s/he mumbles something like, “I don’t know, I thought maybe The Festival of Brown.”

Should green, white and red abound, for example, you may be the tail end of Macy’s Thanksgiving affair and under attack by overprotective Santa groupies. Check the rearview. Same colors? In the form of plastic hats, sun-deprived skin and pubic hair left exposed by inadequate kilts? That’s St. Patrick’s Day. By the luck o’ the Irish, which history argues is scant, you’re the soberest person in a five-mile radius. Sure takes the pressure off. Unless you’re driving under the influence, in which case, congratulations! — you’re now the lead float in the St. Patrick’s Day parade. Hunker down; your mottled futon resembles a half-assed tribute to the Blarney Stone, and the rabble intent on kissing it will terribly compound your phobia of strangers’ lips.

Dispersing them will require the parade’s sole weakness: Rain. Dance to invoke proper gods — provided this parade isn’t some new part of Native American Week, of course. Feel free to pray for other disruptive circumstances if you’re unsure. The prepositional plea could just have easily been “Don’t earthquake under my parade,” or “Don’t run alongside my parade, brandishing a potato cannon.”

Alas, if you’ve succumbed to dramatic instincts and climbed atop the car yourself, a car now being overrun like the supporting lead in a zombie flick, hoping to make an impassioned speech that rises above the rollicking Sousa-blare of Ohio State’s marching band (flat, going flatter), a speech that questions the merits of reducing ethnicities to annual ambles along major avenues, or the necessity of confetti in a deforested world, or the causes of an apparent police barricade shortage, then you’ll probably learn tip #1 the hard way: Here No Salmon Swim Upstream. Except maybe at the Coney Island Mermaid Parade.

Even then, you’d need a costume to really sell it.

From Philadelphia: Take Interstate 95 north across the Scudder Falls Bridge to Trenton. Take Route 31 north, turning right at the Quick-Chek two miles north of the Pennington Circle. Follow the signs to the Charles Lindbergh Jr. National Historical Site in Hopewell. (Note that the signs are in the familiar National Park Service brown, but utilize a more readable sans-serif font.) When you arrive at the Lindbergh house, walk around to the back, and climb the makeshift ladder up to the second floor, taking care to watch out for splinters. In the bedroom, you should find a light blue cashmere blanket, with a detailed map embroidered in the center. (The map is not to scale; I didn’t have enough red thread to make Cherry Valley Road as long as it by rights ought to be.)

From Atlantic City: Take the Garden State Parkway north to Interstate 195, then take Route 9 north to Freehold for seven miles. Turn right on Route 33 to Freehold Raceway. Walk to the paddock and ask for Stubby, who will guide you to the stables. (If Stubby offers to shake your hand, please do so; he’s very sensitive about his physical limitations.) If you decide to purchase racing silks, I would strongly advise that you get them one size larger than you think you’ll need, especially if it rains. As always, take extreme caution in crossing the New Jersey Turnpike, as harness racers do not have the right of way.

From New York: Take the subway or taxi to Madison Square Garden. Stand out front of the Garden and yell, at the top of your lungs, “STEPHON MARBURY IS A CRYBABY LOSER.” (This isn’t strictly necessary, but it will make you feel better, and you’ll be surprised how many other people start doing it, too.) Go to the bottom level of Penn Station and buy an NJ Transit ticket on the Northeast Corridor line. Take care not to make eye contact with any leprechauns that might be aboard. Depart the train at Princeton Junction. Send up one green flare from the flare gun you will find attached underneath the third bench from the right. Make sure, however, before you fire the flare gun that there are no hot-air balloons overhead. We don’t want a repeat of what happened last time.

From Allentown: Take Interstate 78 east to the junction with Interstate 287. Take I-287 south to Route 202-206 south. Take Route 206 when it splits off at the Somerville Circle. About a mile after the circle, there should be a Stop-N-Shop on your right. Go inside and get two six-packs of Heineken, a pack of Hebrew National reduced-fat hot dogs, and a large bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. You will find additional directions printed on the back of your receipt, unless you’ve made the mistake of getting Nacho Cheese Doritos. If the receipt paper gets jammed in the register, ask Jeff in frozen foods, because he’s the only one who knows how to fix it.

