Category: Journal

August 7th, 2024

Journal Writing

August 7th, 2024

Chronically Late: The Misfortunes of a Trendsitter

By

They say time is money, so why am I poor? I mean, that can’t be good, right? Maybe it’s because I tend to be late. And by late, I don’t mean fashionably late; I have no fashion sense. My style is like boho-chic meets business casual. It’s as if I’m trying to make a statement that I’m against conformity while simultaneously wanting to fit in. It’s very confusing. I think I’m more of a trendsitter than a trendsetter, meaning I sit and wait on a trend until it’s no longer trendy anymore. I’m always late jumping on the bandwagon, and then everyone is like, “Dude, that was so last year.”

One thing I’m not late for is a party. I swear my internal clock is set to party time. However, I do tend to stay too late, especially when it’s a birthday party. I’ve found that sometimes they’ll give me leftover food and cake just to get me to leave. It’s like they’ve figured out my kryptonite: the promise of free cake.

I wish I wasn’t late for the early bird special at restaurants. Although, given the old adage, “the early bird catches the worm,” I have to wonder: do they serve spaghetti made out of worms? I wouldn’t know because I’ve never made it to an early bird special. It’s probably a good thing because I would probably open a can of worms with the restaurant if I told everyone their ‘early bird special’ might just involve actual worms. That would definitely complicate my chances of getting a free dessert! Knowing my luck, the dessert would be mud pie. Speaking of worms though, I’m not in any hurry to become worm food myself.

Sometimes, I think I’ll even be late for my own funeral, but who really wants to be on time for that? When the time comes, I want to call the undertaker and say, “You know I’m going to be just a few years late, right?” I’m sure the undertaker will understand. In fact, he’ll probably expect it, considering my track record.

And speaking of track records, I think my personal best is showing up a solid 45 minutes late to a meeting because I got lost in the black hole of the internet, reading about the history of the spork. Fascinating stuff, but not exactly time well spent. No wonder I’m poor.

August 2nd, 2024

Journal Writing

August 2nd, 2024

The Wizard of Schnoz and The Great Sneeze Storm

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Often in the morning, I find myself sneezing up a storm. Let me tell you from experience that you never want a sneeze storm loose in your home. Suddenly, it gets very dark, despite your bright but energy-efficient lighting. Papers start scattering around and blowing out the window. So long, shopping list. I guess I didn’t need those Cool Ranch Buffalo Cheetos, anyway.

Next comes the heavy rains. Good luck filing an insurance claim for water damage; they will only tell you they don’t protect against sneeze storms. Too bad the wind also took the overdue bill for the insurance company.

Don’t even get me started about the thunder and the angry neighbors banging at your door because they think you’re testing a new pair of subwoofers with one of those bass mix albums. You know the one: Gesundheit Bass Vol. 5.

Then comes the lightning. The lights begin to flicker before leaving you in the dark completely. I know I paid that bill! Also, contrary to popular belief, those “energy-saving” lightbulbs don’t actually save up energy to use at a later time.

Once the sneeze storm finally clears and your power is restored, you might discover a redheaded girl in ruby slippers and her pet Cairn Terrier mysteriously standing in your living room. She might be asking to meet the Wizard of Schnoz. You try explaining to her you’re not some powerful wizard, you just have powerful allergies. Anyway, I told her, “You’re more than welcome to look and if you do happen to find him, ask if he has some antihistamines for me.”

I regretted extending the welcome because she really overstayed it. When she invited some scary-looking scarecrow guy over, that was the last straw. I don’t know what made her think I was having some kind of party, other than the Gesundheit Bass music. Even if I was having a party, you don’t just invite any old scarecrow over without asking. I mean, it’s kind of a no-brainer.

If that wasn’t bad enough, then a group of people burst through my door claiming to be storm chasers right in the middle of the game of Twister we were playing. I really need to pick up some Benadryl. I would hate to see what happens next allergy season if I could see anything at all with red, itchy swollen eyes. Also, does anyone know how much a one-way bus ticket to Kansas is? Apparently, that girl, Dorothy, asked the dog to fetch her slippers and I’m sure you can piece together the rest.

