Tag Archives: humor

Feb 24 2012
28 Comments
Fiction, Humorous

Karen’s Unicorn: Gym Nuisance

this is after she was arrested and executed for manslaughter and then put on display as an artifact

So I saw Karen’s unicorn at the gym last night. She was benching about 250 in that belly shirt of hers, all her glittery unicorn flesh just hanging out for the entire gym to see and of course she was sporting those short shorts, prancing around the gym every chance she got. And that dumb swooshy tail of hers that she whips around nonstop, spraying toxic magic dust everywhere—-swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, like she’s the freaking queen of the dumbbells.

It’s pretty ridiculous if you ask me. And she never wipes the machines down. Never. So if you use one after her, you’re definitely going to get unicorn dust all over you and God knows what’s going to happen after that. I heard it can even be addictive, like you get some kind of unicorn buzz and colors are more vibrant and you feel alive, but then immediately afterwards you’re a wreck. Life loses its meaning and everything tastes like ash. People have died from this so I don’t think it’s too much to ask her to wipe down the freaking machines.

And just because she’s a unicorn, she thinks she’s so special, like she deserves to use the stationary bike for longer than 30 minutes. Well, I’ve got news for you, sugar, just because you’re a minxy tart of a shimmery, magical creature doesn’t give you the right to come into our gym, coat our machines with your poisonous dust, and then trot out of here on your pearly hooves like you own the place. What forest did you prance out of that you think this is okay? What does Karen have to say about this? Why are you using the treadmill anyways? Isn’t there some mystical wood that you can go romp around in with your other deviant friends? Can’t you just leave us non-magical folk in peace and not torment us with your sweet, sweet unicorn dust?

Do I even have to mention the experience of using the bathroom after her? It’s a nightmare. The stall is so heavily scented with cinnamon and vanilla I can hardly breathe. Literally I almost suffocated when I was changing clothes. If that wasn’t bad enough, my shoe touched one of her mane hairs left on the ground and the whole thing turned into a flock of yellow butterflies that just fluttered away.

Do you see my point here? My shoe flew away. This was my shoe, that I had purchased to wear for the purpose of engaging in athletic activity, and it flew away. This is simply unacceptable. Karen’s unicorn has got to go. I can’t stand the thought of seeing her again, doing squats with her majestic unicorn might, her belly button ring glinting in the  fluorescent lights. Do you know how distracting that is?

And I want her to buy me a pair of shoes and/or catch the flock of butterflies. Am I being unreasonable?

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Feb 23 2012
8 Comments
Anecdotes, Open Letters, Two minute read

Open Letter to the Brown Upright Piano in Our Living Room that I Played for Eleven Years and then Abruptly Abandoned Upon Graduating from High School

an actual photo of a piano drowning in heartbreak

Hey you. It’s been a while hasn’t it? How have you been? You look good– I noticed your new picture frames; they go really well with the Bach bust and the fake plant, and I’m not just saying that. I mean it. I would never lie to you.

Well I guess there’s no point in avoiding the subject, so I’ll just come out and say it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry that after the thousands of hours we spent together over the years I just left you like you meant nothing to me, like you were something I was ashamed of and wanted to forget. I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for those wonderful years we had, only to have our relationship ripped away from you without warning. All those days we spent frolicking in the sun, meandering through hidden forests filled with magical creatures, exploring alien planets, visiting ages long past. While the rest of my family was tortured with the endless repetition that is piano practice, we were somewhere else entirely, floating above imaginary canyons colored fuchsia and turquoise, never scared when we were together. You have to know I’m telling the truth.

And I’m sorry for all of those holidays I spent at home while visiting from college, when I would avoid looking you in the eye. I’m sorry about the way I would whisper of what we once had and act embarrassed when anyone brought it up. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to deal with all of it, with the way my life was changing and the way it seemed you would no longer have a part in it.

At some point we have to admit these things to ourselves. You knew I wasn’t a brilliant pianist. Don’t try to deny the truth. Sure I practiced a lot, and sure I was “advanced” and perhaps my teacher’s best student, but I didn’t have the shimmering gold talent it takes to be a real concert pianist. More importantly, I didn’t have the passion. I tried to tell myself I loved playing, and I think I believed it. Sometimes it felt so real, as we were tramping through the villages of Eastern Europe in a mythical spring, stars falling around us as we twirled upward into the night.

But at the end of the day, it was a ruse, a lie I was telling myself.  I didn’t have the passion it took to be excellent, and the love I had for playing came from a love of being the best. I know all this now, but at what cost! Oh my dear piano, you have to know it wasn’t your fault. There’s nothing you could have done. But know this: we still had everything, for a time, those beautiful early mornings in winter, the world dark and frozen outside but us warming ourselves with the glow of quarter notes, the quiet afternoons when I was alone at home and could play as loud as I wanted in front of the only audience that truly mattered: you and me.

