Category: Journal

January 14th, 2025

Journal Writing

January 14th, 2025

Purrjury, Piano Scams, and Other Feline Felonies

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They say you should let sleeping dogs lie. In my experience, the same applies to cats. Wake a cat in the middle of their cat nap, and you’ll find out exactly why they call it a catfight. The claws come out faster than you can say “Meow Mix,” and before you know it, you might end up with cat scratch fever—not just a Ted Nugent song, by the way, but an actual medical condition. I Googled it. You wake up with that, and suddenly you look like something the cat dragged in… twice. Next thing you know, you’re coughing up hairballs that could pass as members of an 80s hair metal band—spandex, sleeveless denim, and boots so tall they’d make a giraffe jealous.

And don’t laugh—cat scratch fever is no joke. In rare cases, it can even be fatal. Imagine the headlines: Local Feline Felon Sentenced to Nine Life Terms After Owner’s Untimely Demise. Fluffy would be pacing her tiny cell, scratching tally marks into the wall with one claw, while the guard dogs kept a close eye on her every move. You just know she’d use her one phone call to order a tuna casserole instead of a lawyer. Honestly, it’s hard to say who’d have it worse—you for disturbing her royal slumber, or the dogs stuck guarding a four-pawed mastermind plotting her jailbreak with a feather wand and a ball of yarn.

Speaking of which, I’ve never known a dog to lie—especially a sleeping one. Dogs are refreshingly honest. They twitch their paws in dreams, probably chasing squirrels, mailmen, or their next big belly rub. They wear their hearts on their fur, and you always know where you stand with them: they want to love you, protect you, and maybe eat your snacks. Their dreams are pure, and so are they.

Cats, though? Cats are compulsive liars. Case in point: Garfield and Heathcliff. You cannot convince me they’re not the same cat. Both love food, cause mischief, and somehow their names both end in landscape features. Coincidence? I think not. And then there’s Top Cat. Top of what exactly? A Ponzi scheme? My list of reliable animals? Let’s not forget his get-rich-quick scams—selling fake tuna futures and pawning counterfeit flea collars. He’s the feline Bernie Madoff, and we all know it.

And honestly, can we even trust cats in court? The word “purr” is right there in perjury, as if they’re not even trying to hide it. Meanwhile, dogs? Dogs will look you in the eye with absolute honesty, even if they just ate your entire dinner off the counter.

And don’t even start with Keyboard Cat. Do you seriously believe he was playing that keyboard? A Saint Bernard channeling Beethoven? Sure, I’d buy it. But a cat? Please. And Kit Kat? “Give me a break”? I’ve been eating those for years, and the only thing breaking is my scale. If cats are running that marketing campaign, they might just be the most cunning masterminds in history.

So yeah, let sleeping dogs lie. They’re not out here scamming you with fake tuna or starring in sham piano recitals. Cats? Between the counterfeit flea collars and perjury, I wouldn’t even trust them to lie still.

January 10th, 2025

Journal Writing

January 10th, 2025

From Pinky to Piggy: A Digit Dilemma

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Lately, I’ve been wondering why my little finger is called a pinky. The name makes it sound less like a body part and more like a hyperactive lab mouse whose sole mission is to sabotage a genius mouse’s elaborate schemes for world domination. And honestly, at this point, I can’t help but feel for Brain. The poor guy comes up with these grand, world-changing plans, only for Pinky to lose his marbles—literally and figuratively—like that one piece in Mouse Trap that always sets off the trap at the wrong time. Maybe it’s time Brain rethinks his approach. Go through official channels, run a campaign, kiss a few babies. I’d vote for Brain—he’d bring some much-needed structure to this rat race. Plus, I’m sure he’d mandate cheese Fridays, and who wouldn’t want that?

But back to the pinky. It also sounds like that one ghost in Pac-Man who’s always ruining your vibe. I’ve lost track of how many lives Pinky and her spectral crew have cost me, and I think we can all agree that being chased through an endless neon maze for a handful of cherries is not the mental health break it once was. At this point, Pac-Man probably needs therapy more than a power pellet.

