Hyperbole and a Half Read online

  Finally, we rounded the corner and spotted the goose in our living room. It was walking around and methodically pecking all of our belongings, as if to convey: This is mine now. I own it. And also this. And also this. And this. Everything is mine.

  As I watched from the doorway, I felt an absurd rage build up inside me. Who the fuck does this goose think it is? It thinks it can waltz into my home, bite everyone, and then proceed to claim ownership of my couch and my DVD player?

  Geese have no business owning DVD players. It was entirely unacceptable.

  I grabbed the blanket and made my move. The goose was caught by surprise and the blanket landed squarely over it like a net.

  Its head bobbed back and forth under the blanket in confusion.

  Before it could escape again, we wrapped it up and carried it out to our car. There was a duck pond on the outskirts of town. It would feel at home there. We didn’t want to risk letting it free anywhere near our house.

  Duncan opened the rear door, and I shoved the goose in. It thrashed around under the blanket like a shark caught in a fishing net.

  We drove in silence past darkened windows and dimly lit porches until we reached the edge of town.

  There’s an urban legend about a woman who gets into her car without realizing there’s a serial killer hiding in the backseat. She finally looks up and sees him in her rearview mirror just before he kills her.

  That story has plagued my nightmares for nearly a decade.

  The tale often pops into my head while I’m driving by myself at night. And I work myself into such a frenzy that I have to pull over and check my backseat to make sure no one is there.

  If it wasn’t for the slight hint of moonlight shining through the car’s rear window, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the goose until it was too late.

  Its head poked up and my peripheral vision picked up its shadow in the rearview mirror.

  With years of repressed terror welling up in the deep, primal areas of my brain, I barely managed to grab the ice scraper out of the glove compartment and scream, “DRIVE FASTER; HE’S IN THE BACKSEAT!”

  We sped down the lonely highway as I attempted to fend off the goose with the ice scraper long enough to reach our destination.

  We came to a screeching stop several hundred yards from the duck pond and stumbled out of the car, slamming the doors behind us. Like two cavemen chasing a tiger out of their cave with stick weapons, we prodded the goose with the ice scraper until it tumbled out of the backseat onto the ground. Once it was out of the car, we jumped back in and peeled out. The goose toddled after us for a few steps and then just stood there in the middle of the road as its reflection shrank away from us.

  We never saw it again. I like to imagine that it found the duck pond and chose to trade its violent lifestyle for one of gentle paddling and feasting on bread crumbs.

  But that’s probably not what happened.

  In the back of my mind, I know that the goose is still up there somewhere, living like a wild beast in the woods at the edge of town, shambling down to the pond every night to terrorize the ducks. I know it’s there, lurking just below the surface of the murky pond, watching the children throw bread crumbs, waiting for them to get just a little too close to the edge of the water.

  Author’s note: While all of this was happening, I knew that it was probably going to be a story I’d write down someday. I also knew that the people reading it would probably feel some doubt as to its veracity. Thankfully, while the goose was trapped in the kitchen, I had the presence of mind to shoot a short video of it. Unfortunately, books are not video compatible. But I took some screen captures of the video and put them together so you can at least get some satisfaction that this is a true story:

  I have a subconscious list of rules for how reality should work. I did not develop these rules on purpose, and most of them don’t make sense—which is disturbing when you consider that they are an attempt to govern the behavior of reality—but they exist, and they play a large role in determining how I react to the things that happen to me. Large enough that a majority of the feelings I feel are simply a reaction to reality not complying with my arbitrary set of rules.

  Reality doesn’t give a shit about my rules, and this upsets me. Not to a great degree. Not even to an obvious degree. But when reality disobeys my rules, detectable levels of surprise, disappointment, and frustration are produced.

  And to me, it feels perfectly logical to be feeling those things. But if someone were to observe me in my natural environment—having all the thoughts and feelings my natural environment causes me to have—I would seem much less logical. In fact, I might seem sort of like a wild animal trying to adapt to an alternate reality that it somehow became trapped in.

  But there’s a definite pattern to these illogical internal reactions, and, theoretically, over weeks and months, a dedicated outside observer could piece together a crude understanding of my rules and the ways in which I attempt to impose them upon reality.

  I seem to spend a lot of time being mildly disappointed by things that aren’t actually disappointing. They appear disappointing, though, because I’m constantly trying to be impressed or surprised by everything. I get a rush from encountering unexpectedly exceptional things. Even if I hate the thing, I still get a rush from discovering that it’s exceptionally bad. I could be injured and bleeding, but if I were bleeding a surprising amount, I would feel sort of excited about it.

  I love the feeling of being impressed so much that I actively seek it out. When something seems like it might be surprising and then isn’t, I feel tricked. Like the thing led me on and made me think I was going to be surprised, and then, at the last second, it revoked its promise.