I will always remember you, even if I forget how to play entirely, even if my parents sell you to a lady named Fern without telling me. I will always remember you and me, a girl and her piano, and how life seemed better together. I can’t forget something that’s a part of me.

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Feb 22 2012
16 Comments
Fiction, Two minute read

Deconstructed Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich

This recipe was taken from an episode of Top Chef: Personal Lives

To make the perfect deconstructed PB&J:

Make sure you are alone. Check the bedrooms, kitchen, closets, basement, staircases, and behind, making sure you are unaccompanied. Lock the doors.

Stalk your way to the kitchen. Be furtive. The more furtive you are, the better the deconstructed sandwich will taste. A furtive sandwich is a tasty sandwich.

Glance around shamefully, then reach into the cabinet and withdraw the half empty jar of peanut butter from its lair. You are not a pessimist, but there’s no denying you’ve already eaten half of the peanut butter. It is a large jar, with 24 servings, a total of 48 tablespoons. You’ve done the math. There is no call for optimism here.

Make sure you are alone.

Quietly, ever so quietly, remove the lid. Quickly check behind you and then grab a knife from the drawer, a butter knife. Slowly close the squeaky drawer, trying to make as little noise as possible. Wince at every creak. A quiet sandwich is a good sandwich.

today, we dine on pb&j alone

With the jar and knife, creep to your bedroom, shutting the door behind you. Set the peanut butter timer for ten minutes. Crawl into bed and, with the knife, eat the peanut butter, varying your technique slightly from bite to bite. It’s just you, the knife, the peanut butter, and the timer.

When the timer goes off, jump as if something has scared you. Realize it was just the fact you sat by yourself in your room alone eating peanut butter for ten minutes. Push this thought away and then continue making the deconstructed PB&J.

Pick up the jar and knife, cleaned of all traces of peanut butter, and make your way back to the kitchen. The lights in the house should be off, curtains closed except for a crack through which you can see the outside world. Sandwiches in the dark are toothsome sandwiches.

In the kitchen, place the peanut butter back in its dark corner.

Choose your favorite spoon, the one you eat frosting and ice cream with, the one you would take with you should you ever travel again, the spoon you would want your friends to see,  the spoon you would want to look like if you still went out to social events.

Open the mostly empty fridge and remove your only jar of jam, which is almost gone. Open it up and slurp down a few mouthfuls with your spoon. Reassure yourself that you deserve this. Notice how the sweet, cool, smooth texture of the jam contrasts beautifully with the creamy, slightly savory, nutty aftertaste of the peanut butter. Afterwards, notice how you are eating jam out of the jar.

A quiet sandwich is a good sandwich.

Screw the lid on the jam and put it back. After closing the door, glance at the pictures on the fridge. Wonder if you should call your mother.

Eat a slice of bread later on, after waking from your nap.

P.S. Teddie Peanut Butter is the best.

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Feb 20 2012
16 Comments
Fiction, Three minute read

Old Man in Captain Hat Talks About Tunnels

please ignore resemblance to an anus.

The following is fictional. I just wanted to write something about crawling through a tunnel.

It’s Wednesday night and I’m at O’Leary’s again. The best thing about this place is that the dim lighting covers up the filth and makes makes people look more interesting than they actually are.   As I finish my beer, I remember once again that I’m drinking alone.  I slap six dollars on the bar and reach for my jacket. From behind me I suddenly hear someone whisper.

“Psss….”

I turn around and out of nowhere there’s an old dude sitting right there with a wonky eye and a captain’s hat. How had I not seen him before?

“Yeah?” I say, wondering what he wants. Had I dropped something?

“You ever go through a tunnel?” the captain growls.

“What?” I said. This was beginning to be a little strange.

“I said, ‘You ever get on your elbows and knees, down in the dirt and the grime, and crawl into the darkness, not sure if you gonna see the light again, and make your way like a worm through the belly of the earth?”

“Well…..”

“Do you know what it’s like? You’re down there, in the endless shadow, and you’re alone. All you see is a spit of dirt in front of you where your flashlight shine from your mouth, one inch above you is the earth, and beneath you is the earth. You got nowhere to go but forward or back. The earth is swallowing you up. You just a few sorry square feet of matter down there, with all that earth about you. And you know in one second you could be gone.”

I’m not sure how to respond…I don’t feel that uncomfortable because he doesn’t even seem to be talking to me. Would he notice if I left? But then he goes on, apparently lost in a memory.

