I read the letter with a kind of reserved amusement. Here was a greeting from someone claiming to be the "real" Upchuck. Evidentially, he reads fan fiction during his inestimable hours surfing the net, and he stumbled across my only recently-released story "Science Fare." He went on to say that he was pleased with my accurate depiction of him as ... how did he put it ... "a savvy visionary genius with an irresistible penchant for the ladies." He went on to note that the "closet incident" involving Sandi was much more involved and most definitely more enjoyable to all parties involved. Oh ... and would I please publish his memoirs, as contracts with MTV and Viacom made it impossible for him to do so himself?

This is the point where I laugh it off as some fanboy’s idea of a joke. But there were phone numbers: his and several others. "What the hell," I thought, and picked up the phone and dialed the first number.

Guess who picked up?

The next e-mail was a largish document, followed by a brief letter that was evidentially penned by Mr. O’Neill. To my surprise, I found myself shrugging off the disbelief and buckling down to the task at hand. Writer’s instinct, I suppose. In the ensuing pages, you will find first the letter from Mr. O’Neill, followed by the self-described masterwork "I, Upchuck." I have cleaned it up a bit when necessary, and interspersed editorial comment when appropriate (my thoughts are isolated by brackets and set in boldface at a reduced font.)

In the final analysis, I’m really just as confused as you probably are. Have I been the victim of some vast practical joke? If so, it was incredibly well executed. The voice-acting and characterizations were dead-on during my brief phone conversations. I tried calling back later that night. The numbers were disconnected. Thus, I can only go on what I know. What I know is that it is next to impossible to validate any of this. Upchuck has revealed himself as a notorious one to elaborate. Who’s to say how much of his tale is his own invention, and how much is the truth? We can imagine certainly, but beyond that ... well, how much beyond that can any of us honestly claim to be capable of?

So here I present to you "I, Upchuck": the memoirs of a fledgling celebrity, in his own words.

Admonisher

10/12/99

______________________________________________________________

From the desk of

TIMOTHY O’NEILL

a masterpiece by

transcribed by

ADMONISHER

CALL ME UPCHUCK. It is not the name I was born with, but it belongs to me nonetheless. I was born Charles Ruttheimer III, and a more enlightened persona; a more dynamic specimen of masculine charisma you will not find in these United States! I mean that sincerely and truly. The blessing (and cross to bear) of the famed Ruttheimer gene is that each subsequent generation is a refinement on the original. Centuries of cultivated breeding have made it so. Trust me. The lucky lady who I choose to bear my child (oh! what a hard decision it will be!) will not be able to help but notice an improvement in the looks and temperament of Charles Ruttheimer IV.

Ah the burden of being me! No one who has never been a sex symbol can ever know the angst and trauma I have experienced over the course of my life! Well perhaps Mike Myers. But no one truly understands.

No one save Daria Morgendorffer.

But I digress. You aren't reading this to hear about my many female connections (of course, I'm afraid they must crop up from time to time as I recall my extensive past ... my affairs are much to numerous to avoid entirely.) You are reading this to hear the tragic, powerful, moving and modest tale ... of Upchuck.

My father, as was his father before him, is a business man of some repute. Quite a lot of repute, in fact. So much repute that I hesitate to reveal too much, lest certain three-lettered government agencies take an interest. Suffice it to say that it was from my father that I learned the awesome responsibilities of danger and intrigue. This is what gives me such an astoundingly resonant empathy with James Bond and Aeon Flux.

I am an only child. Several years after my birth, my mother learned that she was unable to bear any more children. She learned this from her doctors, and was so distraught by the news that she stayed several days in the surgical wing of the hospital. I don't know why it was the surgical wing. The rest of the wings must have been full, for the blessing of my heritage is that no one in my family has ever required surgery of any kind, and I'm sure I would have been told otherwise if it were any different. So anyway, my mother was inexplicably stricken barren. It seems I was born just in time!

My carefree and spirited childhood! What happy years those were! My lack of siblings only contributed to my strong sense of solidarity. My father, quick to understand the necessary elements in childrearing, namely fostering the development of a razor-sharp wit and quick sense of humor, was brilliant in his methods. Every day I would sit in front of the television for hours on end, enjoying the stylish wit of that paragon of humor: Monty Python. By the time I entered grade-school I had a sense of humor and refinement like no other! I was the envy of my peers, which explains their behavior towards me.

[Here Charles goes into a detailed analysis of his favorite Monty Python sketches, among them "Dead Parrot" and "Cheese Shop." I apologize for the omission, but the detraction was a bit much. If you desire more Python information see www.primenet.com/~novac/python.html . ed.]