From the IKEA in Elizabeth: Pick up a large container of Swedish meatballs, some lingonberry juice, and an Ingolf chair (black, no armrests). Take the Turnpike south to the Route 1 exit, keeping an eye out for harness racers. Follow Route 1 south until you hit the Delaware and Raritan Canal, where you’re looking for Skippy’s Kayak Rental. Do not sign any documents Skippy hands you, especially those related to kayak damage waivers or white-water travel insurance.

From Los Angeles: Take Interstate 5 north to Granada Hills, taking the Balboa Boulevard exit and heading west. Take the third right until you find the warehouse complex that reads “U.S. Department of Energy, Restricted Access Only.” Tell the guard, “I heard there was a fire at Topanga Canyon, but the radio says it’s under control.” When he waves you through the checkpoint, drive to Building F and wait for the automatic door to open. Once it does, you’ll see a good-sized discontinuity in the fabric of space-time. Accelerate to thirty miles an hour and drive straight through the discontinuity, which should transport you to the Princeton high-energy physics lab on Route 206. However, if you find yourself in an unfamiliar location — such as downtown Camden, the north end zone of Giants Stadium, or the Old West — honk your horn three times and wait for assistance.

From Dublin: Take the Airlink bus from Dun Laoghaire to the Dublin airport. Order a caramel macchiato at the Starbucks, making sure to ask for extra nutmeg. Your Aer Lingus boarding pass should be folded inside your napkin. On arrival, take the AirTrain from JFK, connecting to the LIRR, which should drop you off in Penn Station. Take the NJ Transit train to Princeton Junction. Do not make eye contact with other passengers. We don’t want a repeat of what happened last time.

She said I’ve accomplished nothing and should skip my 15th high school reunion. Apparently, owning a level 80 Storm Giant in the Howling Fjord as a level 74 Warrior is “nothing.”

I went anyway. And I don’t mind saying, I rocked.

My parents get Internet, so I went to classmates.com for the 4-1-1 on my yoon. (I had taken to calling my reunion, my yoon.) I signed up and the emails started to literally trickle in. I heard through the grapevine (and by grapevine I mean obsessively Googling them) that these people are doctors, lawyers, mall kiosk managers, and other heavy-hitters. To hide the 15-year hiccup in my employment history, I fired off a fake automated message:

THIS IS AN IN-THE-OFFICE-BUT-TOO-BUSY-TO-RESPOND AUTO-REPLY FROM MR. FERRI’S PERSONAL ASSISTANT’S PERSONAL ASSISTANT’S INTERN.

As you know, Mr. Ferri is very busy. If this is an inquiry about Mr. Ferri’s potential yoon appearance, your question will be answered in the order it was received. We cannot guarantee everyone a response. Mr. Ferri leads a busy, successful life.

Now off to get a loan. I told the guy at the bank I needed a little dinero to open a Sharper Image store. You should have heard him, “Blah blah, de-listed from the NASDAQ. Blah blah, Chapter 11.” I didn’t care if this guy was on chapter 12 of some highfalutin James Patterson literary classic. I needed cash — and I got some. I settled for a lot less dough, but I got a killer interest rate. Well — WELL — into double digits.

I rented a suit, a Velcro tie, a collared shirt, and shoes with laces not Velcro. A tux would have seemed like I was trying too hard. I wanted to keep a low profile. So after renting a white Escalade limo featuring neon ground effects and giant soaring eagles and American flags, I hit the library. The library’s cool for when I need the bathroom or to get away from the bachelor pad when my mom starts hitting me with the rolled-up classifieds. Our library has a box for collecting old cell phones. It’s for some charity. I figured if this isn’t charity, then what is? I scored an old BlackBerry and two early-1990s flip phones. They weren’t the sleekest, but they’d do. Chargers weren’t necessary.

Now I had to find two people to go with me. Luckily, I have one friend, so I only needed another person. My buddy Gary has several friends and he called in a favor to this guy Chad. Gary and Chad would pose as my Personal Assistant’s Assistant and my Personal Assistant Assistant’s Intern. I’d tell people that I gave my Personal Assistant the night off — I’d seem important enough to require three full-time stooges, yet wouldn’t look like a jerk making all three work on a Saturday.

