Recommended

October 25th, 2024

October 25th, 2024

In My Wildest Dreams

In My Wildest Dreams

A Cardinal on a Branch

A Cardinal on a Branch

Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff

Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff

November 29th, 2020

November 29th, 2020

Aftermath

Aftermath

November 24th, 2020

November 24th, 2020

November 23rd, 2020

November 23rd, 2020

March 14th, 2025

Journal Writing

March 14th, 2025

Would You Like Flies with That?

By

They say you can catch more flies with honey, but I’d argue you could catch even more with a Venus flytrap. Then again, that might lead to a Little Shop of Horrors situation. And if that’s the case, I’d strongly advise against singing show tunes to an alien carnivorous plant—unless, of course, you enjoy being plant food with a Broadway soundtrack.

Speaking of questionable dietary choices, who in their right mind would want to put honey and flies on their buttermilk biscuits anyway? Unless, of course, you’re Michigan J. Frog. “Hello, my baby! Hello, my honey! Hello, my ragtime gal!” I feel like if I eat too many biscuits with fly honey, it most definitely will be ragtime at my house—and not in a musical way.

In other parts of the world, eating insects is perfectly normal. Take France, for example. They have escargot, which is just a fancy French way of saying snails. I think I’ll stick with French fries, thanks. Meanwhile, a small town in Brazil enjoys dipping queen ants in chocolate, and my sister just got back from Mexico, where she was served chapulines—fried grasshoppers. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stick with a simple meal instead of mealworms. Followed by an after-dinner grasshopper mocktail—sans the grasshoppers.

Not that I haven’t accidentally eaten bugs before. One summer, I was riding my bike and went straight through a cloud of gnats. It was like nature’s version of drive-thru dining. I suddenly understood what it’s like to be a whale filtering krill—except instead of growing a majestic blubber layer, I just choked and coughed for five straight minutes.

But I get it—bugs are packed with protein. Maybe it’s only a matter of time before some trendy brunch spot starts serving “organic honey-drizzled locust toast with a side of ethically sourced caterpillar compote.” How about a salad with dragonfly dressing? That one just sounds like something a wizard eats. And knowing hipster food trends, it’ll probably cost $25.

Next thing you know, there’ll be a new cof-flea chain called Starbugs. “Yeah, I’ll have a venti Beetlejuice—but maybe just once. Say it three times, and a wisecracking dead guy might show up and make you die from laughter… literally.” And for dessert? Ladybug ladyfingers.

Then again, we might already be eating more bugs than we realize. Ever had red velvet cake? That deep red color? Yeah, thank a tiny bug called the cochineal. Suddenly, a chocolate-covered queen ant doesn’t seem so bad—though I still prefer my sweets to be insect-free.

So, while I respect the cultures that enjoy insects as a delicacy, I think I’ll keep my biscuits bug-free. And if I do end up eating a grasshopper, someone make sure I don’t start hopping around, croaking “Hello, my baby!”—top hat and all.

March 13th, 2025

Journal Writing

March 13th, 2025

The Spice is Right

By

Since I’m such a seasoned chef, I like to have a lot of seasonings on hand. I know what you’re probably thinking: “Bork! Bork! Bork!” I said seasoned chef, not Swedish Chef. But with the sheer number of spices and herbs in my kitchen, I might as well host my own cooking show. Welcome to The Spice is Right! And you can call me… Bob Borker.

With all these herbs, my kitchen isn’t just a place for cooking—it’s basically a holistic healing center. Need a cure for the common cold? I’ve got ginger, turmeric, and honey. Feeling sluggish? Try some cayenne for a natural detox (or at least a reason to chug milk). I’d say I’m just one essential oil away from becoming a wellness guru, but let’s be honest—I’d probably spill it everywhere.

