Jan 10 2012
4 Comments
Humorous, Stories, Three minute read

A Victim of Netflix Mania: Part Two

(continued from Part One. Doctor was just about to interview the patient)

Doctor (addressing the patient for the first time): Hi, I’m Doctor, and this is Nurse. We’re your friends! Can you tell us how you feel?

Me: (drooling, eyes unfocused, legs dangling and kicking) Uhhhhh….duhhhh…doh…..bababa. Lalalalalalala. Meow!

Doctor: Hahahaha! Good meow! Now can you make people words to tell me how head feels? (gestures at head)

Me: (waving right hand around wildly, as if grasping the remote control, appearing frustrated, brow furrowed, looking at doctor with dissatisfaction) TV breakie? (bursts into tears).

Doctor: TV breakie bad bad?

Me: (nodding vigorously, wiping nose on sleeve and then rubbing eyes) Uh huh….I sad sad.

Doctor (holding up dum dums):  You want snacky snack? We have tasty treat!

Me (with irrepressible joy and greed): MINE (grasps for the dum dums, shoves handful in mouth, wrappers and all)

Doctor (to the mother while patient happily chomps on the dum dums and spits out the wrappers and sticks): This is one of the worst cases I’ve seen. Usually they remember how to eat suckers. Instead, she’s become a sucker herself. (high fives Nurse).

Nurse: Nice one.

Mother: What’s happened to her?

Doctor: Ma’am, your daughter’s once healthy brain has turned into the equivalent of high quality dog food. One night of reckless Netflix usage has destroyed years of education, a college degree, and any semblance of social skills. Only electronic stimuli and pure sugar can get the neurons firing now. This is by far the worst case of Netflix mania that I’ve ever seen.

Nurse (in awe): whoa…..

Mother: Is there a cure?

Doctor: There’s no guaranteed way of reversing the damage. She may be left handicapped for the rest of her life, sitting in her own filth, clutching a jar of gummy bears as she watches progressively worse television year after year. Friends who once knew her will stop calling, and the family will grow weary of wiping the drool off her cheeks or closing her eyelids for her to sleep. The added tension will cause the family to fray, everyone’s temper growing a little shorter with the passing of the years, sharp words digging into each other’s insecurities. Friends will find excuses to stop coming over, and those who can get away, will.

Mother: (gasp!)

Doctor: But it doesn’t have to be this way. If there’s any hope for your daughter, it lies with you and your family. You will be vigilant, ruthless. You must not let her watch television for a month and monitor her constantly. During this time, you will force her to read and engage in conversation with humans. Begin by reading aloud to her and give her treats if she does it herself. Do not let her near a computer; she will only try to watch television. When she finally begins to speak again, she will attempt to quote things she heard on television. She must not be allowed to do this: you will make her brain revive the lost synapses. I’m also going to prescribe some logic puzzles for her to complete daily. It will be grueling, but in the end, you might have a functioning daughter instead of this pathetic example of lost potential.

Mother: But…what if…

Doctor: THERE ARE NO WHAT IFS. This is your daughter’s last chance. You, maam, are her only hope, and a sorry one at that. Only you, your family, your friends, and your medical practitioner-that’s me-can prevent heartbreaking failure. I have not thought of a plan B. Unless you want to start buying Depends in bulk, you need to get your mind together so you can save her’s. Do you understand me?

Mother: I….

Doctor: DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME!

Mother: Yes sir!

Doctor: Nurse, do you understand me?

Nurse: Yes, sir!

Mother (to Nurse and Doctor): Do you understand me?

Everyone, except for me: YES SIR!

Mother: Let’s do it! (high fives all around)

Me: Meow.

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Jan 09 2012
5 Comments
Stories, Two minute read

A Victim of Netflix Mania: Part One

(I watched a lot of TV and then my mind felt slow, inspiring this story.)

Scene: Doctor’s Office

Doctor (addressing Nurse prior to entering a patient’s room): Sir, hit me with the patient’s history.

Nurse: Sir, the patient’s family brought her in this morning. They had found her weeping while trying to hug the television. At the time, the TV was displaying the Netflix home screen. She is currently functioning at the mental capacity of a toddler. Her mother said that when they went to sleep last night, she was behaving normally. However, she had just discovered how to use the family’s Netflix account on their new television and was on her 3rd straight hour of comedy programming.

Doctor: And they just left her there?

Nurse: Yes, sir.

Doctor: Sir, what is this patient’s previous television viewing record?