Ah! Would that you could have seen me in the early grades! I was an irresistible young buck, combining all the best qualities of Sean Connery and John Cleese! I am reminded of that famous nursery-rhyme, so telling when applied to my playground escapades:

I never wanted for anything. Father was a generous man: he would scold me about my frequent attempts to get my allowance raised, then cleverly leave his wallet lying around where I could find it -- chock full of unused credit cards! Bless the man! It was his magnanimous nature that allowed me to begin my collection of fast-food premiums from an early age, giving me that extra edge in the collectibles market later in life. This in turn allows me to spend my earnings on things like dinner for the ladies, and replacement telephoto lenses (they all wind up broken eventually, usually at the hands of bashful admirers. But they’re worth it. Rrrrrrrrow!)

It was during my teenage years that I began to formulate my life's philosophy. How could I avoid it? My exposure to the masterful works of such artistic visionaries as Hugh Hefner and Larry Flynt could not help but impact my existence. I knew from an early age that the life of Charles Ruttheimer III would be a celebration of beauty in all its forms! My dream was to attain a state of perfect fusion of physical beauty and mental feistiness. To my surprise and delight, I fulfilled that dream almost immediately. To my dismay, I could not find an equal.

That, therefore, became my new dream: to seek out the one who could match my accomplishment step by step; who idealized female beauty, and whose feistiness was on par with my own. I'm an optimist at heart. I believe that every young lady has this potential within her. And so I test them, and continue to test them, giving them opportunity after opportunity to reach their peak.

I don't expect their gratitude. How can I blame them? They don't know what it is to find yourself alone in the world, without an equal. But one day one of them will look up and they will see the proffered hand of Charles, and one day one of them will be feisty enough to take it! I live for that day!

And that day is soon coming. The events of the past week have solidified that in my mind. It began, as it only could have, in Lawndale.

The adventure of a lifetime began last Monday. It was during the voluptuous Mrs. Bennet's class. I was walking back to my seat from sharpening my pencil. It was a long journey, seeing as I had to stop several times to assure the ladies that it was genuine clumsiness that caused me to drop the utensil beneath their desks. I had just finished making my apologies to Jodie Landon when I overheard my fair Daria and the delightful Ms. Lane engaged in conversation. My sense of hearing is astoundingly good, having been refined at countless closed doors, and I gathered that they were discussing the upcoming field trip of the science class to the Lawndale Nature Preserve.

I put on my sexiest grin, which experience has taught me is so potent that no woman can look directly at it for an extended period of time. Here was an opportunity to spend some quality time with two of my favorite girls. I suggested as much, reminding the luscious pair that the classes would be divided into groups of four. They suggested a rather uncomfortable-sounding division on my part, but I knew what they were thinking. They felt threatened at the prospect of time alone with me. Possibly jealous that if I were to accompany them, I would be forced to divide my attentions between them. A valid point. But I was up to the challenge.

Indeed, things worked out better than I could possibly have hoped, thanks in part to the actions of Mrs. Barch (one of the few women, I should note, whose feistiness is strong enough to be ... somewhat off-putting. Somewhat.) In dividing her students into groups of four, she insisted that the genders not mix. I realize what she was trying to do: to separate work from pleasure. But with Charles Ruttheimer III, there can be no such distinction. So it was a happy quirk of fate that there was one extra male member of the class, and a shortage of females. I ended up placed in a group with Jane, Daria and the undeniably feisty Brittany Taylor. Brittany wanted her boorish beau Kevin, of course, who had ended up in a group with several of his sports-minded companions. She went so far as to quietly suggest that I trade places with him. But Kevin’s compadres would have none of that! How noble of them to allow me to remain where my special talents are best used.

Upon reaching the preserve, which was founded by Elias Field in 1903 (a political maneuver rather than any genuine concerns about the state of the environment, and was subsequently bequeathed to his daughter and in turn to their descendents so that the position of curator is now held by Elliot Field II) things got off to a shaky start.

The preserve is vast. It covers several miles of naturally-simulated habitat, and is occupied by an incredible variety of species, though not, we were assured, any of the objectionable kind such as created disturbances or posed any threats to our estimable persons.

Still, things might have come off smoothly. Unfortunately, Brittany had been holding the compass, and our little trio found ourselves without point of reference but for our map and my innate sense of direction.

It seems the map was defective.

Naturally, you don’t go through scouting without absorbing something about the Earth’s natural directional guides (magnetic fields and such things.) And since Daria’s view of the sun was obscured by the foliage, they followed me.