That said, even an herbal healer needs a little organization. It’s time for a proper spice rack. The only problem? I have no idea how to build one. I’m not a carpenter. If I were, I’d spend less time cooking and more time singing “Close to You” in an angelic contralto. Besides, my last attempt at assembling furniture resulted in an entertainment center that looks more like an entertainment epicenter—as in, the exact point where an earthquake just hit.

But I don’t need to add carpentry to my already impressive résumé. Some of you might be wondering, with such a lucrative career as a humorist, why I even need to moonlight as a chef. The answer? I have a lot of mouths to feed… mostly the ducks at the park. I’m hoping one of them turns out to be Scrooge McDuck and buys me a spice rack as a thank-you.

As a cook, people often ask me why my food tastes so good. “What’s your secret?” they wonder. I usually respond, “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” Or, if I want to keep them on their toes, “Never mind, I’ll just wait for the poison to kick in.” That’s when they start dialing Poison Control, and I have to clarify—“Relax, the secret is cumin.” They never see that cumin.

But since people may now be a little hesitant to eat my cooking, and these anecdotes won’t make me enough money for a spice rack anytime soon, I guess I’ll just turn it into a game. Next time I’m cooking, I’ll tell my girlfriend, “I Spice with My Little Eye something brownish yellow,” and let her find the cumin.

March 7th, 2025

Journal Writing

March 7th, 2025

Indiana Jones and the Penny of Doom

By

My girlfriend and I went to the bookstore on Sunday. Because, despite what you’re reading here, I’m actually an avid reader. After making our selections, we went up to the counter to pay. The total came to exactly $20.01.

I’ve heard of “a penny for your thoughts”, but never “a penny for other people’s thoughts”—you know, in written form. I reached into my pocket and came up with nothing but lint balls.

That’s one of life’s little mysteries: how lint always finds its way into your pockets. It’s so common it should almost be a form of currency. Think about it—no more worrying about correct change for tolls when you have an endless supply of pocket lint to pay with. “That’ll be $3.50.” Here’s two nickels and a tuft of blue fuzz. Keep the change.”

Turns out, lint still isn’t recognized as a form of payment yet, so I had to ask my girlfriend if she had a penny.

And that’s when our simple bookstore trip turned into a full-scale archaeological excavation.

She began to dig through her purse literally, pulling a shovel out of it to help with the process. Frankly, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Indiana Jones himself showed up, believing the Holy Grail was buried in there. Or worse… his lesser known, significantly less thrilling brother, Ohio Jones.

Ohio Jones isn’t an adventurer like his brother. He’s a very niche scientist, a world-renowned expert in purse anthropology—a man dedicated to studying the ancient artifacts, lost civilizations, and assorted gum wrappers buried within the depths of handbags. Some say he once uncovered a long-lost TV remote in a purse—no one knows how it got there, especially since the owner didn’t even own that brand of TV. And legend has it he’s still searching for a purse that doesn’t contain at least one crumbling granola bar.

And judging by the ever-growing pile of debris emerging from my girlfriend’s purse, he would have considered this a career-defining discovery.

I braced myself. What horrors lurked within?

  • A single bowling shoe (but no sign of the other one).
  • Last weekend’s leftover gyros (somehow still warm, and yet, completely inedible).
  • Rocco, our pet rock, looking strangely unfazed by the chaos.
  • A snow globe that, when shaken, inexplicably made it start snowing outside.
  • A fully functional Etch A Sketch displaying a suspiciously accurate self-portrait of my girlfriend—who hadn’t touched it.

Anything but a penny. Not even a single piece of pocket lint.

At this point, the cashier looked visibly annoyed, and a line had started forming behind us. That’s when I tried bartering.

“What about a mint?” I asked. “Pennies are technically minted after all.”

The cashier stared at me like I was mintally unstable while my girlfriend, now knee-deep in her purse, seemed to have vanished.

That’s when things got truly unsettling.

Her purse just sat there, untouched. As if it had swallowed her whole.