Then there’s Pinky, the leather-jacketed biker chick who cruised around in the ’50s with her gang, the Pinkettes. I mean, she had The Fonz—The Fonz!—so smitten he almost proposed. She had him wrapped around her little finger… you know, the pinky.

All this has got me thinking: why stop at naming just one finger? If we’re giving our fingers colorful names, why not paint the whole picture? After all, the pinky’s not the only one that deserves a splash of personality. And hey, wouldn’t naming your fingers make fingerpainting a little more literal? Take the index finger, for example. We could call it Bluey, because who doesn’t love that wholesome little cartoon dog? Although I can’t quite put my finger on why the show makes me want to sob and laugh simultaneously.

The ring finger? Obviously Goldie, because that’s where people wear their gold wedding bands. And just like Goldilocks, it’s all about finding the perfect fit—because nothing says “happily ever after” like a ring that’s not too tight, not too loose, but just right.

And the middle finger? Let’s call it Rosie—because wouldn’t the world be a much rosier place if no one ever used that finger for “expressive purposes”?

This train of thought naturally led me to my toes. They deserve names too, but I’m not about to go full “Lord of the Toes” here. If I did, though, they’d probably all be called Piggy, because let’s face it: “This little piggy” has been branding them since day one.

So, yeah, my pinky has sent me spiraling into a full existential crisis about why we haven’t renamed all our extremities. But I’ll just leave you with this: the next time someone says, “I pinky swear,” remember that somewhere out there, a little mouse is plotting world domination, and we’re all just along for the ride.

December 31st, 2024

Journal Writing

December 31st, 2024

Dawn of a New Year

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I’m ringing in the new year by, well, wringing out the dish towel. Forget a party until dawn—it’s more like a party with Dawn dish soap. I’d raise a toast to 2025, but let’s be honest: all my glasses are so filthy, they’re practically growing cultures. At this point, my dirty fine china could probably fill up actual China. Maybe I should just pack it all up and ship it overseas. But knowing my luck, customs would send it back with a note: “Nice try. No take-backsies.”

Honestly, I’m starting to think washing these dishes isn’t enough. This situation calls for a full-blown decontamination team. Should I be wearing a biohazard suit just to handle my silverware? I knew I should’ve gone with an incinerator instead of a garbage disposal. It’s gotten so bad that even the pot and the kettle have stopped calling each other black—they’re both too ashamed to talk.

It’s like my cookware has been cursed by demons. If this kitchen were haunted, I’d actually be thrilled. Let the ghost toss the plates, scrub the pans, and maybe even scare away the roaches while it’s at it. Honestly, I’d consider leaving a Ouija board as a job application. “Dear Ghost, aim for the sink. Benefits include free room and board.”

Honestly, I’m this close to giving up the life of grime for a life of crime. Forget mugging people for their wallets—I’ll just hand them my gross coffee mugs and call it a trade. Instead of telling them to fork over their valuables, I’ll make them take my possessed forks. Prison’s probably cleaner than my kitchen, anyway, and at least I wouldn’t have to do the dishes there.

And as I stood there, staring at the mountain of dirty dishes, I couldn’t help but think: Should old acquaintance be forgot? Honestly, that’s fine—as long as they don’t drop by and see this mess. Maybe I’ll just tell them I’m keeping my kitchen in “Auld Lang Slime” condition for the new year.

Happy New Year, I guess?

December 23rd, 2024

Journal Writing

December 23rd, 2024

Santa's Sweet Side Hustle

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Times are tough these days—even Santa’s had to tighten his belt. And if you know him, you’ll realize that’s no easy feat. Squeezing down chimneys is probably less of a challenge. But credit where it’s due: Santa’s trying to shed a few pounds by taking lessons at Deck the Dance Halls, where they’re offering a Latin dance course. Believe it or not, he’s getting pretty good—you might even call him Samba Claus. After all, why should sugarplum fairies have all the moves?