Nurse: According to the family, the patient goes through bouts of extreme motivation, where she watches little to no television. However, during breaks from school or periods of emotional malaise, this motivation focuses on television and she consumes entire seasons of her favorite shows in days. She becomes inaccessible and irritable, insisting on complete solitude and/or demanding others watch with her. They told of one summer when she watched an entire season of True Blood in 3 days and would not “shut up” about it. They referred to it as “a scary time.”

Doctor: Television is not meant to be watched in this way. And what is her previous experience with Netflix, sir?

Nurse: Sir, she has never had access to unrestricted Netflix watching. The family thinks it may have caused her to lose her mind.

Doctor: They may be right, sir. She may be crazy. I feel we might be looking at another case of Netflix-induced mania. Shall we go in to see the patient? Do you have your rubber duckies and pipe cleaner handcuffs, just in case?

Nurse: Of course, sir. I am a nurse, sir, not an imbecile.

They enter the examination room, where the patient babbles, her mother hovering worriedly

Doctor (addressing the mother): Hi, thank you for waiting. I’m sure you’re quite concerned about your daughter. We’re going to do all we can to save her. As I once said: a mind is a terrible thing to waste.

Mother (anxiously): Doctor, what’s wrong with my daughter? Can you help her?

Doctor (assertively): We’re going to get to the illness of this bottom. Oops! I meant bottom of this illness. (laughs heartily.) Don’t you hate it when that happens! Anyways, I’ve dealt with cases like this before and almost cured them. She’s in good hands. (shows her his hands). These hands.

Nurse: (holding up his hands) And these hands.

How do the symptoms represent? Will the patient be cured? Can this happen to you? Some or all of these questions might be answered tomorrow, when the saga continues.

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Jan 06 2012
6 Comments
Fake advertisements, Fiction, Humorous, Two minute read

Shame Eat With Ease!

Hi! Thank you for purchasing 8 oz. of Lynette’s “Seriously Chocolate” Homemade Fudge: Shame Eating Edition.

Through market research, we have determined that it’s highly likely you’ve considered not sharing this purchase with anyone. Right after you bought this butter and sugar brick, you may have been thinking about how much your spouse, kids, co-workers, or roommates would enjoy savoring its creamy texture and delicious chocolate taste. Then you started thinking about how much you would enjoy these same things, and how much longer you could enjoy it if you didn’t share. Hey, we’re with you there! We also think it would be lovely to sit and gobble this diabetes trap furtively like a woodland creature, discarding it before anyone you know sees you.

Just when you thought Lynette’s fudge couldn’t get any better, we’ve made it easier for you to shame eat and dispose of the evidence quickly and simply. For that reason, we’ve included a little plastic spoon right here in the container at no extra charge! By using a spoon to shame eat fudge, you can still retain some dignity and avoid a big post-fudge mess. Lynette’s recommended shame eating method is to drive to the nearest parking lot, make sure you’re mostly alone, and inhale the fudge-y goodness as soon as you park the car. If the weather is appropriate, Lynette likes to go to a different part of town and shame eat her fudge in a park while enjoying nature. We’re sure you’ll love it  too!

Currently we are developing a car-friendly way to devour fudge embarrassingly fast that doesn’t involve grubbing it with your hands and risking a stain on your work clothes or getting fudge fingers. If you’re interested in being put on our newsletter list, we can keep you updated on all the tricks we have up our sleeve to help keep you eating behind the backs of your loved ones. Just email us at eat@shame.org and we’ll put your name on our list.

Here at Lynette’s, we have always believed that you deserve complete privacy as you put away the treats you deserve. Thank you supporting our mission and happy shame eating!

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Jan 05 2012
6 Comments
Humorous, Modern Life, Open Letters, Three minute read

I’m Unhappy About This Free Service

this is just how it turns up on my news feed. Is that weird?

Dear Facebook,

Recently I’ve been unsubscribing with remarkable pace from many so-called friends I am connected with on your social networking website. After debating for months over whether or not I wanted to hear about these acquaintances’ marriages, babies, or fun nights staying in with a blanket and cup of cocoa, I have decided against the mundane and released myself from hundreds of people and their accompanying facebook drivel.