I’d heard of The Portable Door, but never The Portable Purse—though, technically, all purses are portable. Just not in the sense that you can step into them and instantly teleport anywhere in the world.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

If you’re thinking, “This all sounds far-fetched,” then clearly, you’ve never seen a franchise milked for all it’s worth. Because I was thinking “sequel”—as in The Portable Purse, the completely unnecessary follow-up to The Portable Door.

Unless you were the cashier or the increasingly impatient guy behind us—then this is absolutely what happened.

Just as I was about to launch a full-scale search and rescue mission, my girlfriend suddenly rematerialized out of thin air.

The cashier, too weirded out to care anymore, just waved us off. “It’s fine.”

On my way out, I placed a half-sucked mint covered in pocket lint in the Take-a-Penny, Leave-a-Penny tray. Because I didn’t want anyone else to have to go through what we did.

Turns out, I had a penny in my pocket the whole time—but obviously, I couldn’t waste it. I needed exact change for the toll on the way to pick up Indiana’s stepsister, Illinois Jones. Besides, how else could I afford my penny wedding and special guest pennywhistle performance by Pennywise?

Some might call it The Penny of Doom, but I just call it budgeting.

I should also, at the very least, have some Pennyroyal Teas on hand for the occasion—it’s only proper.

But that’s a story for another anecdote. Or franchise.

March 6th, 2025

Journal Writing

March 6th, 2025

Fat Tuesday… and Wednesday Through Sunday

By

Mardi Gras was this week, also known as Fat Tuesday. Personally, I like to think of fat as more of a Tuesday-through-Sunday kind of thing. You might be wondering: what about Fat Monday? Well, like my fine feline friend, Garfield, I also hate Mondays.

Speaking of Garfield, my girlfriend and I were browsing Ross Dress for Less—the go-to store when your belt decides it’s had enough and walks out of your life every other month. At this rate, I’m thinking of switching to suspenders. Not only would they be more practical for my ever-expanding waistline, but they’d also give me that rugged lumberjack aesthetic. I could look like Paul Bunyan!

…Or, in my case, Paul Funyuns. And let me tell you, it stopped being fun about three or four bags ago. Now, every time I call my girlfriend babe, I can’t help but picture her as a giant blue ox. It’s not my fault—I need something to make me feel better about my size 2X flannel. At this point, I’m one more X away from “three strikes, you’re out.”

Anyway, where was I before I got distracted by snacks? Oh right—Ross. We were there shopping for my new wardrobe of togas (or, as I like to call them, muumuus for men), when I came across a Garfield wallet. And in that moment, I had a revelation: I need that… so my wallet can be just as fat.

Because let’s be honest—writing anecdotes doesn’t exactly pay the bills. Actually, it doesn’t pay anything at all. But maybe, just maybe, if I owned the Garfield wallet, it would somehow work its magic and stuff itself with cash. I could finally become a fat cat—the kind of guy who can actually afford a trip to New Orleans to celebrate Mardi Gras properly.

It’s ironic that New Orleans is so big (pun intended) on Fat Tuesday when lean is right there in the name. It must be amazing to see the parade and have beads thrown at you. Though, knowing me, I’d mistake the beads for beans, eat them, and officially earn my third X.

March 5th, 2025

Journal Writing

March 5th, 2025

Gyro-Mantic Gestures

By

Last weekend, I whipped up a feast fit for a Greek god—gyros with a side of Greek fries. Okay, so maybe I’m not a god. I’m not even Greek. More like a geek. But if I were a Greek god, I’d be Pan, the goat god. That way, I could tell my girlfriend to either marry me or pull my goat for a change. (If you don’t get that reference, consult my journal entry Get Your Goat—highly recommended reading.)

So, there I was, Geek Goat God Chef, assembling the essentials: pita, meat (mushrooms for me— even gods have dietary quirks), Roma tomatoes, red onions, and, of course, Tzatziki—fun to say, even better to eat. The romaine lettuce? More Roman than Greek, but I let it slide.

