“The humor writer, alone on a Friday night, drinks shoe polish out of an aluminum can that once held baked beans and bacon. The bacon did not come with the baked beans. Rather, one time on Bacon Monday she had used the can instead of a plate because all of her plates were either dirty or broken, lying in the bathtub.
She could not remember an evening with friends or without baked beans.
The inspiration for her stories comes from her own life, the time she kicked a cat because it reminded her of a thin-armed high school crush who tortured her with his indifference, the time she bought a Halloween jack-o-lantern at the supermarket just to talk to the cashier, the time she called up her friend in a different state to tell her everything she ate that day.
That was the last friend she had.
She would volunteer at the soup kitchen if they would have her back. She would go to dance lessons at the community recreational center if her membership hadn’t been permanently and irreversibly revoked after an unfortunate leotard incident at the Springapalooza adult dance recital. Even her mom had said that she should pursue other non-dancing and non-humor writing interests. Maybe you should try grad school, her mother said. Remember when you wanted to be a brain surgeon, her mom said.
Yes, it was a hard life. The humor writer sighed as she put the finishing touches on a piece about the similarities between fingernails and presidential candidates.
One day the world would see her value. One day she would get to meet the man who won the international facial hair competition and eat a large bowl of macaroni and cheese with him. One day she…”
“TIME FOR DINNER!”
“Mom I’m working!”
“What are you writing your little jokes again? Why aren’t you studying for the GRE!”
“I’ll do it later!”
“Well get out of your room and come to dinner! The meatloaf’s getting cold!”
Okay now back to work. Where was I…ah yes: “….One day she would show them all and they would laugh, and yet she would have the last one. It would taste like peanut butter”
That sounds good.
A day after eating beans, I have no friends….no close friends….no friends close….or downwind. Beans and peanut butter??? If Reese can do it, maybe I can also!
That’s the spirit!
Grad school will always be there. Write humor while you’re still funny.
And the funny will definitely run out one day.
does she get the dried up end piece of the meatloaf?
She does indeed. And there was much rejoicing.
anything that tastes of peanut butter is great
especially peanut butter laughs.
I’m sure your mum must go into tilt when she reads your posts 🙂
you have no idea…..
Enoch here. You’re post was humorous. I laughed hysterically. Misery is buying a jar of peanut butter on special only to find it has been discontinued the week. By the way, Tom is outside the airlock right now. I expect he’ll be back soon.
Good to talk to you again, Enoch. I hope Tom is doing well and doesn’t tarry too long outside. Do let me know when he’s back.
Hmm… sounds like the humor writer’s star ship made an unexpected landing. Please be sure to thoroughly check every redundant safety system in your survival suit, before venturing outside. Consider this a sympathetic message from another fellow humor writer who knows and understands, after very recently having a similar experience.
But still hold onto that last thought in your last sentence, and never give up your dream of ultimate peanut butter. Sometimes just a few course adjustments are all that is needed to escape being earthbound, and not only take flight again, but to soar among the stars safely.
Thank you for the wise words. I do hope to one day soar into the sun itself. It shall be a true spectacle.
“The humour writer lies back in her chair, and grabs her box of vintage Pocky from the nearby night stand. As she plans her revenge on those who doubted her, she swallows a Pocky. She then realizes that ‘vintage Pocky’ means ‘covered in so much mold it’s technically alive’. Vomiting ensues.”
And she realizes she has a story idea for her next failed magazine submission.
Well done, I chuckled at your despair, I think that’s what humors all about. WTF? You kicked a cat? I’m pretty sure that’s against the Geneva convention.
Humor writers lie outside the domains of the Geneva convention. It’s in the small print.
Now I want a Reese’s…
I wished you a peanut butter thought and hoped your peanut butter dream came true.