answer the more personal, psychic-based questions. But usually he would just roll his eyes in disgust and dispense answers one by one while collecting his money.
Q: “What’s the average yearly rainfall in the Amazon rain forest?”
A: “Six feet, seven inches.”
Q: “Will I ever find a job I don’t hate?”
A: “No.”
Q: “Is there a God?”
A: “I don’t know if a God exists, but anyone who claims to be certain of His absence probably lacks humility more than faith.”
Jeeves gave the God guy back two of his five dollars on that one and whistled “Onward Christian Soldiers” as he placed the remaining three in his lockbox.
A skinny sixteen-year-old boy came up next, dropping five singles on the table.
“Where’s the Internet?” he asked.
Jeeves’s arrogance gave way to irritation. “I get that question every single day. I don’t know.”
“But you know everything. How can you not know?”
“Well, I don’t, okay?” he said, pulling down on the rising edges of his Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt.
The boy reached to take back his five dollars, and Jeeves stopped him.
“Only take two,” he said.
“Why?” the boy asked. “You haven’t told me anything.”
“I don’t know where the Internet is, but I just felt something.… There is someone who will find it.”
Jeeves stood and held up his hands as if absorbing psychic visions through his palms.
“I can feel it. I can see him. In my mind. There will be … for lack of a better phrase … an Internet Messiah. He will come. And he will return the Net to us.”
Jeeves sat down, spent from his pronouncement. A buzz worked its way through the crowd. A couple of YouTube zombies were even distracted enough to let their trapped cat run off to freedom. For a moment, it seemed all of Central Park was quiet.
“You’re not just saying that so you can keep three of my dollars, are you?”
“Next!” Jeeves screamed, and within a moment, he was back to spewing answers. “Hammerin’ Hank Greenberg; The Articles of Confederation; leave it alone or it will get infected; no, he will never marry you; Jason Bateman…”
We continued advancing as Jeeves dispatched about thirty people, until only a few stood between us. From our new place in line we could now only hear the questions.
“Okay, Jeeves,” someone said. “Question. Who would give better head: 1977 Lynda Carter or 2001 Angelina Jolie?”
“Are they dressed as Wonder Woman and Lara Croft, respectively?”
“Of course!”
“Well,” Jeeves said. “It’s a cliché, but I have to go with Angelina Jolie.”
“Wrong! The answer is Demi Moore as G.I. Jane, but keep the money, Mr. Know-It-All.”
I didn’t need the crowd to clear to know I’d found Tobey. And not just because of his Demi Moore infatuation, but because this was someone who managed to take pride in stumping an educated psychic with a completely subjective and arbitrary question. Still, I can’t tell you how happy I was to see the goofy bastard. I rushed to the front, and we screamed and hugged and punched each other the way you do when your emotions are greater than your arsenal of clichés.
“Fuck, am I happy to see you,” he said. “I just spent my last five dollars.”
“You spent your last five dollars to ask Jeeves a blowjob question?”
“I know,” Tobey said. “Now I can’t get that Jaguar.”
“Seriously, Tobes. How did you manage to survive New York for two weeks without me?”
It seems Tobey had gotten a job tending bar at Stand Up NY and spent the rest of his time barking tickets in the street in exchange for a place to stay. Apparently, the manager had been a big fan of his blog.
The loss of the Web had changed the stand-up scene. More and more comics were going retro with Henny Youngman-style one liners. At first, Tobey thought that the loss of the Net had people nostalgic for a simpler time. But after a few days, he realized the comics were merely
Q: “What’s the average yearly rainfall in the Amazon rain forest?”
A: “Six feet, seven inches.”
Q: “Will I ever find a job I don’t hate?”
A: “No.”
Q: “Is there a God?”
A: “I don’t know if a God exists, but anyone who claims to be certain of His absence probably lacks humility more than faith.”
Jeeves gave the God guy back two of his five dollars on that one and whistled “Onward Christian Soldiers” as he placed the remaining three in his lockbox.
A skinny sixteen-year-old boy came up next, dropping five singles on the table.
“Where’s the Internet?” he asked.
Jeeves’s arrogance gave way to irritation. “I get that question every single day. I don’t know.”
“But you know everything. How can you not know?”
“Well, I don’t, okay?” he said, pulling down on the rising edges of his Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt.
The boy reached to take back his five dollars, and Jeeves stopped him.
“Only take two,” he said.
“Why?” the boy asked. “You haven’t told me anything.”
“I don’t know where the Internet is, but I just felt something.… There is someone who will find it.”
Jeeves stood and held up his hands as if absorbing psychic visions through his palms.
“I can feel it. I can see him. In my mind. There will be … for lack of a better phrase … an Internet Messiah. He will come. And he will return the Net to us.”
Jeeves sat down, spent from his pronouncement. A buzz worked its way through the crowd. A couple of YouTube zombies were even distracted enough to let their trapped cat run off to freedom. For a moment, it seemed all of Central Park was quiet.
“You’re not just saying that so you can keep three of my dollars, are you?”
“Next!” Jeeves screamed, and within a moment, he was back to spewing answers. “Hammerin’ Hank Greenberg; The Articles of Confederation; leave it alone or it will get infected; no, he will never marry you; Jason Bateman…”
We continued advancing as Jeeves dispatched about thirty people, until only a few stood between us. From our new place in line we could now only hear the questions.
“Okay, Jeeves,” someone said. “Question. Who would give better head: 1977 Lynda Carter or 2001 Angelina Jolie?”
“Are they dressed as Wonder Woman and Lara Croft, respectively?”
“Of course!”
“Well,” Jeeves said. “It’s a cliché, but I have to go with Angelina Jolie.”
“Wrong! The answer is Demi Moore as G.I. Jane, but keep the money, Mr. Know-It-All.”
I didn’t need the crowd to clear to know I’d found Tobey. And not just because of his Demi Moore infatuation, but because this was someone who managed to take pride in stumping an educated psychic with a completely subjective and arbitrary question. Still, I can’t tell you how happy I was to see the goofy bastard. I rushed to the front, and we screamed and hugged and punched each other the way you do when your emotions are greater than your arsenal of clichés.
“Fuck, am I happy to see you,” he said. “I just spent my last five dollars.”
“You spent your last five dollars to ask Jeeves a blowjob question?”
“I know,” Tobey said. “Now I can’t get that Jaguar.”
“Seriously, Tobes. How did you manage to survive New York for two weeks without me?”
It seems Tobey had gotten a job tending bar at Stand Up NY and spent the rest of his time barking tickets in the street in exchange for a place to stay. Apparently, the manager had been a big fan of his blog.
The loss of the Web had changed the stand-up scene. More and more comics were going retro with Henny Youngman-style one liners. At first, Tobey thought that the loss of the Net had people nostalgic for a simpler time. But after a few days, he realized the comics were merely
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