Tag: humor

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!

November 1st, 2024

Journal Writing

November 1st, 2024

Rock, Paper, Scissors Your Way to Success

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Whoever invented rock, paper, scissors was a genius! For centuries, this little game has decided everything from who goes first in badminton to who gets the last slice of pizza—and, naturally, who rides shotgun on the way to the pizza parlor. After our annual winter badminton championship (or what I like to call bad mitten season), I usually celebrate my latest defeat with a slice or two. But the game itself is rarely definitive. After a few volleys in January, my racket feels more like an ice scraper, and the birdie practically flies south for the season. That’s when we typically abandon the score and let rock, paper, scissors decide the winner—as long as our fingers aren’t frozen stiff.

Now, imagine if we cranked rock, paper, scissors up to an extreme level. I’m talking about Rock, Paper, Scissors: Ultimate Showdown Edition! In this version, each option comes with a twist: rock is now a boulder you have to lift overhead; paper is a giant scroll that requires two people to unfurl; and scissors are life-sized, operated by someone in a safety harness. The stakes would be so much higher!

This extreme twist would make everyday decisions a lot more exhilarating. Forget about who goes first in badminton; now we’d have a full-blown competition complete with a championship belt! Who wouldn’t want to earn the title of Rock, Paper, Scissors Champion? Just imagine the post-game pizza parties—now that would be a celebration worthy of true victory!

I think some notoriously bad situations would be far more tolerable if they were settled with a quick game of rock, paper, scissors. Picture the DMV: instead of endless waiting, you’d be rock-paper-scissoring your way to the counter. Everyone would get through in no time—well, unless you’re Edward Scissorhands. In that case, you’d have to make peace with the fact that you’ll be losing every round and probably riding shotgun to the pizza parlor indefinitely. But hey, with those hands, at least you’d have the peace sign down pat!

And really, where would we be without rock, paper, scissors? Without rock, we wouldn’t have The Rolling Stones—or my new pet rock, Rocko, from my last anecdote, Cloudy with a Chance of Canines. Without paper, I wouldn’t have written this very anecdote you’re reading (and you’d be spared!). Imagine a world without paper: no books, no notes passed in class, and no instructions for how to play rock, paper, scissors in the first place! And without scissors, we’d all look like we were heading to a Rolling Stones concert—wild hair and all.

It’s amazing how a game as old as powdered wigs can still save the day with nothing more than three hand gestures and an intense stare. And if Edward Scissorhands were your barber, you’d definitely need a powdered wig to survive that haircut! So, here’s to rock, paper, scissors: the game that’s kept us all fair and square… at least until someone tries to sneak “dynamite” into the mix.

October 25th, 2024

Journal Writing

October 25th, 2024

Cloudy with a Chance of Canines

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Last night, it was raining cats and dogs. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration; it was only raining dogs. You know how cats are—they only come out when it’s sunny and there’s a good chance of a sunbeam to lounge in. Rain? Please.

As I peered out at the deluge, I half-expected to see a soggy dachshund floating by, complete with a tiny life jacket and a confused expression, wondering how he ended up in this wet adventure. Anyway, I was pretty thrilled about the rain because, as fate would have it, I’m in the market for a new pet. Now, you may be wondering, but wait—what happened to the pet dragon from your anecdote, “Chain Mail and Coffee Tables: A Middle-aged Fable“?

Well, remember that old Bruce Lee movie, Enter the Dragon? Yeah, in my case, it was more like Exit the Dragon. I wanted to keep him, I really did. After all, 2024 is the Year of the Dragon! But the landlord (of dark realms) gave me that look—the one that means, “I won’t be handling fire hazards at my age.”

Now, I would’ve fought to keep him, Bruce Lee style—but let’s be honest, I’m more The Karate Kid. And even that’s a bit of a stretch. You might find this hard to believe, but I’m not a kid. And as for the “Karate” part, well… let’s just say my kung fu is more like kung phooey. I’ve even considered brushing up my skills with the great sensei, Hong Kong Phooey—number one super guy! After all, who wouldn’t want to learn martial arts from a cartoon dog that’s as skilled as he is charming?

