So you know how I've always maintained that the Daily Free Press is pretty great?

Yeah, that's what I've said

If that page asks you for a password and you don't have one, then what I've linked to is the first edition of my new weekly column in the DFP which will run every Friday. So if you're in the area, be sure to pick it up and write the DFP letters about how great I am to balance the hate mail I've already been promised by a few people (though when I run out of ideas and turn in my completely sincere column about how WACKY AND NUTTY THE FACEBOOK IS LOL, I expect all of you to be on my ass harder than anyone). I have the slot that belonged to Catherine Babcock last semester, so make of that what you will.

It's called "The Whole Truth" which I don't like but it wasn't my idea. In the first meeting, I was told the column was my place to express myself and I should take advantage of this. So when the editorial page editor asked me if I thought about names, I told him my first thought was "I'm Trying." He clearly hated it and asked me politely if I had anything else. I told him I had also considered "This is all true." He shrugged again and said that he was worried that these weren't "traditional" names for columns and said he'd think about it. I was expecting to wake up in the morning with an awful name for my column, but to his credit, the editor called me and suggested "The Whole Truth." Yeah, it sounds like I'm an arrogant political columnist rather than a meaningless self-deprecating humor columnist, but I am still too grateful to have a column at all to care and I allowed it.

As soon as he said the name, I had a powerful flashback moment. I suddenly remembered a dream I had freshman year in which I received a column and it was called "The Whole Truth" and it wasn't my idea and I didn't like it at all. I can only assume this is true because it wasn't deja vu, it was an incredibly powerful memory. Which is weird. Luckily, the dream I had Thursday night wherein my column was edited so heavily that it turned into 800 words on the NBA (and specifically how it is unfair that the tall people simply block the shots of the shorter players) did not come true.

If the DFP web site is asking you for a password and you don't have one, here's the column (an extended version of something I posted here back in March or something).

The other day, I ate lunch with a friend of mine who told me I should meet another friend of hers. I was skeptical, as I usually am, because I think I already have too many friends as it is and was actually thinking of making some cuts. "You'll like him," she said. "Everyone who knows both of you says he's just like you."

This made me quite nervous. All of a sudden, I felt a lot of pressure. Ever since I've been conscious, I've been convinced that were I ever to meet myself, I'd almost certainly hate myself. After all, what is there to like? I'm truly astounded I have any friends as it is, but I suppose different people have different tolerances for these sorts of things.

Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly bored and especially self-centered, I imagine what it would be like to have a conversation with myself. We'd probably get along well enough at first, marveling at our remarkably similar taste in music and movies and the like. But I'm sure it wouldn't be long until I found myself unbearably annoying. Jared Fogle would probably come up somehow. I'd mention how I find Subway's Jared hilarious with his big pants and all. The other me would roll my eyes at this obvious attempt to appear offbeat and quirky, knowing full well that only the dullest of people ever try something like this.

Our conversation would be stilted and awkward the entire time. We'd probably forget each other's names (Chuck was it? Oh right, Chris, like me, haha) and even though I'd forget too I'd still be resentful. I would tell a joke and the other me would force some fake laughter. I would notice and get angry again. "Don't patronize me," I would think. "I haven't heard you say anything funny."

In the agony of being forced to sit down and socialize with this nitwit, I would come up with some transparently fake excuse to extricate myself from the situation. I would realize I was just making things up to get out of there and quite justifiably take offense. The next day, both of us would ask our mutual friends what they could possibly see in that boring, self-absorbed, dimwitted, offensively unfunny jackass.

As bad as I am now, I was even worse as a child, if you can believe it. I would probably apologize to every adult I ever knew if I weren't so certain they'd force me to apologize for the way I am now as well. As a child, I was basically the same as I am today only louder, less funny and with a complete and unshakeable confidence that everyone around me wanted to hear every thought I ever had.

As I've evolved as a person, I've always hated my past selves. By the time seventh grade rolled around, I was mortified that, for no particular reason at all, I used to stretch my socks up my legs instead of bunching them up at the bottom like a normal person (I have pictures that you cannot see). Even worse, I didn't just have regular white socks; they had bright colored bands around the top that faded and stretched near my knee. In 10th grade, I would have recognized my middle-school self as possessing every trait I hate in every punk little kid in my neighborhood. I would yell all the time and jump around like a chimp.

