Category: Journal

September 26th, 2024

Journal Writing

September 26th, 2024

Equestrian Escapades: Beating the Odds (But Not the Horse)

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You know what they say—you shouldn’t beat a dead horse. Frankly, I don’t think you should beat a living horse either. First of all, it’s cruel. Secondly, horses aren’t exactly the best creatures to pick fights with. You never know which one might be Sylvester Stallion, ready to go full Rocky Balboa on you. Next thing you know, after a few rounds with him, you’d look less like a fighter and more like something straight out of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I mean, the guy did six Rocky movies; I’d be winded after round one. And if you think he’s more of a Rambo type, be careful—because close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, and neither ends well for you.

If you really must beat a horse, I’d recommend a Trojan one, like in Greek mythology. They say you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but with a Trojan horse, it’s definitely worth a peek—just in case there’s an army hiding inside, ready to ambush you. But beware: opening it could also crash your computer if it turns out to be a Trojan horse virus from a sketchy download, ready to wreak havoc on your system! Either way, it’s safer than swinging at a horse that might be Pegasus. In Greek mythology, he wasn’t just any flying horse—he carried Zeus’s thunderbolts, meaning that striking him could literally result in getting struck by lightning. Whether it’s lightning or a kick from their hooves, mythical or not, getting hit by a mustang really must sting.

If you ever find yourself on an epic quest, you definitely need a trusty horse by your side. I mean, the word ‘quest’ is right there in equestrian. Riding into battle on a donkey just doesn’t have the same heroic flair. I’m not saying Shrek didn’t make it work, but it’s definitely not the traditional knight-in-shining-armor look.

Whether it’s a dead horse or a living one, it’s all a horse a piece. Just be careful—you might stumble upon a horse with a piece. That’s one episode of Gunsmoke I’d rather skip, where the horses are more loaded than the cowboys. A showdown at the O.K. Corral with Quick Draw McGraw? Yeah, I’ll pass on that, thanks.

September 19th, 2024

Journal Writing

September 19th, 2024

The Boss of Me: Mixing Business, Penguins, and Too Much Eggnog

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They say you shouldn’t mix business with pleasure. No, business should always be mixed with displeasure. I don’t know about you, but I’ve yet to meet anyone who’s genuinely happy at their job. If you know someone, please introduce us—I’d love for them to hire me because I’m definitely not thrilled with mine. Although, let’s be honest: the only way I’d ever be happy at my job is if I worked for myself.

Sadly, even if I were my own boss, I’d probably still get fired. “Yeah, we’re going to have to let you go. We asked for a sales report, not a dissertation on The Role of Penguins in Antarctic Traffic Control. And, no, we haven’t forgotten about the office Christmas party incident.” On the bright side, if I were unemployed, I wouldn’t have to deal with rush hour—especially if penguins were out there managing it.

Speaking of that Christmas party, nobody ever said how much figgy pudding was too much figgy pudding. Turns out, washing it down with a gallon of eggnog was also a bad call. I just hope that eggnog wasn’t made from penguin eggs. Live and learn.

Another perk of being out of work: no more suits. Penguins pull off tuxedos way better than I ever could. Besides, it’d be pretty ridiculous to wear a suit just for my cat. It gets even weirder when you realize… I don’t even have a cat. I lost him during the big corporate merger. They shipped him off to our Antarctic office, and thanks to the penguins, he’s probably on a plane somewhere near the North Pole by now, which is not even the right hemisphere. That’s what happens when you trust a flightless bird to control air traffic.

So yeah, maybe they’re right—you really shouldn’t mix business with pleasure, even if you work for yourself. But after all that figgy pudding, I don’t think I’d mix it with eggnog, either.

September 13th, 2024

Journal Writing

September 13th, 2024

The Not-So-Mystical Art of Reading TV

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I always watch TV shows and movies with closed captions turned on. Not because I’m hard of hearing—in fact, I might be soft of hearing, since everything sounds a bit too loud to me. Even a pin dropping sounds like someone just got a strike at the bowling alley. Speaking of which, why do they call it an alley? It sounds like a place where you’d get mugged by a gang of guys wearing matching shirts with their names embroidered on them.

But back to the captions. I like them because they turn a show into a live-action book. But it got me thinking: if these are closed captions, what would open captions be like? Maybe you could change the color or style of the words. Imagine watching a gritty crime drama, but the captions look like they’re written in crayon. It would turn a standoff between a cop and a criminal into something resembling a handmade card from a child, with oversized misspelled words, and a few backwards letters—transforming the tension into something oddly heartwarming. I’m always looking for ways to make suspense a little more ridiculous.