I expected my newsfeed to become a haven, a place where I could go and see what was happening in the lives of people who are close to me and the interesting or laughable lives of others I am not close to. Alas, this has not happened. One reason is that as I unsubscribe from my facefriends, friends that lurk deep within my friend well have come to the surface, gracing me with one status update or a tagged photo before I try to recall who they are and then unsubscribe from them. This is obviously my fault. You didn’t force me to accept their friend requests or friend people after knowing them for one evening, after which we never saw each other again except for on the sidewalk where we both maintained awkward silence and averted our eyes.

However, another chief reason for my dissatisfaction with the “cleaned up” newsfeed is the garbage facebook continually highlights. I speak, of course, of the continual promotion of prof pic changes, the ubiquitous “so and so and 10 other friends changed their profile picture.” To be frank, I don’t care who changed their profile picture after spending hours and possibly weeks mulling over which snapshot succinctly captured their humor, beauty, or relationship status.

Actually, I can’t think of anything more uninteresting. It might as well read “so and so and all of your other friends used their computers today.” Honestly, what’s the purpose in knowing who changed their profile picture? Not only does it not reflect in the least bit any change for better or worse in their own lives—it’s quite possible to dig out a prof picture from happier months—it is anti-news. It provides no new information while making one feel vaguely anxious and insufficient: “Should I be changing my profile picture so I can appear to be moving forward in my life?” It is iceberg lettuce, the filler in Taco Bell meat, and worse than Yahoo! news.

Facebook, I know that you provide a free service. I know that I have trapped myself into a cycle where living without this service would be undesireable, if not impossible.  Furthermore, I realize that I am powerless against you and that you  will have your way with the facebook-using pawns and wreak whatever kind of layout changes and privacy destruction you wish. That’s why I’m not asking you to stop highlighting profile picture changes on my newsfeed. This letter is actually an urgent request that you do not harm me or my family once you take over the world. This profile picture thing is my only complaint and despite it I will always be loyal to you.

Your eternal and groveling servant,

Emily

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Jan 04 2012
2 Comments
Fiction, Humorous, Stories, Three minute read

Gummy Dreams: Lisa’s True Story

just because they’re all gummy bears doesn’t mean they all look the same

What if a gummy bear was one of us, just a regular teenage mom trying to make ends meet? What if she had come from abroken gummy home, where dad ran off with a peach ring, and mom committed suicide by going hot tubbing?

What if the kids in elementary school called her dummy bear, gumtard, and sweet cheeks? What if every night of 1st through 5th grade she wept weird gummy tears before dreaming gummy dreams of a sweeter world? What if no one sat by her in middle school because of her pineapple b.o.?

What if she tried to go through a goth phase during freshman year of high school but had no facial features to coat with black makeup? What if no one asked her to the prom senior year because they didn’t want to be the one dancing with a gigantic 6 foot candy bear? What if her first love and father of her gummy cub said he wouldn’t marry her because he had fallen for a Sour Patch Kid?

What if, after she dropped out of high school, she was reduced to selling her body and being rented out for parties as a freak spectacle? “Mommy, mommy! Come look at the huge gummy bear!” The kids would say. Her name was Lisa.

One New Year’s Day, 3 years after dropping out of high school and after working a particularly grotesque New Year’s Eve party, Lisa decided she’d had enough of this life. She quit her job and got her GRE, passing the test with the highest score of the year. She made headlines that week: “Gummy Bear Mauls Test.” “Why couldn’t they use my name?” she sighed.

But the news caught on. Soon she was a local celebrity, attending mini league championships and appearing in car dealership ads. She started a blog called “Faceless” and it didn’t take long before she became a national celebrity after a youtube video of her in zumba class went viral.

Soon movie deals and invitations from talk shows were flooding in. She was already writing a book and starring in a wildly popular reality television series featuring her and her son called “I Want Candy.” Notoriety began to consume every second of her life. She grew weary from the fame.

She yearned for the days she would lumber home from school and spend hours reading and thinking about the absurdity of life. There was no time to think about anything anymore.

A few years after she had quit her rental job, she woke up another New Year’s Day. The night before was hazy and mostly forgotten, a collage of bright lights, glitter, and plastic. She gazed into the mirror and realized what she’d become: a true monster. That very moment she decided to leave it all, the celebrity, the cocaine, the lacquered friends.

She took her son and fled to a small but tolerant city in upstate New York, where people had heard of her but were too interested in living wholesomely to pay much attention.

Within a month she was signing the lease to a space where she was going to build her dream, a dance studio called “Bounce!” where women of all sizes were welcome. As she opened her front door after driving back from the real estate agent’s office, she exhaled deeply.

“I’m home,” she whispered, “Lisa’s home.”

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