I feel another sneeze coming on if these people don’t get out of my place. I try suppressing it, but I sneeze so hard that this time a cloud of glitter bursts out of my nose, showering everyone in the vicinity. For a moment, there’s stunned silence as everyone processes what just happened. Then, once my uninvited guests start finding glitter in their drinks, on their clothes, and even in their hair, the novelty quickly wears off. Amidst the laughter, someone jokes, “Well, I guess this is a party favor we didn’t ask for!” But as the glitter continues to spread like a relentless sparkly plague, they start heading for the door, not wanting to take home any more of my glittery sneeze souvenirs.

July 30th, 2024

Journal Writing

July 30th, 2024

What Brought Circ-us Together

By

I didn’t write the book on love, but a romance novel—that’s an entirely different story. I totally feel like that’s something I could do, but in my case, it would definitely need to be a romantic comedy. Let’s see if I can come up with a meet cute and a rough outline for one. It obviously needs to be something far-fetched, you know, for comedic value. Here’s what I have so far:

“Everybody Loves a Clown”

Sir Charles “Chuckles” McJester, the Duke of Merriment and Laughter, is a clown for a traveling circus. He makes children merry with his hilarious antics, but behind the painted-on face, he is truly sad. He longs for a woman to marry and have his children. Someone who can bring him merriment for a change. All that changes when he meets Violet Bliss, an animal rights activist set on shutting down his circus.

It’s love at first sight when he sees her passing out flyers in the fairgrounds. He works up the courage to approach her, his oversized shoes make a flopping sound as he walks. Chuckles hands Violet Bliss a flower. As she bends over to take a whiff, he squirts her in the nose with water. At this point, she is pretty displeased, but he quips, “Hey, it’s just a splash of affection!” In an attempt to redeem himself, he makes her a balloon animal, which she then pops. He jokes, “Guess that relationship was full of hot air!”

Any kind of romantic future for these two seems bleak until Chuckles starts helping her sabotage the circus. Violet Bliss starts opening up to the possibility of romance. Things are going great until Chuckles’ ex-girlfriend, The Bearded Lady, gets jealous and decides to do some sabotaging of her own. One night, after Violet Bliss sees Chuckles and The Bearded Lady in the kissing booth, she decides to break off the affair.

As their big-top love seems to have hit rock bottom, Chuckles discovers Violet Bliss has been kidnapped. He soon learns it was Barnaby Barnum, the circus owner, fed up with Violet’s attempts at shutting him down. Chuckles, with the help of The World’s Strongest Man, a trapeze artist, and a miniature horse, comes to her rescue. He explains what she had seen was another clown meant to look like him kissing The Bearded Lady. “It was all smoke and mirrors, and a lot of beard wax!”

He then tells her that when they first met, she popped his balloon animal; now it was his turn to pop something. He gets down on one knee and proposes, saying, “Will you be the ringmaster of my heart?” They get married at the fairgrounds where they first met, with a bear on roller skates as the ring bearer. Together they change the circus, removing all the live animal acts. As they ride off into the sunset on a unicycle built for two, Chuckles can’t resist one last joke: “I guess you could say we’re the main attraction now!”

So, what do you think? I realize this might not exactly be romantic comedy gold and is a little fruity, but at least it wasn’t about fruits or vegetables this time. Am I right?

July 27th, 2024

Journal Writing

July 27th, 2024

Corn Paper and Corny Jokes: A Match Made in Pun Heaven

By

As a writer, putting words on paper sometimes feels like trying to peel an onion without crying—a few tears are inevitable. My nemesis, writer’s block, loves to show up uninvited, but sometimes I find myself worrying about the trees that sacrificed their lives for my corny jokes. I mean, who wants to go down in history as the Grim Reaper of trees? Plus, history books are pretty paper-intensive.

One day, a brilliant thought struck me: Can you make paper out of corn? We already turn corn into fuel and soft drinks, so why not paper? Picture it: writing corny jokes on actual corn paper. The pun potential is through the roof!

After some intense research (by which I mean a quick Google search), I discovered that you can indeed make paper from corn husks. I aim for my anecdotes to be not only ridiculous but also mildly educational, so here’s how it works.