Another perk of closed captions is that I can pretend I have superpowers, like the ability to predict what a character’s going to say next. It’s like I’m a mind reader! Maybe I should brand myself as “The Caption Clairvoyant,” predicting dialogue with eerie accuracy (thanks to the captions, of course). My crystal ball? It would have subtitles too, just in case my clients couldn’t keep up with my ‘predictions.’ But let’s be honest—with my luck, I’d end up giving fortunes like, “You will soon order takeout.” They would probably get a better prediction from the fortune cookie that came with their takeout. At this point, the only future I’m certain of is one where I’m writing captions!

September 6th, 2024

Journal Writing

September 6th, 2024

Shear Madness: When Hair Has Had Enough

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Sometimes, I just want to let my hair down and be carefree. Not that I have much hair to let down these days. But in my dreams, I have long, flowing hair like Fabio. Some guys just have all the locks, and I’m left wondering if I can even believe it’s not butter. But since that fantasy isn’t coming true anytime soon, I’ve got to find other ways to let my hair down—or what’s left of it.

Maybe I’ll start by following the shampoo bottle directions to the letter: lather, rinse, repeat—forever. There’s no better way to disappoint my hair than to keep washing it into oblivion. And, honestly, I’m halfway there already. I get so lost in my deep shower thoughts that I forget whether I’ve rinsed and moved on, or if I’m still lathering up for the first time. My hair must be begging for mercy at this point.

Or perhaps a bold, new haircut is in order—something completely outrageous that screams, “I’ve given up.” A bunhawk, maybe? You know, a man bun with a mohawk twist. It would pair nicely with my disbelief over butter substitutes. I could even go to one of those hip barbershops where a barbershop quartet serenades you with commercial jingles. I’d love to hear them belt out the tune for “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” while I’m getting my new ‘do. That’s how I know my hair would really appreciate me.

By now, my hair is probably frazzled and ready to wig out. But if things get a little too hairy, I’ll just brush it off. No need to feel sorry for my hair—it had it combing. After all the times I woke up with bedhead that looked like I’d fought a wind turbine, it’s only fair that my hair finally toupees for its crimes.

September 2nd, 2024

Journal Writing

September 2nd, 2024

Seeing Is Deceiving: A Story of Snakes, Stripes, and Stairs

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Do my eyes deceive me? Yes, yes, they do. I hate when my eyes lie to me. Like the other day, when they tried telling me I could shoot laser beams out of them. Needless to say, that PowerPoint presentation didn’t go as planned. Or the time they swore there was a snake in the yard. I conjured up a heroic battle plan, only to get closer and realize it was just a garden hose taking a leisurely sunbath.

My eyes also have a bad habit of convincing me I look good in an outfit. But when I’m met with stares everywhere I go, I start thinking maybe my outfit should’ve been an infit. What made me believe I could pull off those zebra-pattern footie pajamas? Wearing stripes was so last Fourth of July.

And speaking of stairs, my eyes have tricked me too many times into believing there’s one more step when there isn’t. I’ve mastered the art of the phantom step stumble—a special kind of dance move that involves flailing arms and a dramatic gasp.

Oh, and let’s not forget the time they insisted I’d found Waldo in The Cat in the Hat. Really, Waldo? What would he be doing there? Borrowing the hat for a bold new look? I guess that’s what happens when you take fashion advice from a feline. Then again, they do call it the catwalk for a reason. Of course, if I was walking down it, I would probably do the phantom step stumble.

Maybe Waldo’s eyes were just playing tricks on him too. One day, I’d love to return the favor and play a trick on my eyes. “Hey, peepers, how about a nice spa day? A little cucumber treatment?” Only I’d replace the cucumbers with onions. Let’s see how they like that. Maybe then they would finally stop deceiving me.

August 31st, 2024

Journal Writing

August 31st, 2024

A Millionaire in Seconds

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I’m a millionaire—well, in a manner of speaking. At 40, I’ve clocked in over a million seconds on this planet. Speaking of “in a manner of speaking,” what does that even mean? Does it mean I can conjure a manor just by speaking it into existence? Because that would be amazing! I could use a mansion. After all, I am a seconds millionaire.