With the economy being what it is, Santa’s also taken on a side hustle to keep Christmas afloat. This year, he’s opened his own donut shop: Kringle Kreme. You might be wondering, “Why not cookies? Everyone loves Christmas cookies.” Well, Santa loves them too—a little too much. And what’s the point of all those pricey dance lessons if he’s just going to undo the progress?

If you stop by Kringle Kreme, you’ll find his signature pastry, the kringle, alongside a variety of festive breakfast treats. My personal favorite? A powdered sugar donut stuffed with “jolly filling.” Another crowd-pleaser is the Bear Clause. And you can’t go wrong with the classic vanilla icing donut topped with “Sprinkles”—not the confection, mind you, but an elf who takes his job very seriously. Not in the mood for donuts? There’s always the peppermint fritter, perfect for those on Santa’s “Nice” list.

For the kids, Santa’s got a Merry Meal complete with a toy handcrafted in his workshop. If you’re in a hurry, Rudolph’s got the drive-thru covered, or you can opt for delivery through DoorDasher. And here’s the real kicker: for a limited time, buy a dozen donuts and get a free visit with Santa himself. (Offer valid for one good boy or girl and redeemable only at the North Pole location.)

At Kringle Kreme, it’s always “Dough! Dough! Dough!” So Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good nut!

December 20th, 2024

Journal Writing

December 20th, 2024

Diamonds Are a Snowwoman's Best Friend

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Outside today, the world looks like a winter wonderland. On my street, I spotted a few snowmen chilling in my neighbors’ yards. But you know what I didn’t see? Snowwomen. Why is that? Is it because “snowwomen” looks weird with two W’s side by side? If that’s the case, what about the word “aww”? As in, “Aww, look at that snowwoman! She’s absolutely adorable!”

Now, what would a snowwoman even look like? Would she have diamonds for eyes instead of coal? Maybe a 24-karat gold cufflink for a nose instead of a carrot or a button? Because this isn’t just any snowperson—this is a lady of class. And of course, she’d need matching earrings. After all, a snowwoman deserves to sparkle! Let’s not forget a jaw-dropping evening gown, because nothing says winter fashion like sequins and frostbite. Not that she needs it for warmth—she’s made of snow—but because style matters.

Hey kids! If you’re planning on building a snowwoman, just raid your mom’s jewelry box and closet. You’ll find everything you need. Don’t worry, moms love seeing their favorite dress and heirloom jewelry on a snow sculpture. When you’re done, give me a call—not because I haven’t gotten my girlfriend a Christmas present yet (I haven’t), but because I’d love to help bring her to life. For science.

Now, they say about Frosty, “There must have been some magic in that old silk hat they found.” But for Mrs. Frosty? She’s going to need something a bit more fabulous. A sun hat, perhaps? Though come to think of it, that might not be the best choice for her longevity. One look at her, and she might melt your heart—or, you know, just melt. Imagine poor Frosty rolling up on his snowmobile for date night, only to find a puddle where his snow-sweetheart used to be. I’d have to pat him on the back, assure him she’s with the snow angels now, and remind him that snow is cyclical. She’ll probably return next winter, ready to dazzle again.

So, the next time it snows, don’t just build another snowman. Let’s see some snowwomen out there! Who knows? Maybe Frosty will find his snowmate—and I think we can all agree that “snowmate” is much easier to read anyway. Of course, that’s assuming she doesn’t accessorize herself into a puddle first.

December 18th, 2024

Journal Writing

December 18th, 2024

Ugly Sweaters and Even Uglier Tempers

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It’s that time of year again—the most wonderful time, as some would argue—when every establishment seems to host an ugly sweater party. Personally, I think it’s a bit unfair. Sure, it’s all fun and games for most of us, but let’s spare a thought for the less conventionally attractive individuals (and the occasional abominable snowman). The last thing an already self-conscious snowman wants is to wear a sweater so hideous that it actually makes him look good by comparison. Not every abominable snowman is blessed with supernatural beauty, after all. They can’t all look like, say, Christmas Dwarves.