When it was time to build our gyros, I turned to my girlfriend and declared, “Gyro good to go!”—as if I’d just ended world hunger. She stared, unimpressed. Either awestruck by my culinary genius or quietly reconsidering our entire relationship.

But the gyros themselves? No joke—they were divine. So good, in fact, that I’m now seriously considering having a big fat Greek wedding. That is, if my girlfriend ever stops pulling my goat and actually marries me.

To be honest, though, after making those gyros, my kitchen looked like Zeus had thrown a tantrum. Or worse—like a Minotaur had tried to make dinner and lost a fight with the fridge. I nearly smashed a few plates myself—“Opa!”—just to pass off my despair as festivity.

And what a big fat Greek wedding it would be. I ate so much Mediterranean food; I might be the Mediterranean now. If my girlfriend gets cold feet, I wouldn’t blame her—I’ve put on a few pounds (curse you, falafels) and now resemble something that could eat the tin cans off a Just Married car. If I ever hope to fit into a tux, I should swap Tzatziki for plain Greek yogurt. Or better yet, embrace my fate and get married in a toga—breathable, stylish, and, most importantly, expandable.

March 1st, 2025

Journal Writing

March 1st, 2025

A Mocktail of Two Cities

By

My girlfriend brought me a Tom and Jerry mix. My first thought? Oh great, someone finally figured out how to package cartoon violence. I imagined opening the container and instantly getting caught in a whirlwind of fur, frying pans, and tiny wooden mallets.

Then I thought—maybe it’s a mix for Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. Because honestly, who wouldn’t want to churn ice for hours just to make their own cat-and-mouse-themed frozen treat? Maybe it’s flavored like cheese and contempt. Or maybe it’s just vanilla, but with the added excitement of wondering if a piano is about to fall on your head.

Neither turned out to be correct.

After carefully reading the packaging, I finally deciphered that Tom and Jerry mix is actually used to make a holiday cocktail. That’s right—it’s basically boozy eggnog. Suddenly, my mystery mix wasn’t promising cartoon chaos or ice cream—it was inviting me to get festive and sloshed.

Since I’m trying to avoid alcohol while also keeping up with trends, I’d prefer a mocktail. Don’t knock it until you mock it. But apparently, this drink is so old-fashioned that even Santa Claus might side-eye you for drinking it. Which means I had unknowingly entered a very specific holiday dilemma: Do I betray my commitment to mocktails, or do I lean into tradition and start aggressively caroling after one sip?

And let’s not forget the biggest problem—I’m on a no-carb diet for my eyelids. They’re getting puffier than my uncle’s ankles after Thanksgiving dinner. And everyone knows turkey goes straight to your talocrural region. It’s basic holiday biology.

I sighed. I had been expecting something fun. Instead, I was holding a carton of holiday peer pressure—otherwise known as temptation in a festive mug.

It sounds fancy enough that I might just overlook the fact that it’s March and Christmas is a distant memory. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times—the best because I was about to taste something fancy, the worst because I was about to cheat on my eyelid diet with a carton of batter.

Looks like I’ll have to send my girlfriend back to the store for whatever the non-alcoholic version of a Tom and Jerry is.

And maybe some nutmeg. If I’m getting roped into the holiday spirit, I might as well commit.

Love you, babe.

In Life’s December

Poetry Writing

In Life’s December

By

Will you still be there when I’m in my winter years,
Always near, like breath in the frigid air?
Will you glide your fingers as skis through my frost of hair,
Warming the chill that settles there?
Stay with me, through this blizzard unending.

Will you rest your head upon my chest and melt my heart?
Promise me, unlike snow, we will never drift apart.
Your love—an avalanche that only grows deeper,
Yet within its weight, I find my shelter.
In life’s December, let us lie buried together.