So, as I say, the map was defective. Honestly, the incompetence of public officials is intolerable! Some higher-up had actually blundered to the extreme degree that it threw me off. Within an hour we were hopelessly lost. Alone in the woods, with naught but the distant prospect of a menage a trois to comfort us.

[I spoke briefly with Ms. Morgendorffer on this matter. While she refused to either confirm or deny the events as described here, it is highly implausible that she and Ms. Lane were genuinely lost. It is possible there was some other reason unknown to Charles that they did not desire to return to the bus on time. Or perhaps it merely began as a deliberate excuse for nonparticipation and turned into a genuine crisis. Whatever the complete story, Charles was either not privy to it, or chose to exclude details. One can only speculate. ed.]

Not surprisingly, the girls rejected my many noble attempts at offering solace. They are strong-willed, feisty creatures who celebrate their independence and disdain reliance. As am I! My desire increased tenfold in that moment. And I think they knew it, since they graciously gave me a wider berth so that I could deal with my passions in a more gentlemanly fashion.

[I have omitted here a series of paragraphs in which Charles stresses the importance of "gentlemanly fashion" and the necessary merits of sexual expression. I apologize for including this much. ed.]

Darkness fell swiftly over our little band. Resolving to make the best of a potentially life-changing situation, I staked out a small clearing and gathered an armful of sticks and assorted foliage. I had shaped them into a campfire, and was about to demonstrate my knowledge of combustion via rubbing two sticks together very quickly when my darling Jane produced a lighter and hastened the process. Feisty!

For some reason, the girls elected not to sleep. This was fine by me, of course. The anxiety was catching, and quite intense. Jane produced a number of chocolate bars from her backpack, and was graciously willing to pass one my way, requiring nothing more than the promise of my honor.

Eventually the conversation, as all things must, turned to me. I described, in vivid detail, the entire history of the Ruttheimer legacy, dating all the way back to Cleopatra’s favorite love slave. It’s said he so affected her that she reserved a special incantation for him; a spell that would live on through his descendants. The potency of that spell is still apparent today.

My fair ladies listened in rapt attention as I described the history I have just recounted to you. Nary a word broke the silence. When I had concluded, the lovely Ms. Lane was the first to speak.

"Why do you bother, Upchuck?"

I was honestly taken aback. "Why what do you mean?" I returned.

Jane tore open her fourth chocolate bar, sumptuously licking the remnants of the third from her full red lips. "The whole ‘ultrasuave’ act," she said distastefully.

"It’s not an act," I assured her sincerely. "It’s a way of life."

"Yeah, but the only thing it’s gotten you is the name ‘Upchuck.’ What’s so special about that?"

If the dear girl expected me to bristle, she expected wrong. "You can ask Daria about that," I smiled, winking in her direction. Jane was piqued.

"He thinks he’s God’s gift to women," Daria explained in that oh-so-dry tone I find so achingly compelling.

"I don’t think," I gently corrected. "I know. And what’s more, so do you. We’re exactly the same, all of us." Jane’s response to this statement, while unladylike, was boldly feisty. I decided to explain myself directly.

"We’re exactly the same," I repeated. "You say ‘Upchuck,’ I say ‘Chuckster.’ We’re all two people. But the three of us, see, we’re the only honest ones. Everyone else is a liar."

My ladies are not stupid. They know the score. They knew what I was talking about. But since neither of them seemed comfortable airing it, I continued.

"I’m Charles Ruttheimer III," I said proudly. "I don’t pretend to be anything else. So people can see me. I don’t put on an act for anyone. You see the Chuckster and you know exactly where you stand!"

"So you’re a point of reference now?" Daria asked with alluring sarcasm.

"Exactly! But Lawndale gets it all backwards, see? They see me and they don’t understand the honesty. They’ve spent too much time worrying about the kind of person they appear to be instead of the kind of person they are. Take Brittany. Brittany Taylor means attractive and popular. Feisty, true, but let’s be frank. What she is really is ‘Bimbo.’ That’s on the inside. With us it’s the other way around. They don’t understand Charles Ruttheimer III because to them he’s inside-out, so they give him their own name: ‘Upchuck.’ A validation of their fragile psyches.

"And you’re the same way, Daria. You don’t care about the image other people have of you. You only care about what you are. They don’t understand you either. They gave you a name too. Brain." I looked at Jane. "I won’t repeat what they call you."

"Where are you going with this?" asked Daria. She seemed confident, but I detected insecurity. I forged ahead into the breach!

"I’d marry you, Daria." I was completely sincere.

"WHAT?" so was she. Jane just looked amused.

"I said I’d marry you! You’re the only one in the whole damn school who’s as uncompromising as I am."