I'm surprised no adults ever slapped me around. I'm sure the temptation was almost overpowering. And my 12th grade self would have found the whiny, mopey, moody 10th-grade Chris completely insufferable. This would have been just about the only thing my 12th-grade self ever would have gotten right because he is a complete idiot.

As I grew older, the gap between the present and the most recently hated past self began to close. Soon I was disliking selves only months old, then weeks, then only hours. I think the best sign that someone has reached maturity is when he hits the point where he can't stand to be around himself in real time. When my embarrassment of my past became full-fledged in-the-moment self-loathing, I knew I was finally on the road to adulthood. If the trend continues, I will probably end up keeping my dumb mouth shut once and for all by the time I hit 25 and begin hating future selves who will probably end up doing something stupid eventually.

To my great relief, I found the other me quite personable. He was nice, he seemed intelligent, and we had a pleasant little conversation. It was not at all the ordeal I had been expecting and I would actually not be averse to speaking to him again. "Thank God," I thought. "He really isn't like me."

Dear BU Central Staff,

Thank you for expressing interest in my comedy, I would absolutely be up for performing this Friday night at the BU Central venue. I'll be sure to keep it under 5 minutes, though I'm sure the crowd will want more. I look forward to hearing back from you.

Lots of laughs,

Benjamin Simpson

STAND UP

So here are all the final details:

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 21
7 PM
CGS 511
with ROB O'REILLY and CHRISTIAN LYNCH

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 23
8 PM
BU CENTRAL (in the GSU)
with ROB O'REILLY, CHRISTIAN LYNCH, possibly MYQ KAPLAN and hopefully GREG WHITE and BEN SIMPSON performing his world-renowned GSU JOKE

I hear what you're saying. "Gee, Chris. I've been to like three of your shows and I'm a little sick of it. Frankly, you're not that funny. So why should I come to these?"

Well that's some attitude, Mister.

But anyway, let's run down why you should go to each show.

First off, they're both free. The only thing to be spent is your precious time, but really, what would be doing anyway? Getting "wasted" at one of those "kegger"s you kids are always going to? What a pathetic waste you are. Get high on laughter. If you laugh hard enough after all, it will cut off oxygen to the brain and you will have some sort of natural high. Or get light-headed and pass out, one of the two. Or both.

So first there's Wednesday. Why go on Wednesday? Well, besides the fact that Christian is very funny and Rob just came in fifth out of 96 in the Boston Comedy Festival (grand prize was $10,000), I will be debuting two new jokes (and possibly more if I write them between now and then) and maybe--just maybe; I make no guarantees--you will see improv group Clownin' Aroun' (or rather a skit Christian and I wrote backstage while we talked about how much we hated improv as Improv Asylum killed after the audience basically yawned through us and Slow Kids). If we can pull it off in time (and again, no guarantees as this is a pretty complex skit), it will be great.

And then there's Friday. "On a Friday night?" you say. "Waaah!" Well you should come because it is the first round of BU's Funniest Student Competition so some support would be helpful. Also, listen to this description:

Three judges will score your act on a scale of 1-10 and will also give you an "American Idol"-like critique.

Could be pretty great. Based on the list of people the email was sent to, Christian and Rob will be there along with a couple kids I don't know and the very funny Myq Kaplan--a grad student whose role in all this I am unsure of. He could be a judge but I'm hoping he'll perform because he's very good (and he will defeat me easily but then so will Rob and probably Christian too no matter what happens).

But of course you've probably already decided to come on Friday anyway because you read this:

BEN SIMPSON performing his world-renowned GSU JOKE

BEN SIMPSON performing his world-renowned GSU JOKE

BEN SIMPSON performing his world-renowned GSU JOKE

Yup. So I guess I'll see you there then.

One day, a stranger came to town.

Of course, Boston is a pretty big town--one might call it a city even--so nobody really noticed.