  The expectation of surprise isn’t even necessary to create disappointment, though. Sometimes all that needs to happen is that I expect something—anything, really—and then that thing doesn’t happen.

  Reality should follow through on what I think it is going to do. It doesn’t matter that I have no vested interest in the outcome aside from expecting it to happen. It’s the principle of the matter.

  Sometimes expectations arise as a result of an oversight on my part. But when there’s a snag in my plans because I failed to account for something, it still feels like reality’s fault. Reality should know about my plans. It should know when I’m not expecting to deal with the unexpected, even if it isn’t very unexpected.

  I don’t like being inconvenienced, and I especially don’t like being inconvenienced too many times in a row. If something I don’t like happens, then several more things that I don’t like happen directly afterward, that is too many. They shouldn’t cluster like that.

  Unfortunately, that’s just how probability works.

  I am incensed that reality has the audacity to do some of the things it does when I CLEARLY don’t want those things to happen.

  It feels unfair when the other things in the world refuse to be governed by my justice system.

  To be fair, though, my concept of “fairness” is sort of questionable and not based on the way reality actually works.

  When something feels unfair, there’s an implication that an equal and opposite fair thing could have happened instead.

  But my rules don’t account for that. I just make them up and expect them to be followed without considering how that is supposed to work.

  I make up new rules all the time.

  I don’t even know about some of them until they are broken.

  My rules are inconsistent and weirdly specific, but it’s still disconcerting for me when I have to watch as the other things in the world break them.

  I don’t like when I can’t control what reality is doing. Which is unfortunate because reality works independently of the things I want, and I have only a limited number of ways to influence it, none of which are guaranteed to work.

  I still want to keep tabs on reality, though. Just in case it tries to do anything sneaky. It makes me feel like I’m contributin
g. The illusion of control makes the helplessness seem more palatable. And when that illusion is taken away, I panic.

  Because, deep down, I know how pointless and helpless I am, and it scares me. I am an animal trapped in a horrifying, lawless environment, and I have no idea what it’s going to do to me. It just DOES it to me.

  I cope with that the best way I know—by being completely unreasonable and trying to force everything else in the world to obey me and do all the nonsensical things I want.

  And I am embarrassed by how silly I look while I am unsuccessfully attempting to enact justice. It makes me feel ridiculous—like maybe I’m not actually very powerful.

  I’m glad there’s no one else to witness me in these moments because I know what I am and I know what I’m trying to do, and that is shameful enough. I would be horrified to discover that someone was observing me with the intention of learning about my silly rules, and further observation would become very challenging because of all the fleeing and hiding.

  And this is possibly the most humiliating thing of all. That I am so embarrassed about how embarrassing I am. As if I’ve got some sort of dignity to protect. Because I am a serious, dignified person. And I don’t want anyone to know I’m not.

  We’ve known each other for a while now, dogs. For the last few years, you’ve lived in my house, slept on my bed, and peed on almost every inch of my yard. And unless you successfully run away or die, you’ll likely continue to coexist with me for the rest of your lives. That being the case, there are some things I think you should know. Most of these things are very basic and shouldn’t even have to be explained, but you guys have displayed an alarming lack of common sense, so here we go.

  Through observation and my daily interactions with you, I have noticed a few particularly troublesome things about your worldview. I don’t know how or why these misconceptions originated, but it’s time you know the truth.

  You’re wrong about holes. Holes are hardly ever important, especially not the ones you make. Have you ever paused while digging a hole and wondered, What is the purpose of this? What does this hole actually mean in the grand scheme of things? Would my life be any different if I wasn’t doing this? Even if you can’t figure out why you’re doing it, surely you know from experience that it’s going to end with you shamefully hiding under the table so I won’t see all the guilt and dirt on your face. That isn’t a fun situation for anybody.

  I can understand wanting to try this out. I can understand thinking, Hmm . . . maybe this will do something and experimenting a little. But for the past three years, you’ve spent the entire duration of every walk strangling yourselves on the off chance that maybe this time it will work. It’s never going to work, dogs. No matter how hard you pull, it’s never going to make me think, “You know what? Maybe it would be sort of fun to walk in the middle of the street with all the cars . . . and maybe I do want to go splashing around in the duck pond in the middle of December.”

  You aren’t allowed to decide because you are really bad at making decisions. And you have to wear a leash because you don’t know that you are bad at making decisions. You would make too many of them if the leash didn’t stop you.

  For example, say we are walking to the park. Everything is going as planned until you see this on the other side of the road:

  Panic sets in.

  If you were not tethered to me by your leashes, you would be able to make too many decisions about how to react.

  But when you are attached to a leash, you are protected from yourselves.