"But ... but Upchuck, you’re the definition of ‘compromised!’ You don’t have principles. You’ll take any girl you can get!"

I shrugged. "I’m in a high school, toots, not a seminary. Like I said: I’m honest. And I’m honestly attracted to beauty in all its many forms. But as long as it’s come up, I’d rather have you. You are an ideal. I don’t know why you deny it."

Daria was silent for a rather long time. I suspect no man has spoken to her with such passion as I am capable of, so I’m sure it was overwhelming. It was Jane who asked the next question.

"If you’re so damn honest, then why do you keep going on and on about your countless conquests when we all know you couldn’t make it to first base with anyone in a fifty-mile radius?"

I shrugged. "First off, my dear, you can call it an indulgence. It’s an ideal, after all. I’ve loved every girl in Lawndale in that sense. Second, call it my one concession to the masses. A little something to help them comprehend my raunchy image. They all know who I am; well that just helps them know who I want to be, and that’s the honest truth.

"Besides," I grinned. "It gives them freedom. Take a ride on the Chuckmobile, and you’ll get off unburned. No one would believe you, see? It’s the boy who cried wolf all over again." I rubbed my hands together gleefuly. "A wild night with the Chuckster comes free of any unpleasant social stigma. And no charge, I might add." I patted the ground next to me in an enticing fashion. Jane made gagging noises, but I know she was tempted. I was telling the truth. I was offering freedom.

"Upchuck," Daria said at last, "as much as I’m loathe to admit it, we do share certain philosophies. But that’s nothing to build a relationship on. There needs to be something more. Common interest ... mutual respect ... attraction."

I merely winked, channeling Humphrey Bogart. "All three covered at this end, toots." She rolled her eyes. "Someday you’ll come around."

But Daria didn’t respond.

She was pointing to the bear that had just reared it’s ugly head and was towering above Jane.

It was a ferocious beast, exactly the breed we were assured did not exist in the Lawndale Nature Preserve: eyes glowering, teeth protruding from its rancid maw, dripping saliva. It’s pelt was hoary and black, and it’s claws were long and cruel. The stench was terrible. It was out for chocolate, and Jane was covered in it.

My gut instinct was to run. In all honesty, self-preservation is my forte. And I’m honest. I truly am. To prove it, I’ll confess that if I’d had anything at all to drink in the past several hours, I’d have probably wet myself. Charles Ruttheimer III saw that monster and Charles Ruttheimer III wanted me to run.

But how could I? Yes, to these two ladies, reduced in scope to fragility upon the arrival of the towering mammal, I was Upchuck ... not worthy of a backward glance. But here I was, alone in the woods, and even if I ran, my best chances for happiness would be messily devoured. So I did the only rational thing.

I turned to Daria and kissed her full on the lips.

This had the desired effect of causing her to instinctively reach for her pepper spray, which I promptly wrested from her hand as I pulled back from the heady and glamorous rush. Like I said, I didn’t go through Boy Scouts without learning a trick or two. One thing I learned was that no living creature can abide pepper spray. A second thing was that large hungry bears only get madder when exposed to nasty-tasting things, like pepper spray.

A third is that what really blows up a campfire is compressed air.

So I threw the pepper spray into the campfire.

Jane and Daria realized what I had done. They dove for cover behind the underbrush, covering their ears. The bear wavered in place for a moment before a pillar of fire exploded from the ground like Satan’s finger. That was enough to convince him to depart. No chocolate bar was worth the wrath of Charles Ruttheimer III!

When the shock died off, I saw Daria and Jane looking at me with wide eyes. I winked, giving them a thumbs-up. "Thank you, Upchuck," said Daria slowly. "That was quick thinking."

It was love, I know it!

So it’s only a matter of time, you see? We were rescued thirty minutes later, as our unorthodox bear-repellant had been visible from the Ranger Station. We were later informed that the bear had been taken into custody and relocated to hunting grounds near Highland. And what of Daria and Jane? They decided to pretend it never happened after I suggested a few ways in which they might express their gratitude.

It’s lonely here tonight, as I while away the hours typing in a darkened room. There is no music to lighten the mood; no color to infuse the scene with beauty or grace. Only the cold emptiness of eternity resides here; my vibrant presence the sole spot of hope in a vast universe.

Alone today ...

... but tomorrow?

I know the score. I know what darkness lies in the hearts of women! Just remember, ladies: it’s Charles Ruttheimer III whom you deny; Charles Ruttheimer III who’s presence makes you weak and who’s masculinity threatens you. It’s Charles Ruttheimer III who you snicker at and disdain and spurn and, quaking, fear. But it was I, Upchuck who saved your bacon when the chips were down.