But what if you’re a writer? You’re not actually saying the words; you’re writing them. Does that still count? And if it doesn’t, what about those invisible walls mimes keep running into? Maybe they’re not invisible at all—just glass. I wouldn’t want to live in a glass house. They say people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, and I’ve been known to throw a few stones. I’ve also thrown a few parties. And a party in a glass house? No, thank you. I’d end up going through a year’s supply of Windex in one day.

And there’s another thing—what if a fire broke out? It’d be like living in a giant casserole dish. Now, I like casserole as much as the next person, but I think I’ll pass on being the main ingredient.

Come to think of it, living in a glass house would be more like living in an aquarium. And I’d need gills for that. Last I checked, I’m no gillionaire. Million seconds or not, I happen to quite like air.

So, in a manner of speaking, even at my ripe old age of a million seconds, it seems the only way I’m getting that dream home is in my dreams.

August 22nd, 2024

Journal Writing

August 22nd, 2024

Chain Mail and Coffee Tables: A Middle-aged Fable

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Recently, I had a stark realization: I’ve officially entered the realm of middle age. What does that even mean? Should I be wearing a suit of armor and slaying dragons? Because, honestly, I don’t even like wearing regular suits, let alone ones that could double as a medieval frying pan. The next time I’m dragged to a formal event, don’t be surprised if I show up in chain mail. And no, I’m not talking about those annoying chain mail letters that guilt you into forwarding them to ten friends or else—though, come to think of it, that would be a unique fashion statement.

As for the dragon-slaying bit, do I really need to go all St. George on some poor mythical creature? I mean, I am middle-aged, after all. Shouldn’t I be looking for simpler solutions? Like maybe just playing with the dragon instead? A nice game of fetch sounds more my speed. But what do you throw for a dragon, exactly? A Dragon Ball Z? They don’t exactly sell dragon-sized frisbees at the local pet store. And while we’re at it, training the dragon could be fun—I’ve seen How to Train Your Dragon enough times to know a few tricks. We could even become besties. Or beasties.

I imagine us lounging by the castle moat, listening to some bard strumming “Greensleeves” on his lute, while the dragon toasts marshmallows with its fire breath for s’mores. I could get used to this middle-aged gig. That is, until some evil warlock shows up, kidnaps a princess, and everyone starts looking at me like I’m supposed to do something about it. Just because I’m a dragon whisperer doesn’t mean I can mutter some magical words under my breath and defeat a wizard with a well-timed “shh!” I’m no good at fighting. I can’t even fight off sleep—close my eyes, and its goodnight.

Speaking of knights, I’d definitely need a band of them if there’s any hope of rescuing that princess. But instead of a Round Table, the best I can offer is my slightly stained coffee table. Of course, then they’d expect coffee—and probably a coffee cake to go with it. Before you know it, we’re all sitting around, sipping lattes, sharing stories about back pain, and completely forgetting there’s a princess in need of saving. Maybe this middle-aged thing isn’t as glamorous as it sounds after all.

August 21st, 2024

Journal Writing

August 21st, 2024

M&M Mayhem: A Seagull's Mischief on Paper

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Whenever I write a lowercase ‘m,’ it always looks like a seagull to me. I know that can’t be right because “seagull” clearly starts with a ‘c,’ not an ‘m.’ But it’s hard to shake that image. Every time I see an ‘m,’ I picture those little wings in flight. And if one ‘m’ looks like a seagull, just imagine what happens when you write a mammoth number of them—you end up with a whole flock of ‘m’s soaring across the page. If you ever get a whole flock of them together, don’t be surprised if they suddenly start belting out, “And I ran. I ran so far away,” while mysteriously gravitating towards the nearest body of water.

Now, here’s something to ponder: if seagulls are hanging out by a lake instead of the sea, can you really call them seagulls anymore? Wouldn’t that make them lakegulls? I’d say if you’re having lakegull problems, it’s probably time to call a lawyer. But honestly, all of this trouble could be avoided if we just got rid of the letter ‘m’ altogether. Then again, what would happen to M&M’s? I’ll tell you exactly what would happen: the seagulls would swoop in and fly off with them. That’s what.

Trust me, the last thing you want is seagulls with a sugar high on the loose. You’d have candy-coated chaos, with feathered fiends dive-bombing anyone holding a snack, leaving a trail of colorful shells in their wake. It wouldn’t stop there either—next, they’d be going for your cola. And before you know it, you’ve got caffeinated seagulls buzzing around like winged pinballs, jittering and squawking at double speed.