Step one: shuck the corn. Step two: shuck the corn into the trash because we’re making paper, not dinner. Aw, shucks! Just kidding—we’re making both! Besides, I’m not exactly sure tossing ears of corn into a garbage can is how you play cornhole. If it isn’t, then boy have I been playing it wrong. Step three: collect the husks, but make sure you remove the shanks. They are neither useful in papermaking nor edible. You could try feeding them to some pigs, but they’d likely just turn up their snouts and say, “No shanks.”

Next, toss the husks into a pot with some soda ash. Now, I know what you’re thinking: new soda flavor? Not quite—but it can be used as an intermediate to manufacture corn sweeteners. Once boiled, blend those husks into a pulp. We’re definitely not making corn smoothies either. Then, spread the pulp on a screen, press out the moisture, and let it dry overnight under a heavy weight. Congratulations, you’ve made corn parchment! Or maybe just the wrap for a tamale?

At this point, you might be wondering, “What’s up with this guy and vegetables? Last week it was tomatoes, now it’s corn.” Well, fun fact: tomatoes are actually fruit, a berry to be precise. I told you this would be educational. But still I wonder, what the heck then are grape tomatoes? The truth is, I’ve been on a plant-based diet lately, so I’ve been vegging out. Anyway, now I can proudly say that these corny jokes are written on corn paper—eco-friendly and pun-approved!

Stay tuned for next week’s installment of this Plant-Based Digest where we discuss potatoes, our best spuds.

July 20th, 2024

Journal Writing

July 20th, 2024

Tomato-ally Bad Jokes: A Saucy Collection

By

I realize I’ve been known to tell a bad joke or two. If you don’t like it, feel free to throw tomatoes at me. But in that case, the joke would be on you because I actually enjoy tomatoes. They’re fantastic in salads, sandwiches, and wraps. And I ask you, where would grilled cheese be without tomato soup? That’s definitely what you should eat if you’re getting sick of my jokes.

I’ve got some bad news if you don’t like my bad jokes—I’m working on a book of them. It’s going to be titled Tomato Soup for the Droll. Here’s a taste: Why did the chicken soup cross the road? Because there was a fork in it, and you can’t eat soup with a fork. I know, pretty bad, right? But that’s what I promised, after all.

Anyway, as I was saying, I like eating tomatoes. Unless, of course, they become sentient like in Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, in which case, they’d probably eat me. Those are the kind of tomatoes that would make better ketchup. Or is it catsup? I feel that’s something people could argue about until they’re red in the face, red as a tomato. I just hope that if one were to ever really come alive, it would be more like Bob the Tomato from Veggie Tales.

I’m not sure why I like tomatoes so much. Maybe it’s because I didn’t want to be one of those people slapping themselves in the head thinking they could’ve had a V8. In fact, I’ll take a V9 or V10 if you’ve got it.

But yeah, all joking aside, if you don’t like my bad jokes, by all means, throw one at me. It will keep me on my toma-toes. No hard feelings. Maybe I’ll learn to write better jokes, and some movie producer might even want to make a film adaptation of my book. Though it would probably still get bad reviews on Rotten Tomatoes.

So, what’s your stance on tomatoes? Do you toss them in a salad or toss them at bad comedians like me?

July 13th, 2024

Journal Writing

July 13th, 2024

The Maître d' of the Dumpster: A Head-Banging Day at Work

By

The other day at work, I was taking out the garbage—because, let’s face it, I’m not above it. Though, if you never took the garbage out, you’d eventually find yourself beneath it. Anyway, since I’m not Bruce Lee, Bruce Wayne, or even Bruce Almighty, I decided to use one of those sliding doors in the back to throw it out. Unfortunately, there was already a hefty pile of, well, Hefty trash bags back there. And since I’m not aspiring to be an Olympic discus thrower, I had to move some of it out of the way first.

After completing that task, I managed to hit the back of my head on the dumpster. Just swell—I thought—not only am I at risk for a concussion, but now rabies might be on the table too. My work’s dumpster is like a five-star restaurant for raccoons. I know this because I moonlight as a maître d’ there on weekends. Once, a nice family of opossums even wanted a table for dinner.

Now, I know some people would disagree, but I kind of like opossums. Not only are they immune to rabies (unlike raccoons), but they also have opposable thumbs. When I asked that family of opossums if they enjoyed their meal at my work’s dumpster, they gave me a thumbs up. That’s more than I’ve ever gotten from my work—they didn’t even offer me a bandage for my now-swollen head.

