Category: Journal

June 18th, 2024

Journal Writing

June 18th, 2024

The Ill-usionist: A Magic Show Gone Viral

By

What do you call a magician who is sick? An ill-usionist. If a great magician is feeling under the weather, shouldn’t he be able to levitate above it? But if he truly had magical powers, he’d make the common cold disappear. Until then, he’ll just have to use that ridiculously long handkerchief from his sleeve to blow his nose.

Hopefully, it’s just a cold and not a fever. He should probably check his temperature with his magic wand. I can almost hear him now, sniffling, “And for my next trick, I will be sawing my assistant in half… but first, abracadabra. Does anyone have any aspirin? I’ve got a splitting headache. Alakazam. Or some Alka-Seltzer Plus? What? Did I forget to say the magic words? Alright then. Pretty please?”

Maybe instead of pulling a rabbit out of his hat, he can pull out a bowl of chicken noodle soup. I know magic is mainly smoke and mirrors, but all that smoke can’t be good for congestion. He should try using a Vick’s Vaporizer instead. I feel bad for the audience member he’s going to call on stage because they are probably going to catch whatever he has too. “Pick a card, any card. Okay. Good. Now give me a card, any card of a physician because I’m really sick.”

Between illusions, he starts to reminisce about his mentor, the great Houdini. “You know,” he says, pausing to sneeze, “Houdini could escape from any locked container. I, on the other hand, can’t seem to escape from this flu.”

In an attempt to redeem his act, he tries to make a bouquet of flowers appear in his assistant’s hand. With a grand flourish, he waves his wand, but instead of flowers, his assistant just starts sneezing uncontrollably. “Bless you,” he mutters, fumbling with his handkerchief again.

The grand finale is meant to be spectacular. He gathers all his energy, waves his wand, and with a loud “Hocus Pocus!” tries to produce a dove. Instead, a pigeon appears, looking equally as miserable as the magician. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says with a weak smile, “I present to you… the common cold. You’ve been a great audience this evening. Come back and see me when I’m better. Don’t forget to tip your waitstaff and wash your hands. Goodnight!”

As he shuffles off the stage, he mutters to himself, “Next time, I should probably conjure up some chicken noodle soup before the show. Or maybe just a good doctor. Now, where did I leave that magic wand-thermometer?”

June 13th, 2024

Journal Writing

June 13th, 2024

Tales From Under the Bed

By

I scream, you scream, we all scream for… The Boogeyman. Everybody knows The Boogeyman lives under your bed, but can anyone tell me what he looks like? I mean, is he supposed to look like a mummy wrapped in ancient bandages or some kind of flashback disco Casanova with bell bottoms and a medallion? And speaking of mummies, do you think there’s a Boogeylady too? What does she look like—just like The Boogeyman but with a bit of eyeliner and lipstick?

Next thing you know, I’ll have a whole boogey family living under my bed. Now that’s a scary thought. I don’t have room for them; I already have a whole colony of dust bunnies squatting down there. They’re like the uninvited guests who overstay their welcome, multiplying faster than rabbits. I wouldn’t mind that so much if they could do any other mathematical calculations like statistically predicting the winning lottery numbers, so I could, you know, afford a maid.

And where there are dust bunnies, dust coyotes can’t be far behind. Dust coyotes are like regular coyotes, only they make you sneeze uncontrollably. Just imagine me, already terrified out of my wits by The Boogeyman, now dealing with the spooky, sneeze-inducing howls of dust coyotes. It’s a wonder I get any sleep at all.

The only way to get rid of dust bunnies is with a Dirt Devil. I mean, how sinister does that sound? Dirt Devil. It’s like a vacuum cleaner possessed by dark forces. I’d hate to have to call an exorcist for my vacuum cleaner. Just imagine that conversation: “Hello, yes, I need a priest. My vacuum cleaner is possessed.” It’s starting to sound like the premise for a Stephen King novel. Maybe I should just get rid of my bed entirely. That way, I wouldn’t have to worry about The Boogeyman, dust bunnies, or demonic household appliances.