Speaking of canines, I’m thinking a dog might be too much responsibility right now. I’m optimistic it’ll start precipitating some other critters next. Maybe a sprinkle of chinchillas? They sound chill, right? Although, now that I think about it, I hope this doesn’t mean it’s going to start snowing chinchillas. I’m pretty new to the whole chinchilla ownership thing, but I’m fairly certain they don’t enjoy being mistaken for snowballs.

On second thought, maybe I should start even smaller—like with a Chia Pet. They practically take care of themselves! And thanks to all this rain, I could skip watering altogether. Only drawback? It’d probably take months before I could teach it to fetch.

So here I am, on the quest for the perfect pet, hoping the universe sends me something cute that won’t require a life vest or a training class in survival skills. After a lifetime of fish that lived only a week, I’m starting to think a pet rock might be my best option. I mean, they might not fetch, but at least they won’t give me the side-eye when I eat an entire pizza by myself! So, as I sit here contemplating my options, I can’t help but think that I’d make a fantastic pet owner… if only my pet would be as low maintenance as a rock!

October 19th, 2024

Journal Writing

October 19th, 2024

Long Past Fondue

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I thought, “Hey, a fondue night would be fon-to-due!” Because nothing says classy quite like melted cheese and decadent chocolate. Just, uh, preferably not mixed. Now, full disclosure, I’m no fondue savant. This whole fondue thing is new to me, so I’m still figuring out what to fondue and what not to fondue. First off, I need one of those… what do you call them? Oh yeah—pots. Or, if you’ll excuse my French, a caquelon. I know what you’re thinking: is that a new Transformer robot? Sadly, it’s just the fancy French way of saying fondue pot! Then I’ll need those extra-long forks—definitely not designed for back scratching.

Also, fondue is one of those meals you want to share with a crowd. I mean, who can finish tiny chunks of bread and bits of potato solo? Plus, it’s a great way to show off to your friends, family, neighbors, and, of course, Big Phil from the hardware store. Between you and me, Big Phil could really use a pick-me-up—his whole “hardware” gig has taken a backseat to software these days. But, hey, if your fancy new electric fondue pot starts acting up, you’ll know who to call. No one’s faster with a Phillips screwdriver than Phil—fitting, right?

Now, no fondue night would be complete without a guest of honor. For mine, I’m inviting Arthur Fonzarelli—The Fonz. You might remember him from the show I mentioned in a previous anecdote—Happy Days. So, it’s officially a fonz-due party, and it’s bound to be a night people remember fondly (sorry, couldn’t resist). Hopefully, nobody gets into a full-blown sword fight with fondue forks because they couldn’t resist going for the last marshmallow. It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye—or a s’more. I’d be so embarrassed if a fonduel broke out with Fonzie at my party—but you know he’d just snap his fingers and cool things down. I just hope he doesn’t cool down the fondue! “Eyyyy!”

And if all else fails, I’ll just call Big Phil for help—though I doubt even he could transform my caquelon into a heroic robot to save the day. But at least his Phillips screwdriver can double as a back scratcher!

October 16th, 2024

Journal Writing

October 16th, 2024

Lost and Found: Where's Chuck, Carmen, and My Mitten?

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Every now and then, I wonder about life’s big mysteries—like what on earth happened to Chuck Cunningham, the forgotten older brother from Happy Days. Supposedly, he went off to college, but by the series finale, the Cunninghams were acting like they only had two kids. Really? That’s what happens when you go to college? You get erased from your family tree? Maybe I’ll just stick to vocational school, thanks. Poor Chuck—maybe he just wasn’t sitcom material. Or maybe the producers figured they’d have happier days without him.

Then there’s the mystery of Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego. I mean, has anyone checked San Diego? It’s right there in the name! Or maybe she’s hiding in Carmen City, admiring the ancient artifact she just swiped. With all those geography clues she leaves behind; you’d think someone would have caught her by now. But nope—she’s always one step ahead, disappearing with her red trench coat just before anyone connects the dots.

With all these vanishing acts, you’d think they’d still put missing people on milk cartons. But even that tradition seems to have disappeared. And does milk even come in cartons anymore? I think the last time I saw one was in an elementary school cafeteria. But how’s that supposed to help? Are we really expecting a room full of second graders to crack cold cases? Unless, of course, one of them is a pint-sized Sherlock Holmes—Elementary, dear Watson, literally. I bet even Junior Sherlock would have his hands full, not just trying to solve the milk carton mysteries, but also catching Carmen Sandiego red-handed—with the Eiffel Tower under one arm and a geography clue in her pocket, no less.