"Hi, my name is James, I'm new in town," he said to everyone he saw. They all shook his hand when he offered it and nodded politely but nobody really remembered him, or at least they didn't think they did. But somehow with his big smile and naïve small-town mannerisms he was ingrained into their subconsciouses.

James said hello to everyone when he saw them a second time. They said hello back and squinted a bit, trying to remember who he was.

"James, remember?" And they always nodded back and smiled and made an excuse for why they had to leave.

Somehow, it became a pretty big story when James found his girlfriend cheating on him with someone he knew (thought this person couldn't really remember James that well until James reminded him). Soon, everyone in Boston was talking about it.

"You know that guy James?"

"James--?"

"Big smile, naïve small-town mannerisms?"

"Oh, right right, James."

"Yeah, him. Well he found his girlfriend sleeping with someone he knows."

"I didn't even know he had a girlfriend."

"Me neither."

James' story soon made the local news. Vans of reporters soon parked outside his little apartment building and bombarded him with questions whenever he tried to leave.

"James! James! How do you feel?"
"Are you getting on with your life?"
"What do you have to say to your girlfriend?"
"What do you have to say to the man involved?"
"Is there another woman in the picture?"

James just brushed past them. He only wanted to get on with the rest of his life. Some days later, he bought a handgun and shot himself. People were shocked at first but then James just sort of forgot about them. The city can be cruel like that. Chews people up and spits them out. That's what happened to James, anyway.

Burglar

When I was three years old, my family and I lived in Middletown, Connecticut. We lived in a pretty nice neighborhood with a lot of families but much of Middletown is urban and it can be a dangerous town if you end up in the wrong place. I liked riding my Big Wheel up and down the sidewalk in front of our house but my mother would only let me go outside if she was watching me the whole time.

I quickly got tired of this. One night, I tied some of my sheets together and rappelled out of my window down the side of my house like I had seen in the cartoons. I pulled my Big Wheel out of the garage (which I was able to open because I had stealthily placed a brick under the door that afternoon) and had fun.

My plan was not perfect. The roaring of the Big Wheel on the sidewalk (along with my own frenzied giggling) woke my mother, who is a light sleeper. When I saw her room suddenly light up, I rushed back to the window and crawled back into bed.

"Were you just outside?" she asked, coming into my room.

"No."

"Who was riding your Big Wheel?"

"Burglar."

"A burglar was riding your Big Wheel?"

"Yes. He wanted to steal my Rocky Raccoon so I told him to ride my Big Wheel instead." My mother looked at me skeptically.

"I can prove it," I said. "He ate a cupcake in the basement. The wrapper is still down there." As my mother descended into the basement, I unwrapped a cupcake, inhaled it and put the wrapper into the kitchen.

"There's no wrapper in the basement," my mom said.

"That's because I said he ate it in the kitchen. Why would anyone eat a cupcake in the basement?"

My mother went into the kitchen, found the wrapper, and brought it back to my room. She still wasn't satisfied.

"He was here," I said. "I can prove it. After he ate the cupcake in the kitchen, he went into the living room and watched C-SPAN." As my mother checked the living room TV, I crept into the basement with another cupcake, inhaled that one as well, left the wrapper in the basement, and left the TV on C-SPAN.

"The TV wasn't on C-SPAN," my mom said.

"That's because you didn't go to the basement. Don't you remember? He ate the cupcake in the basement and watched TV down there." My mother returned to my room from the basement with the cupcake wrapper after having seen a repeat of Congress voting for the use of force to liberate Kuwait. She was still less than convinced.

"Why are your sheets tied together?"

"I like sleeping under knots," I said. Feeling I was losing my grip on the situation, I looked out the window nervously just as a burglar serendipitously walked down the street with a sack full of stolen goods eating a cupcake. He saw my Big Wheel sitting in the yard and walked over to it, giving the wheel a kick and trying to decide if he wasn't too big to give it a ride. I pointed and my mom gasped. She ran out of the room, grabbed our rifle, and shot him in the leg.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you, honey."

"That's OK."

"Let me tuck you in." She snaked my knotted sheets around my body. "Goodnight."