Another great thing about opossums is that when they feel threatened, they play dead. I should’ve played opossum after hitting my head. Maybe then I could’ve gotten a settlement and wouldn’t have to moonlight as a maître d’ at a dumpster. Most of the customers that come here are grouches—Oscar the Grouch, to be precise. But they find themselves in good company because I can be somewhat like the great Groucho Marx.

July 5th, 2024

Journal Writing

July 5th, 2024

Modern Art and Monkey Business

By

There’s certainly nothing funny about hitting your funny bone. After hitting mine on an 8-foot tall inflatable gorilla from a 1990s used car dealership in the middle of a modern art gallery, I can confirm that neither I nor the gorilla found anything humorous about the situation. What’s humerus, though, is the bone in your upper arm. And I would think that after hitting my humerus bone, I’d churn out some of my funniest anecdotes, but that’s not how it works. Honestly, I’m not really sure how it works—kind of like the cars at that 1990s used car dealership.

I just know that if I don’t keep writing these anecdotes, I’ll probably end up selling those cars. There are plenty of opportunities to bump your funny bone when you’re a used car salesman: shaking hands with someone after making a deal or trying to roll a few odometers back without getting caught. To be a really good used car salesman, you probably have to be a bit dishonest, and I’m no good at telling lies—just telling stories. Even if some of my stories are a little hard to believe.

But would you believe this 1992 Dodge Caravan only has 76,438 miles on it? It was only ever driven to church by a little old lady who couldn’t drive it anymore because she broke her funny bone. When I suggested she see a doctor about it, she said the doctor told her he’d need to saw it off because there was no such thing as a funny bone. That’s a sawbones for you, always with a bone-dry sense of humor.

I could be a used car salesman, but I don’t want people to have a bone to pick with me about the less-than-superb cars I sold them. Kind of like the art gallery owner had when I inflated that 8-foot gorilla. I think she might have hit her angry bone. So, I’ll stick to being a bonafide writer and telling jokes. After all, I did get an ‘A’ in my Bonehead English course.

Plus, there’s something satisfying about watching people laugh at your stories rather than having them groan over a lemon of a car. And let’s face it, in the world of used cars, you’re just one broken timing belt away from a bone-rattling ride. At least with writing, the only thing getting rattled is my imagination. So, here’s to more anecdotes and fewer encounters with inflatable gorillas. Because, let’s be honest, even modern art has its boundaries—and my funny bone just can’t take another hit.

June 28th, 2024

Journal Writing

June 28th, 2024

Scarfing Lunch and Solving Mysteries

By

Sometimes on break, I scarf down my lunch just to squeeze in a few extra minutes of writing before heading back to work. Always on a quest for efficiency, I wondered if I could “hat and mittens” down my lunch too. The only problem? It’s not winter. Besides, I’d probably look better rocking an ascot like Fred Jones from Scooby-Doo. I’m too scared to solve mysteries, so I write them instead. Fred had a fashion sense, unlike me. I try to dress like him, but I usually end up looking more like Shaggy.

On a really rough day, I don’t just resemble Shaggy—I look more like Scooby-Doo himself. But hey, Great Danes are pretty great, right? Especially during the dog days of summer, when it’s sweltering outside. Those are definitely not the days to be wearing a hat, mittens, and scarf while eating lunch, all in the name of getting a few more words down on the page.

One day, I decided to wear an ascot to lunch instead, just like Fred. I strutted into the break room with my head held high. The microwave dinged, announcing my lunch was ready. As I sat down to eat, a coworker gave me a puzzled look.

“What’s with the ascot?” they asked.

“What else would I be wearing to lunch, a bib?” I replied. “I mean, how would I solve any mysteries wearing a bib?”

“What kind of mysteries are there to solve in the break room?” they asked, looking even more perplexed.

“Well, for starters, what’s this Great Dane doing in the break room? Is there such a thing as Not-so-great Danes or just Plain Danes? And would they still solve mysteries, just not as great as Great Danes? And what happened to my Danish? Not that it’s really a mystery. Anyone can guess what happened to it,” I said.