But then, where would The Boogeyman go? Maybe he’d relocate to my closet, hiding among my clothes and shoes. Or worse, he’d take up residence in the attic, joining forces with the phantom creaks and groans that already haunt the place. Perhaps he and the dust coyotes would form an unholy alliance, plotting their next move to scare me senseless.

In the end, it’s a no-win situation. Whether it’s under the bed, in the closet, or up in the attic, there’s always something spooky lurking in the shadows. So, I guess I’ll just keep my bed, and my Dirt Devil, and try to make peace with the fact that my home is a haven for boogeymen, dust bunnies, and all manner of imaginary (I hope) creatures. At least it makes for an interesting bedtime story.

June 12th, 2024

Journal Writing

June 12th, 2024

Mirages and Mimosas: My Midnight Misadventures

By

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and my mouth is so dry that I would swear I ate a desert instead of dessert. It feels like my tongue has transformed into the Sahara, with a camel caravan led by a sheik desperately seeking “Midnight at the Oasis.” I’m not sure which sheik, but honestly, any sheik will do in this predicament.

Unfortunately for our nameless sheik, every oasis he thinks he sees turns out to be just a mirage of the band that sings “Champagne Supernova.” You know, if I were that sheik, I’d definitely prefer a mimosa supernova—more refreshing, minus the champagne. At least then he wouldn’t have to worry about being “caught beneath the landslide,” but rather just caught in a sandstorm, which frankly, isn’t much better.

Now, how do you end up with a sandstorm in your mouth while you’re sleeping? If I had to hazard a guess, I’d blame the Sandman. But what’s his deal? Is he moonlighting as a desert tour guide now? I mean, if he’s going to be putting sand in my yap while I’m sleeping, I’d much prefer it be from a tropical beach, not a barren desert.

Perhaps this is all an elaborate revenge plot by my taste buds for that time I tried wasabi-flavored ice cream. Or maybe it’s a sign that I really should stop eating ice cream sandwiches before bed. Those deliciously deceptive treats lull you into a false sense of security, whispering sweet nothings about creamy goodness and then, bam! Desert mouth strikes at 3 a.m., leaving you to stagger to the kitchen, desperately gulping water like a castaway who just discovered a hidden spring.

It’s almost like a nightly adventure, minus the fun. I guess if there’s one thing to take away from all this, it’s that hydration is key, and the Sandman has a twisted sense of humor. Either that, or I need to start dreaming of waterfalls and rain showers instead of desert landscapes and wandering sheiks.

Wanderlust Symphony

Journal Writing

Wanderlust Symphony

By

There’s an old wood bridge where we’ve yet to set foot,
Beyond it lies a path, by time’s gentle hand put.
Would you want to travel it with me, if you could?
Together we’d uncover wonders, in every glen and wood.

There’s a hidden river we have never waded,
Its waters sing a song in a sun-dappled glade.
Would you cross that pristine stream with me today?
Hand in hand, we’ll dance where the currents sway.

We come upon meadows where berries wait to be eaten,
Their sweetness, a taste of paradise like Eden.
Would you indulge with me in this enchanted place?
Under skies that blush with the sun’s warm embrace.

Gazing upon blossomed mountains we have yet to climb,
Each peak a story, waiting for its time.
Would you write it with me in a serene rhyme?
In verses as timeless as the mountain’s prime.

June 4th, 2024

Journal Writing

June 4th, 2024

Hippopotomonstroses

By

I waste a ridiculous amount of time worrying about grammar. It’s not like I’m going to win a Grammy for it. This got me thinking: what kind of prize do you get for winning the Scripps National Spelling Bee? A lifetime supply of Burt’s Bees Beeswax Lip Balm? That would make sense, considering your lips would probably get pretty dry trying to spell words like “hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia,” the second-longest word in the dictionary, which ironically means a fear of long words. I don’t even know how to pronounce it, let alone spell it. Honestly, I would’ve assumed it means the fear of going to the optometrist if you’re a hippopotamus.

If you were a hippo afraid of opticians, you probably wouldn’t want anyone to know. So, if someone starts questioning why you’re anxious outside of LensCrafters, you could just tell them to mind their beeswax—which, luckily, you just got a lifetime supply of from a spelling bee. It’s unfortunate because I feel like if more hippos had glasses, they would stop confusing marbles for food when playing Hungry Hungry Hippos.

