Tag Archives: humor writing

I Want to Have a Wedding but I Don’t Want to Get Married

You get to eat gobloads of dessert.

Roughly 11 days, six hours, fifteen minutes, and thirty three seconds ago, my sister was wed to the love of her life in an outdoor ceremony somewhere in the Oklahoman woods. Afterwards, the wedding guests successfully dined and danced, with minimal injuries and no deaths.

All in all, it was a wedding that will be hard for us siblings to beat in the future. Because like most things in life, this is a competition. You may have laid down the gauntlet, sister, but I’m hot on your trail.

I was standing about a foot to the left of the bride and groom during the ceremony, my bouquet at belly button level, my eyes trained on the happy husby and wifey to be, my heart pounding in time with theirs. From my front row position, it was such a joy to watch the happiness creep into the pits of the audience and dot their foreheads with glisten. When the kiss came, we cheered our well-wishings and rushed away as fast as possible, seeking out pockets of moving air and shade.

The eating of BBQ and various desserts was followed by two speeches (one given by me) and the breaking out of various grooves as the sun set behind the capital building and glow sticks illumined the night air, old fogeys watching from their tables in disbelief as the hip young things made fools of themselves.

Soon it was time to send the couple off. At the height of the gyration-induced ecstasy, a whisper went through the crowd that it was time to gather, and bring the glow sticks. We lined the pathway to the getaway car—a golden buick, a chariot most fitting– and we flapped and woo-ed and shouted them into the car and watched them drive away.

That’s when clean up began. The lights came on, food went into boxes, pre-trash became real trash, bottles were collected, and the magic was systematically stored and re-located to vehicles.

At that moment, something very important occurred to me. I realized that, if done correctly, my wedding day will be the best party of my life. It has all the elements of an incredible event from the outset: copious amounts of gifts, friends (and family) from all over the country, tasty treats, everyone’s favorite songs, and a reason to dance.

But in addition to all that, there are tons of bridal benefits that are simply not found in other parties.

The bride gets told she’s beautiful all day long. She could be wearing a sailboat covered snuggie and eating peanut butter with her hands straight out of a jar and people would still constantly swoon over her. Brides also are the guilt-free center of attention for the entire day, which is pretty much my dream come true.

I’ve also found that guests at weddings are unlike guests at other events. They’re more likely to be optimistic about everyone’s future and say what sound like meaningful things. The word love is thrown around more than a roll of toilet paper on a diarrhea-fraught camping trip. But, most importantly, the bride does not have to help clean up. In the middle of her dancing euphoria, she gets to leave with her lover while everyone else has to stay behind and put on rubber gloves.

If this isn’t the perfect party, I don’t know what is.

So the production of my sister’s wedding ended with me marveling at the bliss of her love and wondering how I could have a wedding without getting married. Any and all suggestions are accepted, as well as gifts and other tokens of appreciation/attention.

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My Mind, The Cupcake

A cupcake from the wedding. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?

My mind has turned into a cupcake. I was afraid this would happen. Instead of synapses firing interesting and creative notions from the different loci of my mind, communicating the thoughts that will drive today into tomorrow and allow me to remember to zip my fly, buttercream frosting clogs my mental passageways.

Drooling results.

Sprinkles have taken the place of ideas, and lace wrappers are now in operation instead of my hypothalamus. Keeping physical and mental balance proves more difficult daily.

All acts of thinking, consideration, pondering, and planning that used to occur in my frontal lobe have been replaced with various cream fillings, fruits, and polka dots. The only things I’m really capable of doing anymore are underarm-sweating, head-scratching, and mouth-breathing.

My brain is adorable and trendy but I now need a caretaker.

Oh god will please someone help me. I ate a poptart and peanut butter crackers for lunch today. Is that a complete meal? Who am I? What is this leaking out of my ears?

I’ve heard about cupcake brain syndrome, which results from too much time spent applying to food service jobs on Craig’s list. Letters, numbers, names blur together into a soft, frosting like combination that begins to look tasty to the job searcher. Sometimes electronic equipment begins to malfunction from the surfeit of saliva that drips over the keyboard and is sometimes applied directly with the tongue onto the screen.

The eyes glaze over, the mouth hangs, and a real career seems to drift farther and farther away into the night, which is never ending. Soon, common words take on different meanings. “Experienced,” “Go-Getter,” “Detail-Oriented,” acquire personalities of their own, are thugs that torture the cupcake brain. Nanny nanny boo boo, they say. The mouth drools on.

Yes, dear friend, this is the great San Francisco job search of 2012. How will it end? Will it ever end? Will there be just another college graduate’s skeleton decorating a sunny road near the bay? Will the dress pants ever be worn in an office environment? How long does it take for a poptart-heavy diet to result in malnutrition? Will there be super powers?

Stay tuned, for all shall be revealed in due time. When the hands stop shaking, when the eyebrow stops twitching, when the stomach stops clenching. All shall be revealed. And yes, my sister is married now but who cares? I need a job.

P.S. I will talk about the wedding more, most likely when I can get better juice from my mind grapes.

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Cats Are Attacking My Mind

The keeper of the gate to hell.

I was going to write a blog post, but instead I spent three hours looking at pictures of cats licking their paws. For one hundred and eighty minutes I was spun through various levels of cat-lover-heaven, which is most other people’s hell, as I saw photo after photo of Patches delicately cleaning himself with all the poise and precision of the Mother Queen. It was terribly mesmerizing and I lost track of time and self.

But the saga doesn’t end there.

Hours later, I found myself waking up from some kind of stupor and realized that I was surrounded by horrible, bizarre, and altogether disturbing drawings of—what else?—cats licking their paws. It looked like a crazed zookeeper had escaped from a lifelong prison sentence and gone on a grotesque artistic binge.

The obvious, though terrifying, conclusion was that I had perpetrated these awful depictions, depictions that could only be used to cause human torment. I had been taken by cuteness-madness. What does this mean? Is my mind so fragile that something harmless like a few hours spent enjoying pictures of cats cleaning themselves could cause me to lose consciousness and perform acts of unspeakable horror?

Does this mean I’m unfit to live in this society? What if I’m walking through a park and see too many babies, puppies, or volleyball players and the madness takes me again? How will I explain my sickness to my family? How will I hide the monstrosity that is me?  I can only burn so many pictures before I start trying to sell them on the internet and then how will I explain myself? I certainly can’t blog about it.

Maybe I will find healing in twitter, and through tweeting the disfigured demons of my own creation to my small following I will be able to purge myself.

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Alone: A humor writer’s story

The preferred drink of the clinically insane, champions, and bloggers.

“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!”

“FINE.”

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.

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How to Be Funny With Words

I have a friend. He is real and his name is Joe. He is a novelist who co-runs a website called The Write Practice. One day I was in the bathtub playing with rubber ducky and suddenly I was like “DAMN! I need to write a guest post for this blog and tell everyone how to be funny with their words.”

I put on a towel and was teleported at that instant into his living room, scaring him, his wife, and his dog as I demanded he let me guest post on his blog. There was no knife in my hands. He acquiesced.

Later that night, I, the humorist, drank alone and wrote a post with my own blood mingled with the four humors of three cats. It was a Friday.

Weeks pass, and we arrive at today. While millions of showers are being taken, my guest post “How to be Funny with Words” will bloop onto the screen of The Write Practice, startling thousands and making hundreds more cringe as they pick their noses.

Please go to The Write Practice, and for God’s sakes, write something funny for once in your life. Do it! WRITE ABOUT THE SPOOOOOOOOOONS!

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