Where do all these lost things go? Maybe they all end up wherever that last puzzle piece, the missing mitten, and the party dip always seem to disappear. One of life’s great mysteries… or, okay, maybe not so great. They probably all end up in a massive cardboard box labeled “Lost and Found.” Except for the party dip—that definitely ended up in my stomach. But if anyone asks, I’ll say Chuck Cunningham disappeared with it. Seems very Cunningham of him.

October 11th, 2024

Journal Writing

October 11th, 2024

Popsicle Stick Pinocchio and Jiminy Cricut

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What’s the deal with Cricut machines, anyway? They’re like the Tesla of arts and crafts. Back in my day, “arts and crafts” meant popsicle sticks, Elmer’s glue, and maybe a piece of glitter if you really wanted to show off. Now? People are forking over hundreds of dollars just to make personalized coffee mugs. I can’t afford that—not without making a wish on a star or calling in a favor from my old buddy, Jiminy Cricut. He’s been there for me ever since the Blue Fairy looked at my popsicle-stick body and said, “Yeah, let’s make that real.”

To be fair, I never asked to be some sort of popsicle stick celebrity. But I do want to be the kind of person who owns a Cricut machine. You know, fancy enough to look at a pile of vinyl and say, “I could make a monogram out of this!” It’s fine, though—I take it all in Good Humor. Although, every time I scroll through Cricut prices, I’m pretty sure my nose gets a little longer. At least I don’t have to worry about termites or woodpeckers anymore. Now my biggest concerns are how to pay off my credit card bill from Hobby Lobby and avoid being swallowed by a whale.

But seriously, what does a Cricut machine even do? For all I know, you could use one to make new uniforms for my cricket team, The Grasshoppers. After losing our last big match to The Lawnmowers (they bowled us out with no wickets left to spare), we could really use a morale boost. Maybe something with a custom locust design? That would definitely chirp everyone up. Or better yet, I could Cricut us some custom cricket bats—nothing says intimidation like a locust-themed bat with glitter accents, right?

Honestly, though, I’d probably mess it up. I’d start out making cool bats and end up bedazzling our cricket balls instead. Pretty soon we’d be playing with rhinestone-covered balls that would blind the umpire, and I would be left with a glitter-covered mess that looks like a unicorn exploded in my living room. It’s only a matter of time before I’m explaining to Jiminy that I didn’t mean to glue my fingers together, and no, Blue Fairy can’t fix this one.

Still, I can’t help but be intrigued. Maybe I do need a Cricut machine. Think about the possibilities! I could personalize my grocery lists, make a sticker for every Tupperware lid that’s mysteriously lost its partner, or even create a custom label for my feelings: Warning—Strings Attached, Handle with Care. If I’m going to turn my life into a DIY project, I might as well go all in, right?

And who knows? Maybe once I master the Cricut, I’ll become one of those people who makes everything look effortless. Suddenly, my kitchen will be full of mason jars with perfectly crafted labels, my friends will receive hand-cut birthday cards that are somehow better than anything Hallmark could dream of, and I’ll have a vinyl decal on my car that says something like Live, Laugh, Cricut.

But let’s be honest. I’ll probably just end up with a pile of failed projects and glitter in places glitter should never go. I guess some things are better left to the pros—or at least to those who can afford the machine or enough popsicles to fix my fingers after yet another crafting disaster.

October 9th, 2024

Journal Writing

October 9th, 2024

Hooked on Peanut Butter

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I sometimes wonder if eating enough Peter Pan peanut butter could actually turn me into Peter Pan. An all-expenses-paid trip to Neverland, where I’d never have to grow old? Sign me up! But with a deal that sweet, there’s bound to be a Hook. Hopefully, it’s not a fancy-dressed pirate with a grudge. Although I do admire Captain Hook’s fashion sense. I’ve got to wonder where he got his ruffled shirt—from The Swashbuckle at the mall?

Of course, the real question is: how much peanut butter does it take to make this magic happen? Maybe instead of wondering, I should just grab some Wonder Bread and find out. I bet even Elvis would approve—after all, the King was all about peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Though if I start eating those by the king-sized portion, I might be shaking my hips and singing “Jailhouse Rock,” with women swooning like I’m on stage in Vegas. Forget flying to Neverland—I’d have my hands full down here.