Now, I can already hear some of you scratching your heads and wondering, “What in the name of John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt are Christmas Dwarves?” And, for that matter, who is John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt? Don’t worry, we’ll get there.

Christmas Dwarves are the less photogenic cousins of Santa’s elves. Unlike their sprightly relatives, they’re about as good at making toys as reindeer are at parallel parking. It’s not really their fault, though—those notoriously overgrown bushy eyebrows make it hard to see. To keep them out of trouble, Santa put them on Christmas sweater duty. It makes sense: when you’re half-blinded by your own eyebrows, crocheting misshapen snowflakes and reindeer with a suspicious number of legs is pretty much your destiny.

You might be wondering why they don’t just shave their eyebrows to solve the problem. Well, dwarves take immense pride in their facial hair—eyebrows included. It’s a badge of honor, like a lumberjack beard or a handlebar mustache. And honestly, the only thing more horrifying than knitting dwarves with oversized eyebrows might be eyebrowless dwarves. You don’t unsee that kind of thing.

That said, putting a bunch of temperamental, eyebrow-obstructed dwarves in one room with sharp crochet hooks is a recipe for disaster. It’s not so much “jolly” as it is “folly.” In fact, that’s why Santa sometimes assigns them to gift guard duty instead. If you ever see a band of dwarves marching with candy cane battle axes, it’s both impressive and oddly festive—until you realize they know how to use them. Those things might look sweet, but one wrong word and you’re on the receiving end of a peppermint-flavored smackdown.

Just don’t laugh at them or call them short—they don’t take kindly to that. Things can turn ugly fast. Like, uglier-than-their-sweaters fast. You could end up with a black eye worse than the coal Santa puts in naughty kids’ stockings. Count your blessings that these dwarves don’t knit the stocking too. Imagine trying to explain why your stocking feels like it’s made of barbed wire and spaghetti.

And for those of you unfamiliar with John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, let me enlighten you. He’s the Christmas Dwarf who invented jingle bells. No, not the song—the actual bells. Turns out, if you’ve got a roomful of semi-blind dwarves wielding oversized crochet needles, it’s helpful to know where they are at all times.

So next time you slip on your ugly sweater and head to a party, spare a thought for the Christmas Dwarves. Somewhere in the North Pole, they’re working through eyebrow-related mishaps, peppermint weaponry, and crocheting chaos—all so you can have that Rudolph sweater with one antler slightly higher than the other.

December 12th, 2024

Journal Writing

December 12th, 2024

The Reindeer Rejects

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Everyone knows Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, but what about the ones who never made it into the song—or even onto Santa’s benchwarmers list? Meet the Outsider Reindeer: the band of mistletoe misfits.

For starters, there’s Shiloh, the albino reindeer. While some reindeer enjoy the spotlight (or, in Rudolph’s case, are the spotlight), Shiloh avoids attention like it’s a bad fruitcake. Legend has it his fur turned white just to blend in with the North Pole snow. Sweet and painfully shy, Shiloh was actually Rudolph’s first friend during the whole “all of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names” debacle. But now that Rudolph’s gone from red nose to red carpet—hobnobbing with Dasher, Dancer, and the A-list—Shiloh spends most of his time quietly hanging out with the penguins.

Then there’s Shiver, the reindeer who hates the cold. You’ll never catch him leading Santa’s sleigh unless it’s during an unprecedented North Pole heatwave—or you live in the southern hemisphere. Even then, he huddles near Rudolph because that glowing nose doubles as a personal space heater. You might wonder why Shiver doesn’t move to, say, Hawaii. Well, he’s terrified of anything un-Christmassy. Palm trees? Terrifying. Sand? Absolute nightmare. Plus, who would leave a place where elves hand out free candy canes and sugar plums like it’s Christmas every day?