February 22nd, 2025

Journal Writing

February 22nd, 2025

Spamnesia: Forgetting Why I Opened This Can

By

What’s the deal with Spam? The last thing I want is unsolicited phone calls and emails from a type of canned meat. Between you and me, I’ve always believed Spam was sentient, but I never imagined it was this sentient. I mean, I’ve almost been convinced before to buy a timeshare on a deserted island. And who knows? Maybe that was Spam’s endgame all along—to lure me to a place where it’s the only food source.

But let’s be honest: if I were stranded on a deserted island and a cargo crate full of Spam washed ashore, I’d probably still hesitate to eat it. Not because I think it might taste bad, but because I refuse to eat anything that could call me in the middle of dinner and try to sell me a trial membership to Hulu. Just what I need on a deserted island—a streaming service. You’d think they’d at least offer me something useful, like a stream of fresh water. Or maybe reruns of Survivor as a twisted form of motivation.

And I wouldn’t even know how to eat Spam. I don’t want to look like some kind of spamateur. Do you need a special tool for it? A spork, maybe? I mean, a spork on a deserted island? Splease. I suppose you could pair it with something like corned beef hash, but that’s just another slippery slope into the world of canned meats. Next thing you know, you’re throwing a party with Spam, hash, and Vienna sausages and calling it a charcuterie board.

If Spam really is sentient, maybe there are other conscious canned meats out there. Holy mackerel! Maybe psychic sardines that can communicate with the other side? Connect people with their dead pet goldfish they flushed down the can? I bet those goldfish have some tales to tell—like how they swam through a tunnel to that great big golden aquarium in the sky, where they can eat their fill of those little flakes they love so much.

Come to think of it, would those Goldfish snack crackers pair well with Spam? Maybe I’m overthinking it. But if the sardines are psychic, maybe they could tell me how to make a proper Spam charcuterie. Just as long as it doesn’t come with a subscription to Spamazon Prime.

February 14th, 2025

Journal Writing

February 14th, 2025

A Valentine’s Day Dill’emma

By

It’s Valentine’s Day, and love is in the air. But that got me thinking—does love have a lower density than standard dry air? I’d believe in a flying baby with a bow and arrow—I mean, babies are already airborne when the stork delivers them—but love? Love is heavy. Emotionally, at least.

And if love is in the air, does that mean I might catch cooties? That’s a real concern. What even are cooties, anyway? If you catch them, do you turn into a cutie? Because between you and me, I could really use that. I’m not saying I’m hideous, just… aesthetically challenged.

Let’s put it this way: when the stork tried to deliver me, my parents pulled the ol’ “lights off, don’t answer the door” trick. Unfortunately for them, the stork was persistent—and also weirdly passive-aggressive—so instead of flying off, it left me on the porch along with a jar of Vlasic pickles. A subtle hint that they were in for a real pickle, raising a baby as ugly as me.

They kept the pickles. They tried to return me. But, as it turns out, the Stork Delivery Service has a strict no-return policy. If not for that fine print, who knows where I’d be today? Probably shipped off to a different address, like a misdelivered Amazon package.

Reluctantly, they kept me, hoping I’d grow out of my baby uglies. I never did—but at least I plateaued instead of escalating the situation. Back in elementary school, Valentine’s Day wasn’t exactly my time to shine. Even when the teacher forced kids to hand out cards, I swear I saw some of them sneak past my desk like they were avoiding a landmine.

But it’s all good now. Because somehow, against all odds, I have the sweetest Valentine ever—someone who actually welcomes my… unconventional looks. And sure, I may not be one of the “beautiful people,” but I do write beautiful poetry.

Which should help keep the storks in business for a long time.

Hopefully, though, they’ve learned their lesson. No more surprise deliveries of ugly baby boy bombs on unsuspecting porches. Vlasic pickles may be dill’licious, but they’re not so delicious that new parents should need Lasik after laying eyes on their little bundle of joy. Maybe it’s time for the stork to start being a little more… kosher.