But if I did want to take off, I’d probably need a little help from Tinkerbell. Knowing her, she’d get jealous of all the swooning and sprinkle glitter in my peanut butter instead of pixie dust. I’d end up flying, sure—but probably straight to the dentist instead of Neverland!

Now that I can fly, I guess I wouldn’t need a plane, which means no more airport security lines. And that’s a relief, because TSA might have a few questions if they caught me trying to board with a suitcase full of peanut butter jars. Especially without jelly. I mean, peanut oil can be processed into glycerol, which is an ingredient in nitroglycerin. So maybe they’d think I was carrying a recipe for dynamite… or just one peanut butter and jelly sandwich that’s the bomb!

Then again, if I ate that TNT PB&J, I might end up flying to Heaven instead of Neverland. I was going for Peter Pan, not one of The Lost Boys.

On second thought, maybe I’ll skip the Peter Pan peanut butter and go with Skippy. Or better yet, skip the peanut butter altogether and head to Wendy’s for fries and a Frosty. I mean, Wendy did leave Neverland and grow up, right? Who’s to say she didn’t start a fast-food chain? I bet she’d be happy to trade peanut butter for some fries and a Frosty.

October 8th, 2024

Journal Writing

October 8th, 2024

Crabby or Just Shellfish?

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My girlfriend says I get crabby sometimes. Sure, I get moody now and then, but “crabby” seems a little harsh. I mean, not everyone can be as ecstatic as Sebastian from The Little Mermaid, singing about how wonderful life is under the sea. Let’s be real—the sea is a harsh mistress. Kind of like how my girlfriend will be after she reads this.

But maybe she’s onto something. If I were a crustacean, would crabby even be the right fit? Maybe I’m not crabby; maybe I’m more of a lobster—tough on the outside but soft and sentimental underneath. You know, I’ve got a tough shell, but I still melt her heart—just like the butter you need to fully enjoy a lobster. And sure, I take her to fancy restaurants like… Red Lobster. Hmm, maybe we’ll stick to Applebee’s after all.

Or maybe I’m more of a shrimp. I’m small, harmless, and definitely quick to get a little “short” with people. But hey, when life gets overwhelming, a shrimp cocktail should help me chill, right? Too bad it’s hard to relax when every tuna, cod, and mackerel in the sea wants to eat you. But don’t feel bad for me—this shrimp doesn’t need your shrimpathy.

I could be a krill instead, but let’s be real—that doesn’t sound much better. I’d still be krill-humored. I mean, you’d be grumpy too if there were millions—no, krillions—of you, and everyone you know keeps getting krilled. It’s pretty kruel.

How about a barnacle? I wouldn’t be crabby, just clingy! I’d stick around no matter what, even when she wants a little space. Permanent attachment—it’s what barnacles do best.

Or maybe I could be a crawfish—easygoing, laid-back, never getting in a crawful mood. Just one cool crawdaddy, never reaching my boiling point… at least I hope not.

But if I had to be a crab, I think I’d choose a hermit crab. That sure would be shell. I mean, who doesn’t want a portable home they can retreat into when things get a little overwhelming? Sometimes I just need my own little shell to crawl into for peace and quiet—maybe that’s where my “crabbiness” comes from. It’s not a bad life, though. I can carry everything I need on my back, dodge the tough situations, and emerge when I’m ready. Plus, let’s face it—I’d rather be a hermit crab than shellfish. At least hermits come out of their shell every once in a while. Shellfish? They’re just in it for themselves.

October 3rd, 2024

Journal Writing

October 3rd, 2024

Boo Humbug: A Fraidy-Cat's Guide to Halloween

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Halloween is creeping up on us, and I’m officially creeped out. It’s like one of those creepy crawlers you swear is crawling up your leg—except this time, it’s the entire holiday giving me the heebie-jeebies. (Still not sure what those are, but I’m definitely covered in them.) I know, I know, I’m a big fraidy-cat. I’m even afraid of my own shadow, and honestly, I think my shadow is just as terrified of me.

