What Would You Do For...

My younger brother and I were driving to Blockbuster the other night in search of less-than-mindless entertainment (which turned out to be Tony Ja's "Ong Bak: The Thai Warrior," a decent martial arts film in terms of ridiculous stunts and such, but no "Hero" or anything) when he turned and said to me out of the clear blue, "Okay, I'll pay you...twenty dollars to get out of the car and go jump in that mud puddle." He pointed to a large, deep, construction-site mud puddle by the side of the road.

"Mmmm, not a chance."

He wasn't giving up that easily: "Come on, you get your feet a little wet-"

"Try soaking wet, and muddy, and freezing - it's twenty degrees out there, and why are we having this conversation anyway? I'm not doing it, idiot." I was pretty set on my stance.

"Okay, how about five hundred dollars?"

I replied with a simple, "no," but it was preceded by a minute pause of exactly the right length to let him know that he had a foot in the door. If you’re going to show strength in sibling battles, you must not hesitate, and I had.

This is the point at which we must give my brother credit for his knowledge of me and his ability to yank my chain, or at least to bring up situations which make me morally uncomfortable. Brothers are good at these things. He had no intention of paying me half a grand to go jump in a mud puddle, and I know this, and he knows I know this (and back and forth and back and etc.), but he had a point, and he kept pressing it:

"How about ten thousand dollars?"

Again, payment was not being offered so much as the theory of payment was being put forth. What would I do for ten grand? Look like an idiot? Ruin a pair of shoes while getting my feet cold, wet, and muddy? Well, dammit, yes, I would, and so would he. And so would you, I suspect.

In the world of hypothetical games, "What Would You Do For...", a tamer cousin of the downright sadistic "Would You Rather...", has always bugged me. This isn’t any kind of high-minded moral objection, but rather a simple irritation with my own relative servitude to money. No, I would not do a shot of Steak –n– Shake hot pepper oil for five bucks, because I am not a monkey here to dance for your amusement. But yes, I would do the same for nine thousand bucks, because I am a monkey here to dance expensively for your amusement. Bottom line: It bothers me that I have a price. There is a part of me that feels very strongly that I should stick to my guns no matter what, and that selling out for a fiver is no different than selling out for the price of a semi-decent used car. This part, however, is quickly squashed at the prospect of large sums of cash, the practical power of which is substantial and undeniable. In terms of real value, the cost of burning mouth, watering eyes, and likely yakking in a Steak –n– Shake restroom is tiny compared to the benefit of nine grand. Plus, I’d be providing entertainment for others (although it would be, obviously, entertainment of the “dance, monkey, dance!” variety, which predictably, I detest).

The flip side of this hypothetical is paying someone else to do stupid things, which I find equally uncomfortable because a) I’m not a “dance, monkey, dance!” kind of person and b) I can’t really afford it. To me, it is not worth five bucks to watch some idiot put himself in a situation of ridicule or severe pain or even mild discomfort. People who do these things are usually desperate for attention, and I don’t like financing their self-destruction.

Unless.

Unless – and here we come to the great caveat that mitigates as many things as does money – the scenario results in genuine hilarity. Solid, worthwhile comedy justifies a wide variety of idiocies. I’m not talking about “ha ha ha, that idiot is going off to yak in the bathroom” humor, but the unexpected and bizarre comedy that results from spontaneous but brilliant actions. This is where the Reddi-Whip cooler comes in.

Having balked at the price of chocolate items at Blockbuster, we had gone to the grocery store in search of cost-effective M&Ms. At the far end of the candy aisle, plugged in and running but strangely empty, sat the following:




My brother is not one to miss this sort of an opportunity, and knowing that I would probably say no, he quickly posed the following question: “Will you give me five dollars to climb into that Reddi-wip cooler?”

Again, chain effectively yanked. But he meant it too, and again, I hesitated just long enough before declining to indicate that my position might be set more in Jell-O than in stone. A five minute debate ensued, involving the variables (the sliding door on the top would come completely off, allowing easy access), the risk (it was pretty late at night and nobody was paying much attention) and the payoff (person in Reddi-wip cooler, duh). After he talked me out of every single one of my objections with the always-effective “What’s the worst that could happen?”, I finally squashed that little voice.

With a resigned, “We are going to get thrown out of the grocery store,” I agreed to pay up:










As you can see, he wouldn’t quite fit. Apparently, the designers at Reddi-wip had not intended their coolers to be used for human storage. Aside from that, the operation was a complete success. The act went unnoticed by the grocery authorities, nobody ruined their shoes or threw up, we got some quality photos, and my brother got to emerge triumphantly from a container that said “Let the fun out” on it. That was five dollars well-spent.

It is very important to remain immature in certain parts of your life. Do not forget this. Also, there is a very notable difference between Stupid Immature and Funny Immature. Choose wisely. And get paid for it, where possible.