The Fault in Our Pants: A Parody of “The Fault in Our Stars”
The Fault in Our Pants: Chapter 7

I had been feeling fatigued even before talking to Augustus, because it had been a long day and because of the protein deficiency in my vegetarian diet. But after talking to Augustus I was completely worn out. I didn’t even brush my teeth or put on my pajamas. I just went directly into Maximum Sleep Mode.

That is, until four in the morning, when I awoke with an apocalyptic pain in my head.

***

I sorta remember Dad driving me to the hospital, and I also sorta remember wondering if this was it. But the first thing I clearly remember is waking up in the ICU, and my parents coming in and kissing my face repeatedly, and Mom telling me that this was actually not it. My apocalyptic head pain was simply due to a lack of oxygen, which was caused by fluid in my lungs, a liter and a half (!!!) of which had been drained from my chest. So I just needed to rest up and I’d be back to normal.

It took me six days to get home from the hospital. I was feeling completely better after the second day, but Dr. Maria kept coming up with reasons I couldn’t go home, because she was still pissed I hadn’t chosen her to go to Amsterdam. Luckily for me, however, on the sixth day a nine-year-old boy with bone marrow cancer agreed to take Dr. Maria on his Wish Trip to Thailand, and she never said another word about Amsterdam.

The night I got home, Augustus came by. “So I have good news and bad news,” he said. “The bad news is that we obviously can’t hit up Amsterdam until you’re better. But I talked to Isaac and the Genies and they’re cool with rescheduling whenever.”

“That’s the good news?”

“No, the good news is that while you were recovering, Peter Van Houten shared some more of his brilliant brain with us.”

He handed me a folded piece of paper. When I opened it, I saw it had the letterhead of Peter Van Houten, Novelist Emeritus.

Dear. Mr. Waters,

I have just read your email, and I must say I am duly impressed by the Shakespearean complexity of the tragedy that has engulfed you and Hazel.

Many would blame this state of affairs on your stars being crossed. But make no mistake: even if your stars and her stars were very different, the situation would still be the same. The real issue here, Augustus, is not your stars, but your penis and her vagina. If you both were not being led by your sexual organs, this entire sad scenario could have been avoided. Shakespeare had the right idea when he had Cassius note, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.” But Shakespeare didn’t quite get it right. A better way to put it, and what Shakespeare should have written, is that the fault, dear Augustus, is not in our stars, but in our pants.

Yours truly,

Peter Van Houten

***

Reading Van Houten’s email, I was reminded just how awesome it would be to talk to him in person.

“Mom,” I said, “Can we ask Dr. Maria if I can go to Amsterdam next week? And if she says no, can we just find one of those doctors you can bribe to do shit?”

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