Finally, there’s Tumbler. And no, not the app or the travel mug filled with suspiciously strong eggnog. Tumbler’s claim to fame is his complete lack of coordination. You know that song “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer”? Yeah, that was Tumbler. The guy trips over snowflakes, and if there’s a chimney to hit, he will find it. He’s the reason Santa always does a pre-flight inspection—because if it were up to Tumbler, the sleigh harness might not even be attached to the sleigh at all. In fact, Tumbler’s so clumsy, he makes Santa Claus look like Santa Klutz. Let’s just say you don’t let Tumbler anywhere near the reins unless you’re aiming for a holiday disaster that people will laugh about until New Year’s.

So next time you sing about Rudolph, spare a thought for the Outsider Reindeer. They may not be saving Christmas anytime soon—they might actually ruin it—but who says Christmas has to be perfect? Santa still has a place in his heart for them because they are unique like snowflakes, each special in their own delightful way. It’s their quirks that make these reindeer so endearing. Just maybe don’t let Tumbler anywhere near the dessert table.

December 11th, 2024

Journal Writing

December 11th, 2024

The Naughty List's Bad Potluck

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The other day, my girlfriend and I were strolling through a Christmas market, browsing cookies for a holiday bake sale, when we bumped into none other than Santa Claus himself. Naturally, I couldn’t resist smirking and saying, “Of course I’d find you here.” He gave a hearty chuckle, but the way he stroked his beard made me pretty sure I’m at the top of his naughty list now—possibly highlighted and underlined.

Now, Santa’s legendary weakness for cookies and milk got me thinking: what does The Grinch like to eat? You know, just in case he ever slides down my chimney uninvited to steal my Christmas cheer. If we take his theme song literally, I suppose I should whip up a three-decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce. Oddly, that sounds almost appetizing—well, minus the arsenic. But knowing my luck, I’d eat a bite and end up decking the halls of the ER instead. Nobody wants to spend Christmas hooked up to IV fluids.

Maybe I should keep it simple with rotten deviled eggs. They’d probably delight him—especially if I garnish them with a sprinkle of lint and a drizzle of dishwater for that extra festive flair. Then again, I should consider a plate of coal cookies and a glass of curdled sour milk. But making him feel too welcome might backfire—what if he invites his holiday villain friends over for a dinner party?

You know the gang. First, there’s Harold the Hare, the harbinger of Easter doom. He’s a hollow dark chocolate bunny with a bitter outlook on life (and a personal vendetta against jellybeans). He also loves re-hiding Easter baskets, but so well that you won’t find them until next year—when the candy’s just as rotten as he is.

Then there’s Cuspid, Cupid’s evil twin with a full set of creepy baby teeth. His arrows don’t spark love; they ignite petty hatred. One shot, and suddenly you can’t stand your coworker who’s always humming Mariah Carey songs.

Next up: Trick the Leprechaun, a Leprechaun artist with a knack for turning St. Patrick’s Day into a heist. He promises you a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, but while you’re off chasing it, he’s busy rifling through your wallet and swapping your family heirlooms for chocolate coins. By the time you realize you’ve been duped, he’s already greened out your bank account.

And don’t forget Tim the Turkey Vulture. He circles your house all Thanksgiving Day, terrifying guests into thinking someone’s about to drop dead. While everyone panics, he swoops in and picks your dinner table clean.

Finally, there’s Hank the Prankster, the guy who turns innocent April Fool’s jokes into borderline felony cases. Think whoopee cushions that deploy pepper spray or pies filled with cement.

I can already picture them squabbling over appetizers: Trick insisting the deviled eggs are secretly gold nuggets, Harold refusing to eat anything that isn’t dipped in misery, and Cuspid just gnawing on the centerpiece with his weird baby teeth.

Honestly, compared to hosting this bizarre holiday villain potluck, eating a three-decker sauerkraut sandwich (arsenic and all) doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe I’ll just brick up the fireplace and call it a day—or better yet, install a moat filled with eggnog.

Come to think of it, maybe I’ll leave just enough space for Santa—so long as he doesn’t bring The Grinch as his plus-one. Here’s hoping your holiday guests are less Grinch, jollier, and don’t come with a side of arsenic sauce. Disclaimer: No actual arsenic or villainous dinner parties were harmed in the making of this anecdote. Please don’t call Santa on me.

