Tag Archives: humor writing

Aug 20 2012
31 Comments
Humorous

Notes I Took While Watching Your Date

I see and judge you.

Hi there,

You probably didn’t notice, but I was here yesterday while you were on your date. I was in the corner, staring directly at you.

I’d been here for about two hours when your date sat down, and about two hours and five minutes when you came along. As my attention span for work reached its upper limit, your conversation and interactions got more and more interesting. You were maybe seven feet away from me, the café was very quiet, and I could hear everything. I happened to take a few pages of notes on your rendezvous and I’m more than happy to share some of them with you.

First of all, your date chose a very awkward table. Most normal human beings prefer to sit next to a wall or a structure that shelters at least one side. This comes from an evolutionarily instilled desire to avoid predators. Walls provide a sense of security and allow the dining party to relax and enjoy their coffee and conversation. The fact your date willingly chose an exposed table means a number of things. She could be trying to kill you, but she could also trust your ability to fend off potential threats. At the worst, she might be a psychopath and a danger to herself and others.

Not only did she choose an awful table, she defended her decision when you asked about it, implying that she believed her poor table choice made her a quirky, unique girl, which it did not. Girls who think they are spontaneous and fun rarely are. They will tire you out with their foolhardy decisions and pretend to enjoy picnicking on highways. My recommendation: let her choose the table next time and see what she picks. If she fails again, go to the bathroom and crawl out the window. You don’t want to know what she’s capable of.

Some important developments occurred during her lengthy bathroom break, during which I looked up and saw you eating by yourself. When I looked up a few minutes later, I saw that not only were you still eating by yourself, you were sweating. It appears you welcomed the break from talking and leapt at the chance to eat your food without her watching, a move I applaud.

However, the sweat glistening on your brow indicated both to me and your date that you may have been enjoying your egg sandwich too vigorously–not an attractive quality. To be fair, she was gone for a hot second, which is not a great sign. If she really liked you, she would have held off anything major until after the date, unless it was an emergency that threatened to make itself uncomfortably present. If she was touching up make-up, she’s a diva, and if she was hanging out texting friends and reading articles on her smart phone, then I think you and I both know what that means.

At any rate, I’m glad that we could share your date together. I don’t particularly like her, but you seem like a nice, normal guy and I wish both you all the best.

Emily

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Aug 10 2012
51 Comments
Humorous, Three minute read

What My Birthday Means for You

There’s that sassy birthday girl!

We all know what my birthday means for me. In general, it means I’m better than you. But it also means I’m one year more awesome, one year funnier, more intelligent, and more beautiful, one year more likely to contract various kinds of diseases and arthritis, one year closer to retirement, and one year more likely to purchase a Buick and complain about kids these days.

But what does my birthday mean for you?

If you’re my triplet sisters, it means you need to call me and tell me happy birthday as we once again celebrate/lament the fact we share the same birthdate and have been doomed to splitting the potential stock of birthday presents by three for decades.

If you’re my parents, it means you need to remember to send me money. A call would also be accepted.

For relatives, see above minus the calling part. A card will do.

If you’re the 16-month-old that I babysit, it means that you’re going to be catering to my every whim and desire today, trying to calm me down when I throw tantrums, taking me to watch the dogs at the dog park and letting me touch every single one, especially the vicious-looking one, and catching the food I spit out in your hand.

If you’re a blog reader, it means you should either a. write a blog post naming 20 things you like about my blog or b. tell me how great I am and say happy birthday in the comments.

If you’re one of my East Coast friends, you need to remember the 3 hour time difference and try not to call me before 9 am (12 pm) because, as Solomon said, “A loud birthday call in the morning will be regarded by the neighbor’s as a curse.” Or something like that.

If you’re my friends on the West Coast and don’t live in the Bay Area, you should express your regrets that you couldn’t visit me on my big day in order to present your very large presents to me. These presents can be mailed, and you should probably rush them first class so I can open them sooner.

If you’re my boyfriend, things get a little tougher. Not only must you call, but you’re also required to present me with the birthday gift of my dreams, the thing I mentioned off-hand a couple of months ago when we were walking out of Dillard’s and I’m not sure if you heard me or not but that was really the only thing I wanted and if you didn’t get it for me I’m going to be really upset, but I’m not going to tell you I’m mad, I’ll just be kind of stand-offish for the next couple of weeks and repeatedly say I’m fine and nothing’s wrong. So…I look forward to receiving, cooking, and burying it. Hint.

And if you’re my friends in the Bay Area, go to the ATM right now and get some cash because you’re going to be buying me drinks tonight! It’s fun for everyone!

Thanks in advance for all the birthday wishes! It’s my day!

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Aug 09 2012
19 Comments
Humorous, Job hunting, Stories

Practicing Handshakefulness: What I Learned at a Geeky Networking Event

Don’t watch!

The other day I went to an event where most people had friends and I knew no one. I cleverly disguised this, however, because it’s hard to meet people when you start out by saying, “I came alone.” I immediately got in line for something, because lines are by far the best places to mingle. The guests are trapped, subject to any conversation topic you might bring up, just waiting to be entertained. It’s perfect.

After hanging around in lines, I ended up leaving the party and getting a drink with a group of new friends, failing to get all of their numbers with one exception, and resigning myself to the fact I’ll never see any of them again. It was a valuable experience, and I learned two things. One is that wearing a piece of crazy clothing makes it easier for people to remember you, especially if it’s a cape that allows you to blend in with walls and then scare them. And the other, more important thing I learned is that you shouldn’t look while you shake hands with someone, no matter how weird or uncomfortable it is.