Look, I’ve tried to embrace the spirit of Halloween, I really have. But when you’re jumping at fake skeletons in the grocery store and side-eyeing the neighbor’s inflatable spider like it’s plotting against you, it’s time to admit defeat. That’s why I’m proposing a new holiday: Yelloween! A holiday made for all my fellow worrywarts who are as yellow-bellied as I am.

And trust me, I’m about as yellow-bellied as they come—think rubber chicken level. But if I’m such a chicken, why do I get goosebumps? It’s like I’ve got a whole farmyard of emotions going on. At this rate, if I keep getting spooked, I might just buy the farm—and I don’t mean in a good way!

“Yelloween” would still have trick-or-treating because, let’s be honest, no one’s afraid of free candy. But the trick part? I could live without it. Between cleaning up eggs some teenagers threw at my house—eggs I swear I didn’t lay—and the annual smashed pumpkin massacre on my porch, I think I’d rather skip the ‘trick’ altogether.

And don’t get me started on the decorations. Cobwebs? My house looks like that 365 days a year, thank you. Add a skeleton in the yard and suddenly my heart rate’s doing cardio I didn’t sign up for. Talk about things that go bump in the night! With my heart pounding like that, it’s a bloodcurdling scream just waiting to happen. At least the vampires would turn up their noses at it—curdled blood isn’t exactly their style!

Now, as for costumes—why do people always go for ghosts, monsters, or witches? Who actually wants to be a ghost? I’d probably scare myself half to life. Let’s keep it less spooky. Maybe dress up as something more relatable… like a dentist, doctor, or lawyer. Although, come to think of it, the last thing I want to see while devouring a bag of candy is a dentist. They’re scarier than any ghost—I mean, they come armed with a toothbrush and floss that could double as a noose! Now that’s a real brush with death!

September 27th, 2024

Journal Writing

September 27th, 2024

My Five Senses? More Like Non-sense!

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People often tell me I have a good sense of humor. I tend to agree—at least one of my senses works. As for the other five, well, let’s just say they’re not exactly playing on the same team.

First, there’s my sense of sight. It’s truly “out of sight,” meaning if something isn’t directly in front of my face, I can’t see it. Folks tell me I must have eyes in the back of my head, but I don’t think it’s a compliment. I think they’re implying my eyes are literally back there, hidden behind my hair. Hair today, gone tomorrow, right? Oh, and technically, I do have 20/20 vision. But when you divide that, you get one. So, I figure I only see well out of one eye. People say I’m as blind as a bat, and I’m not talking about the flying mammal—I’m talking about the baseball kind. I have the same accuracy too: sometimes I hit, sometimes I miss. Honestly, I’m more blind than the umpire calling that miss.

Now, my sense of taste? Let’s just say my taste buds and I aren’t exactly best buds. They’ve developed this elite, snobby attitude, like they expect me to serve up a five-course meal for every snack. My palate? It’s basically a palette—an artist’s palette—for a culinary masterpiece. Herbs, spices, sauces—it demands a Michelin-star experience, every meal. Yet somehow, people still claim I have bad taste in movies or music. I have no idea why—I’ve never tried to eat a Blu-ray or a vinyl record. Unless that’s a new food trend I’m missing out on?

Hearing? That’s a bit of a selective process for me. I mean, I could hear you, but why strain myself? People yell at me, “What are you, deaf?” And I’m like, do I look like I’m walking around in a black cloak with a scythe? Although, a scythe would be handy if I needed to harvest some corn—you know, to replace my ears. If you saw me reaping corn dressed like that, you might say it was a bit eerie. But honestly, I wouldn’t hear you anyway.

As for my sense of smell? Well, I think it’s time I renovated my olfactory into a new factory. Let’s just say it’s snot working well. I blame all those scratch-and-sniff stickers and scented markers I went wild with as a kid. Little did I know they’d leave me sniffing out permanent damage. I didn’t nose this would happen!

And finally, my sense of touch. That’s a real touch-and-go situation. I used to be the kind of person who’d always touch base with people—ironic, considering I’m blind as a baseball bat—but now, I’m completely out of touch Honestly, it’s a touchy subject. I thought I had the magic touch once upon a time, but it’s looking more like the Midas touch—everything I touch goes wrong. I think my five senses could really use a touch up—or maybe a touchdown to finally bring it home.