Rip the tape off of her mouth in a quick motion and await the affirmative response.

* * *

Never talk to your girlfriend. From the moment you meet her and throughout the entire courtship, pretend that you are unable to speak. To communicate, write things down on a notepad. After a couple of years, when you're sure she is the woman you want to spend the rest of your life with, write on your notepad, "I believe that if the right words needed to be spoken, I could speak them." Watch her eyes fill, for she wishes that what you wrote were true, that you could actually speak. Using your finger, gently wipe away the lone teardrop that has begun to make its way down her face. Then throw the notepad across the room and yell, "Will you marry me?"

Look who's speechless now!

* * *

* * *

Frequently complain to your girlfriend about the voices you hear coming from the plants of the Allium genus--most often garlic, but sometimes leeks and scallions. Try not to laugh as she buys a copy of the DSM-IV and diagnoses you with schizophrenia (and, disconcertingly, some unrelated mental illnesses based on other behavior of yours). When the time is right, sneak out of bed, careful not to wake her. Insert an extremely tiny speaker into a bulb of garlic. Place the garlic on your girlfriend's pillow and hide in another room. Using a microphone that connects via Bluetooth to the speaker inside the garlic (this setup should be available at any spy shop), disguise your voice and start talking to your girlfriend about mundane things. Mention the weather, or how woefully underappreciated you feel by Italians even though they use you so much in their cooking. When she finally awakens to find the garlic talking to her, have the bulb pop the big question.

* * *

Successfully run for president of the United States. Declare war on a foreign nation. (Make sure it's one the U.S. can beat easily.) After the U.S. seemingly makes short work of its opponent, schedule a press conference on an aircraft carrier. Land on the carrier in a fighter jet. Exit the aircraft (you should be wearing a flight suit). Behind you will be a massive banner that reads "Will You Marry Me?" Your marriage will be rocky, contentious, and will probably fail. But you'll always have that moment--captured by photographers.

From the majestic lion to the leathery rhinoceros, from the cackling hyena to the superintelligent ape, the African Congo's flora and fauna stand as a symbol of the infinite mystery and variety of a plenteous Earth. The womb that gave rise to the human species, this nest of ordered chaos has inspired numberless works of literature, from Heart of Darkness, to Apocalypse Now, to Predator II: The Book.

And yet, I had none of these lofty works in mind as I drifted lazily down the Congo River on an aging wooden ferry. Instead, I concerned myself only with the African heat that pricked at my skin, and my abject failure at getting someone on board to mix me a decent Cosmopolitan. I had tried clicking my tongue at them and jumping up and down, but all it had earned me was an extra sheen of brow sweat and a near-unpalatable Mai Tai.

I violently spat the drink out, misting the passengers on the upper deck, and tossed the glass overboard. Already I was questioning whether I had made the right decision in accepting my Editor's offer to trek the heart of Africa for a thousand-word Internet column.

It was true: my writing had dried up as of late, and the Opium use had only increased since I started receiving regular checks from the site. I had tried to go back to huffing gasoline to save some money, but the buzz was never quite the same. In any case, there was only one explanation for the shakes and nausea I was suddenly getting: I was homesick.

I thought of my two boys, Sam and Dex, locked in their rooms back home with a Television and a jumbo bag of frozen Taquitos, awaiting my return in a few days time, and felt a tear well up.

I let my eyes wander towards the horizon, and our final destination. The sun setting on the water seemed to set the river aflame, as if we were sailing on a burnished golden mirror, or through a giant trough of urine. Reaching into my L.L. Bean khaki adventurer's vest, I retrieved a notepad and pen that I had purchased for the trip, opened to the first page--blank--and jotted down my impressions:

Golden river ... trough of urine.

It needed something, I decided. I wasn't painting a picture, wasn't letting my readership feel what Africa was really about. I looked at the boat and passengers, waiting for another kernel of truth to bubble to the surface.

Everyone's black here, I wrote a moment later.

I closed the pad, satisfied. The heat was beginning to abate now, and a bell rang out dully, announcing that we would soon arrive in Mbandaka. It was there that I would meet my guide, and journey deep into the jungle, hoping to get a taste of "the real Africa" to supplement what knowledge I had already gleaned from National Geographic pieces and In Living Color marathons. Even my raging jungle fever seemed to subside as I considered the paradox of this verdant, and yet impoverished realm.

The sound of the captain's bass voice announcing our arrival snapped me out of my reverie. Like some foreign-dubbed Louis Armstrong, his proclamation rumbled throughout the ship and shook its way into my very bones. "What a wonderful world," I whispered, pushing roughly past an elderly African woman to be the first onshore.

