All the Rage #5

The top three questions I, Matt "The Spring" Springer, am most often asked:

1. How long have you had that rash?
2. What made you think I'd like it if you put your hand on my breast?
3. Are you related to Jerry Springer?

My typical answers:too long, sorry Mrs. Clinton, and unfortunately, yes. That's right: I am related to the king of talk show sleaze, Jerry Springer. In fact, he's my dad.

I was thinking about this fortunate happenstance of relation just the other day, when brainstorming with PCC co-editor and general bon vivant Brian Bender on ways to increase the readership of the magazine. We were relaxing in the PCC offices (my dorm room), huddled around our state-of-the-art computer network (my old crappy PC), sipping on tasty cocktails (Milwaukee's Best beer) and tossing ideas around with our typical enthusiasm (shouting loudly and throwing shit at each other). What could we do to bring in readers? We'd spammed the newsgroups; we'd hit all our favorite mailing lists; we'd even burned old copies of USA Today in a bizarre voodoo ritual to the satanic powers of Larry King. Having tattooed the URL onto our foreheads last week, it seemed as though we'd reached our limit of self-sacrificing website promotion.

Then I remembered Dad, and it hit me like a dirty word from the Pope's mouth. What we needed to bump PCC up to Yahoo!-level traffic is some raunchy scandal. And who does scandal better than the oldest son of Jerry Springer? NOBODY, that's who!

For your titillation and our escalating readership, here's an excerpt from my forthcoming book, "Too Hot for PCC!" to be published by PCC Publications in the fall of 1998, coinciding with the world tour of my band, Perhaps Crotch, and the release of our third album, "Am I Ugly?"

TOO HOT FOR PCC!
By Matt "The Spring" Springer

with thanks to Aaron Hoffman for the inspiration, and for giving me the courage to go through with this and face my past. I love you, you cuddly butt!

     "Okay, we're going to bring out your brother now, Sarah. Would you please welcome Matt Springer!"
     The spattering of applause from the five neighborhood kids seated on the floor of our living room marked my cue to enter and take a seat next to my sister, Sarah. As usual, I had no idea what they'd been talking about for the past fifteen minutes, having been locked into a metal box called "the booth" by my dad. I didn't like it in "the booth." It was dark and scary, and sometimes I had to pee.
     "Matt, you're Sarah's sister, am I right?"
     "Dad, you know who I am," I replied, smiling.
     "Um...sure I do. Let me ask you this, Matt. Do you own a set of Lego building blocks?"
     "Yes, I do," I replied nervously.
     "Do you care about these Lego blocks?"
     "Dad, what's going on?"
     "Matt?" Sarah began, then started to sniffle.
     "What is it, idiothead?"
     "I...I farted on your blocks!" She was crying now, sobbing uncontrollab ly.
     "You buttbrain!" I lunged at Sarah, hitting her with all the intensity that the average 7- year-old older brother has for his three-year-old bratty sister. The moment my hands made contact with Sarah's forehead, three burly guys came running out from the kitchen and began to pull us apart. The neighborhood kids stood smiling with glee, clapping and howling and chanting, "Mr. Springer! Mr. Springer! Mr. Springer!"
     Just another average Saturday afternoon in the household of my dad, Jerry Springer.
     I looked up at him, as a bald stranger in a black T-shirt pinned me to my chair. Dad was standing there as he always did, shaking his head and smiling. He walked up to my best friend Luke and pointed the wooden spoon he called his "mike" into his face.
     "Um...I just want to say that I think Matt's awesome," he said sorta quietly, "and his sister's a butthead for farting on his blocks!"
     The other kids cheered wildly. Sarah continued to cry, so I hit her again. The burly guys came storming out from the kitchen as if on cue, pulling me away from Sarah while the audience continued to go crazy.
     "Okay, fellas, that's enough. It's time for..."
     Before my dad could finish, the neighborhood kids finished his sentence: "THE FINAL THOUGHT! YAY!"
     Dad shook his head, muttering to himself, "Goddamn kids." He took a seat in the recliner, and the kids all turned eagerly to face him. Sarah and I poked at each other, this time inflicting bruises as the "security" was nowhere to be seen.
     "Kids, we all pass gas. Farting..."
     The kids giggled instinctively. Dad rolled his eyes.
     "...is a part of life, a part of the human body. But we do have control over our bodies. We can control where we live, who we love, and even where we fart."
     The kids giggled again. Dad's face started to turn red.
     "So the next time you think you have to take care of some uncontrollable urge, control yourself. We're all better than that. Until next time, take care of yourselves..."
     "AND EACH OTHER! YAY!" Now the kids were jumping around and screaming. My sister and I joined in; it looked like fun, and we were young and stupid.
     "Get the hell outta here! Go play!" My dad shooed us all out of his living room, sending us into the backyard for another furious round of dodgeball. As we scampered down the stairs, Luke caught up with me, and smacked me on the head playfully.
     "Dude, your dad's awesome," he said, a glint of admiration in his eyes.
     If you only knew, Luke. If you only knew.