What started with the best intentions of becoming a great writer like Oscar Wilde, who also sported an ascot, by the way, resulted in me solving whodunits about missing donuts, muffins, and other assorted pastries. It usually ends with me being called a meddling kid and trying to yank masks off my coworkers, who clearly aren’t wearing any. Perhaps, I should’ve just stuck with scarfing down my food like the Plain Dane that ate my Danish—after all, I get more writing done that way.

June 21st, 2024

Journal Writing

June 21st, 2024

Cardinal Red and Other Colorful Confessions

By

I know some people have juicy secrets, but mine are more like pulp or a dry wine—an acquired taste. I try my best to be an open book because, well, I like books. Seriously though, my honesty isn’t always appreciated. But that’s fine because I don’t always appreciate other people’s dishonesty either. And don’t get me started on white lies—those are like gateway lies. Before you know it, you’re dealing with black lies, chartreuse lies, elephant’s breath lies, and even drunk-tank pink lies.

First off, a black lie is like a white lie’s evil twin. It’s when you’re lying to deliberately hurt someone’s feelings. So, what the Dickens is a chartreuse lie? Well, it sounds like something out of a Charles Dickens novel, but it’s actually when you say, “Sure, truce,” and then sneak in a win. Very sneaky.

Now, addressing the elephant in the room—or should I say, dressing the elephant: What exactly is an elephant’s breath lie? Well, “elephant’s breath” is an actual color, named by dressmakers in the 19th century. So, an elephant’s breath lie is when a dressmaker says you look good in a dress but mutters under their breath, “For an elephant.”

And a drunk-tank pink lie? That’s what happens when you’ve sampled one too many dry wines, made a fool of yourself like some character out of a Dickens novel, and ended up in the drunk tank at the police department. The next day, you tell everyone you only had one drink, and they’re all tickled pink.

A while back, I worked in the paint department of a home improvement store. One day, an elderly lady asked if we had cardinal red paint for her birdhouse. I told her we didn’t have anything specifically named that but showed her a paint that perfectly matched the color. I even held up a picture of a cardinal to compare. She wasn’t convinced and kept arguing that it wasn’t called “cardinal red.” Eventually, in frustration, she decided to go to Hobby Lobby instead. She was so angry; it wouldn’t have surprised me if she got into it with her husband later when she went home. I bet if he gave her any lip, he ended up sleeping in said birdhouse, whether it ended up painted cardinal red or not. Looking back, maybe I should have just told a cardinal red lie and changed the label. It could have been my little pulpy secret.

June 19th, 2024

Journal Writing

June 19th, 2024

The Myth of the Happy Camper

By

I find it humorous when people say, “He’s not a happy camper.” Honestly, what camper is ever happy? First off, you spend an inordinate amount of time becoming best friends with the local mosquitoes and ticks. Forget about insect repellent—it’s more like insect perfume. Instead of repelling them, it attracts them even more. Believe me, the last thing you want is a bug finding you irresistible. Next thing you know, they’re nibbling on your ear and neck like they’re at a gourmet buffet. And along comes a spider to ask, “Who’s your daddy longlegs?”

Then there’s the wildlife. Lions, tigers, and bears—oh my! Okay, maybe not tigers, unless one has escaped from a traveling circus or a box of Frosted Flakes. Let’s be real, you’re more likely to encounter the latter. There are millions of Frosted Flakes boxes out there, and Tony the Tiger is just waiting for his chance to escape. To be on the safe side, you might want to stick with Cheerios—at least the worst the Cheerios bee will do is call you “honey.”

As for lions, you’d think you’re safe unless you’re camping in the Serengeti. But with today’s technology, who knows? Maybe some tech-savvy lion has booked an Airbnb in your campground. Imagine waking up to a lion lounging on your picnic table, looking at you like you’re the room service breakfast.

Even with tigers and lions off the checklist, you still have to worry about bears. And I’m not talking about Yogi Bear, Paddington Bear, or Winnie the Pooh. Real bears don’t wear clothes, but they do have a penchant for honey and picnic baskets. You know what else they probably like? Frosted Flakes.

It’s definitely hard to be a happy camper if you were just that—a trailer camper. Imagine trying to feel happy, or anything at all, without any emotions. Unless, of course, we’re in a Pixar movie like “Cars,” where even trailers have personalities. But we’re not. I’m not trying to be campy, but maybe we should all strive to be happier campers.