My hired guide, Madongo, was waiting for me along with a small troupe of others, all dressed in the traditional garb I had required them to wear. I thought their donning tribal costumes and paint would help lend an air of romance to the trip. I was not wrong.

Madongo's name means "uncircumcised" in the language of his people, and this fact was made apparent as we began trudging wordlessly towards the deeper parts of the jungle. Indeed, whenever I fell behind, entranced by the sight of a rare and beautiful flower or made to squeal in girlish terror by a flying bug the size of my fist, I quickly found my way again by following the track left by Madongo's enormous member as it dragged across the jungle floor.

A quarter mile into our hike, I decided to make a sketch of Madongo in my notebook. I drew a crude approximation of his wide frame, penis peeking out from under his front-robe like a black wiffle bat, just below where I'd written Everyone's black here. I circled the penis several times and closed the notebook.

Now we're cooking, I thought, and ordered one of the natives to carry me the rest of the way, as I had become weary and wished to nap. While we journeyed ever deeper into the jungle, I nodded off, lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of my obedient man-horse.

I dreamed of Madongo and myself, transported to a labyrinthine maze of topiary hedges, I riding in his strong arms while he hacked a path to freedom using only a machete. There was a rainbow overhead.

When I awoke, I lay face down in the mud, with my troupe nowhere in sight. I rolled over and sat up, utterly bewildered and still fighting the effects of post-nap grogginess. I soon found that I was in a pen, having been sold by Madongo to an African tribe in exchange for three crates of Eclipse chewing gum and a single napkin.

The rest of my visit to Africa proved to be a long, rambling, and nearly incoherent tale of enchantment, piracy, helicopter battles, and whirling tiger attacks. I returned home nearly six months later, on a hand-made raft of wood planks and dried spittle.

I had lost many things in Africa: my notebook, my vest, a large piece of one ear, and my aversion to giving blowjobs in exchange for food. But in exchange, I had gained a deep understanding of Africa, in the form of an incurable distrust of Black people. And that has made all the difference.

Also, Sam and Dex were dead.

(Based on My Knowledge, Understanding, and Interpretation of Prevailing Scientific Evidence, I Find it Too Counterintuitive to Wholeheartedly Believe in) Thy Word

Shout to the Lord (Seems, in All Honesty, a Reactionary, if Not Drunken, Outburst Unworthy of the Most Rudimentary A Priori Examination)

God of Wonders (I Swear I Put Those Socks in the Dryer as a Pair)

(It Sounds Nice, But I Can't Really Subscribe to the Notion We Have a) Place in This World

Basics of Life (I'm Just Trying to Get Out Alive, Man)

I'll Be Believing (In What, I Have No Idea)

I Can Only Imagine (How Liberating It Must Be to Believe in Magic)

In Christ Alone (Well, I'm Hedging My Bets, So Can We Throw in a Buddha or Someone Else, Too?)

Above All (The Notion of a Supreme Being Holding Dominion Over the Universe Seems Far-Fetched)

I'd Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That)

Shower in the nude.

Nosh on filthy swine.

Court Wiccans.

Stop copulating through a hole in a sheet.

Stop burning Harry Potter books.

Say more swears.

Try the Body of Christ with brie.

Reexamine that whole science thing.

Stomp the yard.

Huzzah and kudos to Y.P.R.'s sports-loving pals and erstwhile Black Tablers: Mr. Will Leitch is retiring his jersey as editor of Deadspin to columnize for New York magazine, and Mr. A.J. Daulerio will be sitting in the vacant Leitch-shaped ass crater on the Deadspin chair in his absence. Mazel tov, boys.

Say, that gives us a great excuse to republish Mr. Leitch's thought-provoking 2004 essay: "If I Had a Million Dollars," which, Y.P.R. readers might recall, won him his first Pulitzer Prize. Also, an Interview with A.J. Daulerio, part of the Interviews with Interviewers series.

And, let's not forget, Y.P.R.'s famous roast of Will and A.J.'s old stamping grounds: The Black Table Roast

That's right, folks--Y.P.R.'s big, orange, 224-page book of all new material arrives in finer bookstores today. Look for us in the Humor section, reluctantly sharing shelf space with Truly Tasteless Jokes Vol. II and Garfield Takes the Cake.

Underrated: The Yankee Pot Roast Book of Awesome Underappreciated Stuff
Your guide to the unsung, the overlooked, and the long-forgotten gems of pop culture.

Published by the good people of Citadel Press, the imprint of Kensington Books.

Learn more at KnowWhatsUnderrated.com.