December 6th, 2024

Journal Writing

December 6th, 2024

Jumping Jehoshaphat’s Guide to Cardio

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I’ve always wondered why people shout, “Jumping Jehoshaphat!” when they’re scared. It’s such a strange thing to yell—was King Jehoshaphat known for his leaps? Or maybe he was just ahead of his time when it came to cardio. Either way, if you’re scared of being fat, jumping seems like a pretty solid plan. And after Thanksgiving, I’m feeling a little Jehoshaphat myself. Guess who’s starting their New Year’s resolution early this year?

To kick things off, I picked up one of those fancy ropeless jump ropes from Five Below. Since it’s about to be five below outside, it seemed like the perfect time to start.

Jump ropes hold a special place in my heart—literally. Remember “Jump Rope for Heart” back in school? I loved that! Though I couldn’t tell you what happened to the t-shirt. Not that it would fit me now anyway. Which is why I need this ropeless jump rope. My only worry? I’ll still somehow manage to trip over it. But with enough practice, who knows? Maybe I’ll get so good that I can even master double Dutch. Or triple Dutch!

Then again, who pays when you go triple Dutch? Dating could get really complicated. Maybe I wouldn’t have to worry about paying at all if I became a celebrity jump roper. People would be jumping at the chance to cover my bill. Way better than just skipping out on the check, which is my current go-to.

As I was testing out the rope, I started thinking about those old skipping rhymes kids used to chant. You know the ones: “Cinderella, dressed in yella, went upstairs to kiss a fella…” It really got me thinking, what’s the grown-up version? Maybe something like: “Jehoshaphat, felt too fat, grabbed a rope and went ker-splat…” Clearly, I’d need to workshop it.

Honestly, I’m impressed with this ropeless jump rope. It counts your jumps and calories burned, which is pretty nifty. It even got me thinking about the future of jump ropes. My dad had one with a radio built in—super retro, right? But imagine tomorrow’s jump ropes: Wi-Fi enabled. You could compete against people online in some kind of Q*bert-style game. Now that’s something I’d jump onboard for.

November 2nd, 2024

Journal Writing

November 2nd, 2024

Lost in Udder Space

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My girlfriend and I went to a Halloween performance dressed as an alien and a cow. Needless to say, we got plenty of laughs, especially as we waltzed into a theatrical performance in full costume. But the joke’s on them, because—who said they were costumes in the first place? Sure, people chuckled, but you know who got the last laugh? The Laughing Cow cheese. If it were up to me, every cracker would come pre-dressed in those creamy wedges.

I personally thought our costume theme hit the bullseye. You know what they say, “Men are from Mars, women are from Venus, and cows are from the moooon.” Yes, that was cheesy, but you know what’s even cheesier? You guessed it: The Laughing Cow cheese. And no, this isn’t a paid endorsement—unless the fine folks at The Laughing Cow want it to be. It doesn’t even have to be moola; a year’s supply of those creamy wedges would work just fine. I mean, with enough cheese, I could be spreading laughter all year round. They’ll just have to get in touch with my agent… who might actually be an FBI agent, courtesy of my extraterrestrial girlfriend. Who knows? They could be on a “steak-out”… or just out for a good steak.

We cows colonized the moon ages ago—right after that tragic jump attempt in Hey Diddle Diddle. Cows aren’t known for their jumps, you see. Not that we can’t jump; it’s just that we’ve broken way too many calves trying.

I will say, though, I made quite the sight in my cow costume. Looked pretty bovine, if I may say so myself. I could’ve won a ribbon at a 4-H show! They’d have to add a fifth “H” just for me: “handsome.” Okay, maybe I’m milking it a bit.

My girlfriend, on the other hand, looked extraterrestrially adorable. She was totally out of this world! I’m half convinced she got makeup tips from The Cosmopolitan. We planned to party until the cows came home (which, as we know, is the moon). But when her antennas started picking up cell service, a representative from the FCC showed up, informing us we’d need a plan if ET was phoning home. That was two government visits in one night—more than enough for us!