“And it don’t matter how good you are. Once you’re down there, the panic’s gonna come. You’re going to be halfway to the center of the earth, wiggling your bottom like a popstar, and sooner or later it’s going to hit you. Maybe after five minutes, maybe after an hour. It don’t matter none. You’re gonna wanna see the light. You’re gonna wanna stand up and shout out and see the sun and know life’s got meaning again because down in the darkness you don’t know what’s real. You’re gonna wanna smell a woman’s hair again, gonna wonder about your friends and family, if you got them, and more than anything, you’re gonna want space. But there ain’t no space. Not in the tunnel. And the more you think about it, the more unbearable the tunnel gets, till it seems it’s closing in on you, lowering itself little by little, trying to squish you out of existence. You can’t see nothing ahead of you, just more tunnel. You feel it’s never going to end and for a moment, you know you’d rather die than be in the tunnel for another second, where you can’t move, can’t breathe hardly, can’t hear anything besides your own scared breaths, touch anything besides dirt. And then you know that you’ve already died and you’re in hell itself. The tunnel becomes your hell, a personal hell. And you know you can’t go on, that you’re going to stay there in your dark, dirty hell and die the death of an animal. Your world is so small…so small….”

I just stare at him for a second while he looks past me. Do I say anything? Do I try to reassure him and tell him it’s okay? But once again he continues with no verbal notification from me.

“So after 25 years, I finally got me this captain’s hat and became a Christian.”

A few hours later, I realized my wallet, ring, and watch were gone.

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Feb 17 2012
15 Comments
Fiction, Humorous, Three minute read

I’m Using Someone Else’s Toothbrush

Who is using my toothbrush now?

Warning: This is bizarre.

It starts out just like a regular tooth brushing session. Wearing socks, I step into the bathroom and turn towards the mirror. For roughly a minute, I examine my face for new developments, leaning as close to my reflection as possible. Finding everything accounted for, I stand back up and reach for my toothbrush. I wet it, squeeze toothpaste onto it, open my mouth wide, and then set it against my right lower molars. The brushing begins.

And then it happens. I am suddenly and completely convinced that the toothbrush I’m using is not my own. It’s someone else’s. I’m using someone else’s toothbrush. Who is it? What if they find out? What if it’s my roommate’s and she walks by and sees me because I don’t shut the door when I’m just brushing my teeth? Would she be mad at me? Would she say nothing, walk away, and then leave a note by the sink asking me not to use her toothbrush. Would she bring it up

over dinner and say “Hey, you can totally use my toothbrush, but just make sure you ask me beforehand.” or would it be more like a roundabout story of how in her family, everyone always used their own toothbrushes and she guesses it’s just a personal thing but could I please not use her toothbrush anymore? Would she start taking her toothbrush out of the bathroom and shutting it in her nightstand? What if I went into her room and took it out of her nightstand and she saw me using it again? Would she ask me to move out or would it turn into a kind of game where she hides her toothbrush around the apartment and I keep on trying to find it? Would she ask me pointblank when she saw me with my toothbrush in her mouth, “Are you using my toothbrush?” And what would I say? “Oh I thought it was mine?” Is that even true? Am I some kind of psychopath that lies about my brushing habits, but not in the usual, “Sure, Dentist, I brush and floss two to three times a day,” but in a “Oh that’s so weird I completely thought it was mine” even though I doubted it was mine but went ahead and brushed my teeth anyways. And how can I even doubt whether or not the toothbrush was mine unless our toothbrushes look exactly the same, but mine and hers don’t because hers is blue and mine is white so I have no excuse but still I find myself wondering whether or not I’m using the right toothbrush? What does that say about me?

So there I am, alternately staring in the mirror at myself  and at the toothbrush, and I have the distinct and unmistakable feeling I’m using the toothbrush of a stranger. I feel this even though I know for a fact the toothbrush is mine. I can see my roommate’s toothbrush in the blue glass that also holds our identical toothpastes, but we don’t care about the toothpastes because apparently those are fine and socially acceptable to interchange. But if you interchange toothbrushes, that’s just weird.

Is it because the bristles of a toothbrush explore the most intimate nooks of one’s oral cavity, massaging the crevices of one’s chompers and their gummy nest, inserting itself in all those places where the day’s gluttony lingers, shooing bits of taffy and apple peel out of their hiding places, scrubbing the tongue down including that part in the back that looks weird and kind of hairy because of the taste buds? Is it because of all of that?

Though I know for a fact the toothbrush I hold is my own, the doubt still plagues me. I miss my old toothbrush, the one I lost about a week ago. It was green and awkwardly sized in the fashion of a big crayon, but I had gotten to know it over the course of many brushings and felt I had reached a special place with it. But now it’s gone. And in its place is this cold piece of plastic that doesn’t understand me and doesn’t even seem to care. Maybe my roommate’s toothbrush would be nicer to use after all. Would she care if I did use it, just a few times, just until I got to know my new toothbrush better?

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