JONATHAN LIPNICKI AND THE PIFFLE WIFFLE BIFFLE
by Rob Lichter, inspired by a title from Russ Lichter



Jonathan Lipnicki was in the produce aisle. His cart was about half full and he was holding a cantaloupe. Being a vegetarian, Jonathan’s cart was full of vegetables and tofu. He was wearing a hat and sunglasses and holding the melon close to his body so no one could see. A woman slid up next to him and began to leaf through the kale. Jonathan tensed. “Here it comes,” he thought.
“Did you know the human head weighs eighteen pounds?” The woman said quietly, without looking away from her greens.
Jonathan froze. His head drooped and he put down the melon with a sigh. “First of all, it’s EIGHT pounds, and second of all, Cameron Crowe wrote that, not me. I was a fucking SIX year old when I made that movie! Get a life!” He stormed off with his cart, leaving the woman alone in the produce aisle, aghast.
Fuming, he waited in line of register 6. He looked at the tabloid covers as his frozen dinners began to sweat in the warm California supermarket air. Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes stared back at him as if on the other side of a dimensional portal. Finally, he found himself putting the last of his items on the moving belt. The cashier hit the last key on the register.
“Seventy Three Ninety Two. Show me the money,” the hipster dude in the green smock said, suppressing a smile.
Jonathan looked up, hatred in his eyes. “Fuck you,” he said and left the supermarket, leaving his groceries to be reshelved at some later time by some unknown clerk.
Lipnicki walked back home, his hands in his pockets and his eyes cast downward. It had been like this for the last fifteen years. Jonathan Lipnicki was in desperate need of a drink. He looked up and saw a restaurant across the street with an outdoor café. He made his away across the street and got himself a booth, inside. This is nice, he thought. It was dark and he was alone and he was getting hammered. And nobody quoted Jerry Maguire to him.
After a few hours, Jonathan stumbled home to find his girlfriend waiting for him with a rolling pin in her hand. She was gently smacking one hand with it.
“What? What the fuck did I do, now?” he slurred.
Geraldine pointed at the garbage can. Right on top was a half of a bologna sandwich.
“You had meat! Hello!” she roared. Geraldine was a vegetarian, too. In fact, it was Geraldine who had turned Jonathan vegetarian in the first place.
“What, you thought I wouldn’t find out? How long have you been eating meat, you little, flesh eater? You little…VAMPIRE!??!”
Jonathan closed his eyes. He had totally forgotten about the sandwich. In a moment of dispair after a particularly harsh audition yesterday, he had stopped at a Subway and gotten a bologna sandwich. The years of not eating meat had played with his body, though and he couldn’t finish it.
“I guess on some level, I wanted you to find it,” Jonathan shrugged. “I guess I don’t care if you know.” He turned on his heels and flopped into the couch at flipped on the TV. Geraldine’s faces scrunched up like Renée Zellwegger and she stormed out of the house. Jonathan smiled and fell asleep on the couch.
The next morning, Jonathan was outside, mowing his lawn, enjoying the freedom of an empty house and the warm California sun. At the edge of his peripheral vision, he caught the motion of his next door neighbor, Butch Patrick. Butch was waving at him with one hand, a bottle of Jack Daniels in the other. Jonathan turned off the mower and walked over to the fence dividing their properties.
“Heeeeeeeey, man!” Butch yelled. His shirt was stained and he smelled like he hadn’t showered in a few days.
“What’s up, Butch?” Jonathan politely asked.
“Listen, man, my grandson’s got a game today and I ain’t in NO shape to drive, you know what I’m sayin?” laughed Butch.
“I hear ya,” Jonathan replied, looking at his half-mown lawn.
“Listen, I need a favor, Nicky. I need you drive me to the game or my son’s gonna KILL me, ya know what I mean?”
Jonathan looked at Butch. He suddenly saw himself. Is this what he wanted to become? A drunk, former child actor, scared of his own kids? No! Jonathan made up his mind right then and there to help Butch Patrick.
“Butch, you listen to me.” Jonathan barked with authority, “You are going to go back into that house and take a hot shower. You are going to get dressed and we are going to that…what kind of game is it?”
“Whiffleball or some shit,” croaked Butch.
“We are going to that Wiffle Ball game. Let’s go!”
While Butch was in the shower, singing show tunes at the top of his lungs, badly, Jonathan was searching Butch’s house for bottles and pouring them in the sink. When Butch came out of the shower and saw what Jonathan had done, he broke down and cried.
“Thank you,” he cried.
“It’s OK, Butch,” said Jonathan as he patted him on his naked, wet shoulder.
Twenty minutes later the two of them were in the car, pulling into the parking spot at the Middle School. All the other spots were filled. They were late. Butch led the way and Jonathan followed, making sure he didn’t fall into someone’s lap or worse. They finally found the Patrick family and after a brief hello, Jonathan sat down with them. The game was a good one. The Wildcats vs. the Astros and the Wildcats were up 10-2. Apparently little Max Patrick was on the Wildcats because the three generations of Patricks hooted and hollered every time the Wildcats scored.
At the change of the inning, Mr. Patrick, Butch’s son, turned to Jonathan.
“I want to thank you for bringing my dad here today. Couldn’t have been easy. He’s a drunk, if you hadn’t figured it out already.” He glared at Butch as he said this.
“It was nothing. A piffle,” replied Jonathan. “Butch is getting his act together. Aren’t you, Butch?”
“Yeah, Nicky. Yeah, I am,” Butch replied, his back straightening. “I ain’t gonna miss no more of Max’s games again. In fact, I’m going into rehab!”
“Yeah, right,” said his son. “When?”
“Right away. I’m gonna be sober by Thanksgiving!” crowed Butch.
Jonathan looked at Butch. Butch’s eyes were moist.
“Thanks, Jonny boy. You’re my best friend.” Said Butch, his voice cracking.
“Best friends for life,” replied Jonathan and the two of them hugged.
Then a woman from the back row yelled out, “Hey, Lipsmacky! The HUMAN-“ and Jonathan chucked a can of soda at her, hitting her in her eight pound head.