You ever play pinball with a seagull? I wouldn’t recommend it. They have no sense of direction, and they’re notorious for tilting the machine—plus, they’re always trying to steal the extra ball! And that’s how I got kicked out of Chuck E. Cheese, which is a shame because I rather enjoyed their pizza. At least when the seagull didn’t seize that from me too.

Now I’m banned for life, all because one sugar-crazed seagull couldn’t resist a slice of pizza. It’s probably for the best though—I’d hate for them to catch me writing another ‘m’ and set off a whole new frenzy. So, if you ever spot a seagull eyeing your meal, take my advice—just let it go. It’s safer to lose a snack than to tangle with a pizza-loving, cola-fueled bird on a mission.

August 17th, 2024

Journal Writing

August 17th, 2024

Jest Laugh & Beyond: Ventures in Funny Business

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People often say, “And no funny business.” But what if funny business is exactly what you’re in? I’ve always thought it would be a riot to own one of those old-fashioned gag gift shops—the kind where the shelves are stocked with whoopee cushions, fake vomit, and cans with spring-loaded snakes. I’d call it Jest Laugh & Beyond, with a slogan that practically dares you to get silly: “Fill your bag with gags at Jest Laugh & Beyond. You’d be an April Fool not to take advantage of these deals. You’ll prank me later.”

But maybe I need to embrace the digital age and go virtual. I could launch an online store for all the digital jokers out there. I’d call it Gagabytes, the site for all your dot comedy needs. You can also do a search for us on Giggle. Our homepage would proudly declare, “We’re always pun-line!”

And if neither of those ideas fly, why not go down to earth—literally—and start a funny farm? Picture this: a sprawling ranch filled with a laughing stock of livestock. I’d raise dreadlocked donkeys, earless goats, naked neck chickens, and miniature cows that look like they belong in a Fisher-Price barnyard playset. The farm would grow square watermelons and rainbow corn, and every weekend, we’d host performances by the Llama Drama Club. This troupe of llamas, complete with costumes and props, would reenact Shakespeare’s greatest hits out in the pasture—think Hamlet, A Midsummer Night’s Cream, King Steer, and Much A-moo About Nothing. Of course, the concession stand would sell rainbow popcorn and miniature milkshakes made from the milk of our tiny cows. We would call it a Milkshakespeare.

So, I say, “Yes to funny business!” In fact, I’d fully embrace it. Who wouldn’t want to start their day with a hearty laugh courtesy of a dreadlocked donkey? Or end it watching llamas give their best Shakespearean soliloquies? And let’s not forget the joy of biting into a piece of rainbow popcorn while sipping a miniature milkshake—both as colorful and quirky as the farm itself.

The funny farm would be more than just a place to chuckle—it would be a sanctuary of silliness, where every corner is designed to make you smile. From the pasture to the produce, it’s a world where the ridiculous reigns supreme and every day is a festival of fun. So, whether it’s Jest Laugh & Beyond, Gagabytes, or my down-to-earth funny farm, I’m all in on the business of bringing joy. After all, the world could always use a little more laughter, and I’m just the person to deliver it—one prank, giggle, and moo at a time.

August 16th, 2024

Journal Writing

August 16th, 2024

The Art of the Missed Quip

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I’ve never been great at thinking on my feet—or on my head, for that matter. My specialty seems to be thinking on my back, because it’s only when I’m lying in bed that the perfect comeback finally pops into my mind. By then, of course, the moment’s long gone, and all I can do is sigh and think, “Man, I wish I’d said that.”

I just don’t know when to quip. I’m so hopeless at quipping that I’ve considered booking a stay at one of those “retort resorts.” They offer a course called “Jesting While Fencing,” which sounds promising. After all, some of the best wordplay happens during swordplay, right? My wisecracks aren’t just cracked—they’re completely shattered. Every time someone gives me lip, I wish I could respond with something clever and tongue-in-cheek. Instead, it’s more like teeth-in-tongue because I always end up biting my tongue after something dumb slips out.

I’ve even thought about hiring someone to write my comebacks for me. You know, a little quip pro quo. But alas, I’m always late to the repartee, and I’ve accepted that I’ll never master the art of the taunt. My “bon mot” is more like “bon not.” The only thing I know how to roast is potatoes, and even those don’t always turn out right.

Honestly, I make a mockery out of mockery. But as I look back on what I’ve written, I realize this whole thing is just one big self-roast. Maybe that’s been the secret all along—insulting myself before anyone else gets the chance. And when they look at me in bewilderment, I’ll just shrug and quip, “Hey, I’m only kidding myself.”