As much as I fret over my grammar, a lifetime supply of Burt’s Bees Beeswax Lip Balm isn’t enough to make me want to learn how to spell “hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia.” The only way I’d probably ever spell it is if it were on an eye chart in an optometrist’s office. Now I’m starting to wonder if I have that phobia too—not the fear of long words, but of optometrists. And wait, what did I just swallow? Was it a marble?

June 1st, 2024

Journal Writing

June 1st, 2024

The Rootin' Tootin' Tale of Root Beard the Pirate

By

I don’t know why they call it a Jolly Roger, because Roger doesn’t look too jolly to me. Now, Santa Claus, that’s a fellow who does look jolly. Big belly, rosy cheeks, a hearty ‘ho ho ho’—now that’s jolly! On the other hand, if you ever see an old, rickety ship sailing out of dense fog with a Jolly Roger flag waving in the breeze, chances are you are about to be boarded and plundered. That doesn’t sound like a jolly good time, now does it.

I can tell you what is jolly good though, and that’s Jolly Good Soda. I don’t know about you, but I like their root beer. Nothing says “Ahoy there, matey” like a good root beer. I wouldn’t be caught dead buccaneering the seven seas without a big old frosty, frothy mug of root beer in hand.

In fact, if you don’t want to be floating like flotsam, make it a root beer float instead. It’s a little-known fact that Blackbeard’s beard was so black because of all the root beer he had in it. You could say it was a root beard. I like to imagine him, standing on the deck, mug in hand, roaring to his crew, “Yo ho ho and a barrel of… root beer!”

Speaking of Blackbeard, I bet if he had Jolly Good Soda, he’d have been a lot less menacing. Picture this: Blackbeard hosting a pirate party, handing out root beer floats to his crew instead of rum. They’d be singing sea shanties about fizzy drinks and swashbuckling soda pops. “Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest—yo ho ho and a bottle of root beer!” Not quite the same ring to it, but it’s certainly jollier.

I can see it now, pirates gathered around a barrel of root beer, trying to out-burp each other. “Arrr, matey! That was a fine belch! Aye, but can ye top this one?” And let’s not forget the inevitable brain freeze from too many root beer floats. “Shiver-me-timbers. It be like a cutlass of sassafras in me head. Curse ye!”

The whole image of pirates suddenly seems a lot less intimidating and a lot more fun. Maybe the secret to a jolly pirate life isn’t treasure or rum, but a good old-fashioned root beer. Next time you see a Jolly Roger waving in the breeze, just remember—it’s not the flag that’s jolly, it’s what’s in their mugs.

May 30th, 2024

Journal Writing

May 30th, 2024

A Wild-Goose Chase: My Run-In with Mother Goose and the Nursery Rhyme Outlaws

By

The other night, I almost hit a goose on my drive home from work. It wasn’t my fault—it was dark, and the goose never honked at me. I swerved and blurted, “Oh, geese!” Narrowly avoiding catastrophe, I looked back and noticed a few fluffy goslings on the side of the road. This particular goose was both a gander and a mother. If I had hit her, I wouldn’t have known what to do. I probably would have freaked out and sped off, leading the police on a wild-goose chase. I could just see the headlines: “Mother Goose Killer on the Loose.”

Determined to avoid jail, I’d concoct a plan. First, I’d make like Jack be Nimble and head over to Jack and Jill’s house. I’d have to get Jack out of the picture by making it look like an unfortunate accident—maybe push him down a hill. When the cops came around asking silly questions like “Who Killed Cock Robin?” and “Where is Thumbkin?” I’d ensure Jill didn’t turn into Little Bo-Peep and spill the beans, or else I’d risk ending up like Humpty Dumpty after the fall.

To fund my life on the run, I’d start a gang with Tom, Tom, the Piper’s Son, and embark on a spree of pig thefts. But eventually, I’d have a change of heart—a Queen of Hearts, if you will. Realizing if ever There was a Crooked Man, it was me. I’d remember What My Mother Said and with a heavy heart, I’d turn myself in and confess. And that’s how I came to be doing time for nursery rhymes.