  So no, pulling on your leashes isn’t going to make me change my mind about anything. I am fully aware of what would happen if you were allowed to make your own decisions, and that’s why you aren’t allowed to make them.

  What are you trying to accomplish by doing this? It doesn’t make any sense. When I encounter someone I haven’t seen in a while, I have never once thought, I should jump at them and poke their face with my fingers and keep doing that until someone locks me in the bathroom. Because that’s insane. What would you think if I did that to your dog friends?

  Nobody likes this. But you can’t seem to believe that.

  Tell me, dogs, while you are being pushed away and kneed in the chest, and everyone is collectively shouting at you, “NO! OFF! BAD DOG”—what convinces you that we’re enjoying ourselves?

  Or perhaps you do understand that everyone hates what you are doing, but you think we haven’t tried it enough to be sure that we hate it . . .

  I assure you, we’ve all experienced more than enough poking to determine that we hate it.

  I didn’t think that this would need to be explained. Eating bees is sort of its own consequence. But you keep doing it. Haven’t you noticed that every time you try to eat bees, you get stung on the face? No matter how many times you eat bees, the outcome is always going to be the same.

  The outcome will never be different.

  It really won’t be different ever.

  The only proper way to react to bees is to leave them alone. In case the distinction isn’t clear, leaving bees alone does not include eating them.

  After reading this chapter, you may be wondering, “Why do we believe so many things that are wrong?” And I think the answer may have something to do with how you form your conclusions in the first place.

  This logic is flawed for a number of reasons, but the important lesson to take away from this chapter is that you have absolutely no idea what you’re doing. Even if you really feel like you do, you don’t. The fundamental structure of your reasoning is all kinds of fucked up, so you’ll need to find some other way to figure out what things to do and what things not to do . . .

  You’re probably thinking, “Hey, I know what that word does!” But remember what we just talked about. Most of the things you know are wrong, and your definition of this word is no exception. The first thing you may be surprised to learn is that the word “no” has only one definition when I am shouting it at you. The ONLY thing the word “no” means is “Stop doing that, I hate it.” That’s the only thing it will ever mean.

  To be clear, this means that the word “no” DOES NOT mean any of the following things:

  I’m sure you’re thinking, Oh, yes, that word. We know it. We always are knowing it. But just to be sure, here’s a little pop quiz. It’s tricky, so don’t get discouraged:

  It’s ten o’clock at night. The TV is emitting a sound that you don’t immediately recognize. Confused, you begin barking and clawing at the door. You then hear me shout the word “no” at you. What am I trying to tell you?

  A. Keep going! You’re doing a great job!

  B. Make a different sound.

  C. I know you’re busy, but when you find the time, could you knock everything off the table?

  D. Hey, listen! I want to say one of the words I know!

  E. Stop doing that, I hate it.

  Answer: E. Stop doing that, I hate it.

  Hopefully you were not surprised by that answer.

  Noises are happening! What is the solution??

  Relax, dogs. I’m going to tell you soon. But first, let’s talk about your current plan for dealing with unfamiliar noises.

  Are you trying to cover up the unfamiliar sound with a louder sound so it can’t confuse you anymore? Are you trying to scare it? Do you even know why you are doing this?

  Making more noise isn’t a solution for noise. It’s just making more noise on top of the noise. And before you ask: no, making even more noises to cover up the noises your friend is making isn’t a solution either. This is how infinite loops are created.

  A better plan for dealing with noises would be something like this:

  Now that you don’t have to worry about noises anymore, you’ll have more time to worry about the things you actually should be worrying about!

  Simple dog, this one is directed mostly at you. It’s tough to know where to start because, to be completely honest, I’m not sure what your rules are for deciding something i
s scary or not.

  What I CAN tell you is that almost none of the things you’re scared of are actually harmful, and many of the things you aren’t scared of are deadly.

  The following list is incomplete (it is not possible for me to discuss every object in the world individually), but it should give you a good starting point:

  Nail clippers: As you may have noticed, trimming your nails is a traumatic event that requires three people, a beach towel, and a can of spray cheese. But why? Why does it have to be like this? I’m not sure what you think we are trying to do to you, but I promise it isn’t whatever you think it is. Because whatever you think it is must be horrifying. That’s the only way to justify how traumatic this event seems to be for you. What’s really going on is that we are trying to make your nails shorter so that when you jump up and flail your legs at people or start sprinting around on the wood floors for absolutely no reason, the damage you can do is minimized.

  Horse statue: I know, I know—it looks like a horse. But it isn’t. Statues are tricky like that. It’s too complicated to explain why the horse statue exists, so you’ll just have to trust me that it isn’t a real horse and it can’t hurt you. I promise I wouldn’t lie to you.