Here’s what happened. As I and my group of new never-to-be-heard-from-again-techie friends were leaving, I went to give handshakes all around. I “put ‘er there” to a young man who is beginning his job at a well known Bay Area start-up that has revolutionized how we interact (hint), and as I gripped firmly I noticed that something had gone horribly wrong with the handshake. I felt pressure, but only on the outer rim of my palm. It was like his hand was hollow or weak muscled on the interior. Puzzled, I took a peek to find out what was happening.

This was weird. I had no idea that staring at handshakes is unusual until I was doing it, and it was weird. Immediately, the soft techie geek took notice and asked me what I was doing, to which I quickly replied, “Nothing.” And he said, “You were looking at the handshake,” an accusation I dodged by saying, “No I didn’t.” Seconds later, I walked away with two strange nerds and never saw any of them again, yet.

A fedora-wearing-boy who was possibly still in high school accompanied me back to the train station with a man who builds inflatable robots at work. I told the fedora I would text him about contra dancing and he seemed rightly skeptical.

As I got on the train heading home, I thought that maybe not getting any of their real information except for fedora’s was for the best. And after all, it is San Francisco, and I’ll probably find people just like them at the next nerdy event I attend. This is my ocean and I’m on the lookout for bigger fish to cling to and shake hands with properly.

*The term handshakefulness is not my own. It was created by the 30 Rock writing staff.

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Aug 06 2012
21 Comments
Food, Humorous, Writing

Please Let Me Watch You Eat

A million donuts? Two? When would they be satisfied?

The Olympics is a nationalistic meathead’s dream. Every four years, thousands of top athletes from all over the globe gather and bodily compete with one another, determining the greatest countries through sheer sweat and muscle, swimming, rowing, clawing, and back-flipping to the top of the doggy pile and victory dancing on the bodies of lesser countries. Thousands of pounds (kilos) of muscle writhing with one another in a city famous for tea and stony-faced soldiers: what fun!

Regardless of which Olympic event I’m watching, my reaction is always the same.  “Whoaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh……………they’re so fast.” If I were an Olympic broadcaster, my narrative would go something like, “This woman is very fast, Bill, very fast. Did you see how fast she’s going? You know what, they’re all really fast. They should all get medals. Bill, the last time I ran, my knee started hurting after about five minutes so I stopped and went home. I’m 23, Bill. That woman is 39 and she is going very fast. Let’s go get her a medal.”

After going gaga over the sheer speed and athleticism, the fact most of these people could outrun various wild beasts and then spear them and carry their carcasses to the nearest hibachi grill at full sprint, I immediately move to the next logical topic of rumination: how much they eat. Seriously, how much food could a team of male gymnasts consume? Or female swimmers? What about the long-distance runners when they’re gearing up for a race? These “humans” are made entirely of muscle and work out for 90% of the time. Their caloric intake must be huuuuuge.

My Olympic dream is something quite simple: I want to go to an Italian restaurant with a group of Olympians, male and female, from all different sports. I want to point to the menu, say “We’ll have everything.” Minutes later, the entire staff of the restaurant emerges carrying silver platters loaded with mountains of pasta. And then I would watch, in awe, as the hungriest people in the world ate.

What would it be like? Would people lose limbs and wear protective goggles to prevent eye injury? Would they be civil but determined? How fast would it take to demolish the food on the table? When would they be hungry again? I have so many questions burning inside of me. Each time I turn on the television, they strike me again with the force of a discus. I see a man running, I wonder what he ate that day. I see a woman playing water polo, I imagine her going to town on eight big macs for breakfast. I MUST KNOW THE TRUTH.

We all know that the only true benefit of exercising is being able to eat more without gaining weight. Is the whole “Olympic” thing just a way to mask these people’s food addictions? And is there enough food in London for them to feed hordes of hungry Olympians? How much pasta would it take to satiate their appetites?

I exhaust myself with questioning. Perhaps I will never know. I turn to my oatmeal, and eat quietly.

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Jul 30 2012
13 Comments
Humorous, Two minute read, Writing

When Idioms Collide You Roll with the Cookie Crumbs

These tasted about as good as they looked, which wasn’t great.

Let me ask you this, if the cookie crumbled in a certain way and I end up having to roll with the punches, could I also roll in the cookie crumbs? Could I perhaps eat some of the larger cookie crumbles providing they didn’t fall on the ground anywhere gross, like in the kitchen sink? What kind of cookie is it, because I was really craving a white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookie earlier and that’d be perfect. Oh it’s just a sugar cookie. I guess that’s okay. So I’ll roll here then? Okay cool, see you later. Sorry the cookie crumbled like this.

Wait!

And if I, by accident, killed two birds with one stone, could I then stitch them up in order to save nine others? I am aware that stitching them up won’t do anything at all, that they’re completely dead because I knocked them out of the sky with a big ‘ol rock, and that they died of massive internal and external injuries, but I thought maybe if I just kind of did the stitch-up thing then I could help out some other critters.  I don’t even know how I hit them—it was really weird. I think that was the literally the first time I’d ever hit anything I aimed at. I only did it in the first place because I was really confident I wouldn’t actually get them.

When they both ended up dying I felt so awful. I had a moment of crisis, like what am I, some kind of tweetie murderer? Is my life so pathetic that I’ve got to take out my angst on a couple of dumb creatures gifted with the beauty of flight? But then I thought maybe there’s a loophole—wait so what did you say, can I stitch them up in order to save nine other bird lives? How were these other birds going to die anyways? Could I save any other kind of animal if I stitch these up? What about cats? I really like cats—no go? Wait, you’re saying that stitching the birds up won’t do anything at all? Not even save the other birds? Well that’s a bummer…

I have one more question–you probably know where I’m going with this, but my dad just got me this pony. Oh you have to go….well will you be here tomorrow?

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