May 29th, 2024

Journal Writing

May 29th, 2024

Irony

By

I don’t care for irony. Why do people care if you have wrinkles in your clothes anyway? I mean… you do not see older people trying to get the wrinkles out of their skin, do you? Embrace the character, I say. Besides, who decided that crisp, unwrinkled clothes were the pinnacle of sophistication? If anything, it just means you have a good iron or are on a first-name basis with your dry cleaner.

Speaking of which, what’s the deal with dry cleaners? Why would anyone want to pay someone to not even clean their clothes? It’s right there in the name—”dry” cleaner. If I’m paying someone to clean my clothes, I would at least expect them to be washed and not just dusted off with a magical solvent. I want them to come back smelling like a gentle sea breeze with a hint of lilacs just before a rainstorm blows upon the White Cliffs of Dover.

Imagine walking around wrapped in the aroma of poetic landscapes and floral serenity. People would stop you on the street, their noses twitching, and ask, “What is that enchanting scent?” And you could smile mysteriously and reply, “It’s a bespoke blend from my dry cleaner. They’re practically an alchemist.”

Sadly, I’m not aristocratic enough to afford dry cleaning, so I take a trip to the laundromat instead. I used to wonder what the ‘mat’ in laundromat stood for but recently learned it’s believed to be a combination of laundry and automat. An automat is where you can buy food from vending machines, so, you know, you can stain the clothes you just washed all over again. I also started noticing some even have slot machines now. There would be a certain irony to losing your shirt, gambling at the laundromat, and not having enough quarters to finish your laundry. Then, you might need to borrow some change from one of the many reputable people hanging around laundromats. Next thing you know, you are somehow involved in money laundering. At that point, you will have much more to worry about than just a few wrinkles in your clothes. Like I said, I don’t care for irony.

May 22nd, 2024

Journal Writing

May 22nd, 2024

Bury the Hatchet

By

They say you should bury the hatchet, but no one ever provides specifics. Where exactly should I bury it, and how deep? Am I going to need a shovel to dig the hole, and then what do I do with that? I mean, this is already sounding like a lot of work. I’ve also heard that you should never dig yourself into a hole. But here I am, potentially digging myself into a literal hole with a shovel, which feels like I’m setting myself up for trouble.

Then, there’s the whole issue of proximity. Imagine the police find a dead body buried somewhere near where I buried the hatchet. I don’t think the police are going to believe me when I say, “I didn’t kill that person. I just buried the hatchet.” Of course not! They’d probably roll their eyes and say, “Sure, buddy, that’s a new one.”

At that point, my only option would be to go on the run, hiding out in the woods like a modern-day fugitive. And what do you need when you’re hiding out in the woods? Firewood. A hatchet would be handy in that situation, but unfortunately, I’d have just buried mine. I can see it now: sitting in the cold, shivering under the stars, cursing my overzealous adherence to idiomatic expressions.

So maybe I should take the advice less literally. Instead of physically burying the hatchet, perhaps I’ll just let bygones be bygones and avoid any unnecessary run-ins with the law. And I’ll keep my hatchet where it belongs—safely stored away, ready for more practical use like splitting firewood or, you know, carving pumpkins.

May 18th, 2024

Journal Writing

May 18th, 2024

Cat Got Your Tongue

By

If the cat got your tongue, what has the dog got of yours? I know some people use the phrase, my dogs are barking, to state that their feet are hurting. So, wouldn’t it stand to reason that the dog got your feet? If you are on your feet all day working like a dog, and your dogs are barking, you can get dog-tired. Often, when you are dog-tired, your eyes get droopy, or maybe Droopy, the dog, gets your eyes? If your feet are always sore, you might want to invest in new shoes, especially if an old man has been playing knick-knack paddywhack on yours. Do yourself a favor, give a dog a bone, and buy yourself a new pair.

If you find yourself doing what the song also says and come rolling home (probably drunk), you might want to have some hair of the dog that bit you. I would assume the same is true for a pooch, which maybe had too much hooch, only they would have some hair of the human instead. It would appear a cat only gets your tongue; meanwhile, a dog gets your feet, eyes, bones, and hair. Now that I’ve let the cat out of the bag about that, I wonder, “Who Let the Dogs Out?” and out of what, for that matter.