I decided to show up late because it means you’re fashionable — even though my lime green suit already screamed fashion. Besides, if I showed early, people would think I had nothing better to do. So we sat in a Wendy’s parking lot eating $.99 Double Stacks — my treat since I still had some cash from the loan. (The rest went to pay down gambling debt.) As we chilled, Gary came up with a great idea just in case anyone asked me about my excessive weight gain since my high school days. He suggested I tell people that I dabble in acting, that the Broadway adaptation of “Coming to America” just got the green light — and that I’ll be recreating the role of the McDowell’s employee played by Louie Anderson in the film version. The yoon started at 7 p.m. and we rolled in at the fashionable time of 7:05. Turns out we could have waited a bit longer. But we helped set up, moving chairs and tables and carrying chafing dishes. The staff was appreciative.

All night, my “assistants” followed me around shouting into the dead cell phones. “Buy! Sell! Return that and exchange it for those!” Later, I learned that the stock market is closed on Saturdays.

Chad owns a laptop. He carried it around — open — and complained loudly about no Why-Fye (sp?) connection. Nice touch.

All of this sent an important message: Life doesn’t stop for Frank Ferri. I think people got that message. Especially because Gary and Chad yelled, “Life doesn’t stop for Frank Ferri,” at anyone passing by the punch and crudités. People seemed puzzled. They were probably worried that I missed an important event in Tokyo or Hoboken for this thing.

I wandered over to this guy I hadn’t seen since the yearbook photoshoot. He was voted “Most Likely to Succeed,” “Best Looking,” “Best Dressed” and “Most Likely to Marry a Hot Wife, Pay for Her Breast Implants, Get a Divorce, Marry a Hotter, Younger Wife and Still Get Court-Mandated Visitation Rights to the Implants He Bought for His First Wife.” I was there to carry the tripod. Anyway, this guy was bragging about being the youngest tenured professor ever at MIT. I asked him, what’s an MIT? When he told me, I tried not to laugh. Was he seriously boasting about teaching vokey? I almost asked what tenure was, but I already felt bad for him. I also respected him. He won all those awards in high school, failed in life, yet showed up to the yoon. I told him I knew some higher-ups at DeVry and slipped him my biz card.

The card was actually Chad’s — he has a job. I scratched out his info and scribbled in mine: “Prez ‘n Chair Man of the Bored,” which is the highest title possible. I sketched a little throne above the word “Chair” for emphasis.

Everything was going well until someone asked me what I did for a living. We worried this would happen, so we made a plan earlier in the Wendy’s parking lot: “Operation Get Me the Heck Out of Here.” When this nosy S.O.B. started grilling me, I gave the signal (semaphore flags and a high-pitched scream). Gary and Chad instantly appeared. Gary pretended to whisper some severe news to me. Actually, it was important: we had to have the limo back by 10 p.m. or it would cost an extra 75 bucks.

I gave a look of concern mixed with annoyance, then Chad swept me away, yelling at people to get out of our path. I worried we looked silly because no one was remotely near. But Chad told me the giggling and pointing was a good thing — like when someone from a remote Taiwanese village sees a Westerner for the first time.

Gary hung back to explain that there was an emergency in Australia — he had swiped an old history book from his dad’s bookshelf. Gary’s always thinking. He said that I’d be flying to the West side of the Berlin Wall to meet with USSR officials about ending Apartheid in South America.

Overall, things went well. You hear that mom? Things went well.

I sent out another automated message:

THIS IS AN IN-A-GULFSTREAM-JET-DO-NOT-REPLY-MESSAGE FROM MR. FERRI’S PERSONAL ASSISTANT’S PERSONAL ASSISTANT’S INTERN.

Please forgive Mr. Ferri for his sudden departure from last weekend’s yoon. He is, after all, very busy and regrets that this sort of occurrence isn’t rare. But it comes with his job (which is hard, but not too hard because he has the intelligence to handle anything). Oh, and he didn’t have a date because he’s juggling a lot of ladies and couldn’t decide who to take.

I can’t believe I forgot to get an escort! Even the MIT guy remembered to rent a hot chick.