Tag: humor

December 18th, 2024

Journal Writing

December 18th, 2024

Ugly Sweaters and Even Uglier Tempers

By

It’s that time of year again—the most wonderful time, as some would argue—when every establishment seems to host an ugly sweater party. Personally, I think it’s a bit unfair. Sure, it’s all fun and games for most of us, but let’s spare a thought for the less conventionally attractive individuals (and the occasional abominable snowman). The last thing an already self-conscious snowman wants is to wear a sweater so hideous that it actually makes him look good by comparison. Not every abominable snowman is blessed with supernatural beauty, after all. They can’t all look like, say, Christmas Dwarves.

Now, I can already hear some of you scratching your heads and wondering, “What in the name of John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt are Christmas Dwarves?” And, for that matter, who is John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt? Don’t worry, we’ll get there.

Christmas Dwarves are the less photogenic cousins of Santa’s elves. Unlike their sprightly relatives, they’re about as good at making toys as reindeer are at parallel parking. It’s not really their fault, though—those notoriously overgrown bushy eyebrows make it hard to see. To keep them out of trouble, Santa put them on Christmas sweater duty. It makes sense: when you’re half-blinded by your own eyebrows, crocheting misshapen snowflakes and reindeer with a suspicious number of legs is pretty much your destiny.

You might be wondering why they don’t just shave their eyebrows to solve the problem. Well, dwarves take immense pride in their facial hair—eyebrows included. It’s a badge of honor, like a lumberjack beard or a handlebar mustache. And honestly, the only thing more horrifying than knitting dwarves with oversized eyebrows might be eyebrowless dwarves. You don’t unsee that kind of thing.

That said, putting a bunch of temperamental, eyebrow-obstructed dwarves in one room with sharp crochet hooks is a recipe for disaster. It’s not so much “jolly” as it is “folly.” In fact, that’s why Santa sometimes assigns them to gift guard duty instead. If you ever see a band of dwarves marching with candy cane battle axes, it’s both impressive and oddly festive—until you realize they know how to use them. Those things might look sweet, but one wrong word and you’re on the receiving end of a peppermint-flavored smackdown.

Just don’t laugh at them or call them short—they don’t take kindly to that. Things can turn ugly fast. Like, uglier-than-their-sweaters fast. You could end up with a black eye worse than the coal Santa puts in naughty kids’ stockings. Count your blessings that these dwarves don’t knit the stocking too. Imagine trying to explain why your stocking feels like it’s made of barbed wire and spaghetti.

And for those of you unfamiliar with John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, let me enlighten you. He’s the Christmas Dwarf who invented jingle bells. No, not the song—the actual bells. Turns out, if you’ve got a roomful of semi-blind dwarves wielding oversized crochet needles, it’s helpful to know where they are at all times.

So next time you slip on your ugly sweater and head to a party, spare a thought for the Christmas Dwarves. Somewhere in the North Pole, they’re working through eyebrow-related mishaps, peppermint weaponry, and crocheting chaos—all so you can have that Rudolph sweater with one antler slightly higher than the other.

December 12th, 2024

Journal Writing

December 12th, 2024

The Reindeer Rejects

By

Everyone knows Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, but what about the ones who never made it into the song—or even onto Santa’s benchwarmers list? Meet the Outsider Reindeer: the band of mistletoe misfits.

For starters, there’s Shiloh, the albino reindeer. While some reindeer enjoy the spotlight (or, in Rudolph’s case, are the spotlight), Shiloh avoids attention like it’s a bad fruitcake. Legend has it his fur turned white just to blend in with the North Pole snow. Sweet and painfully shy, Shiloh was actually Rudolph’s first friend during the whole “all of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names” debacle. But now that Rudolph’s gone from red nose to red carpet—hobnobbing with Dasher, Dancer, and the A-list—Shiloh spends most of his time quietly hanging out with the penguins.

Then there’s Shiver, the reindeer who hates the cold. You’ll never catch him leading Santa’s sleigh unless it’s during an unprecedented North Pole heatwave—or you live in the southern hemisphere. Even then, he huddles near Rudolph because that glowing nose doubles as a personal space heater. You might wonder why Shiver doesn’t move to, say, Hawaii. Well, he’s terrified of anything un-Christmassy. Palm trees? Terrifying. Sand? Absolute nightmare. Plus, who would leave a place where elves hand out free candy canes and sugar plums like it’s Christmas every day?

Finally, there’s Tumbler. And no, not the app or the travel mug filled with suspiciously strong eggnog. Tumbler’s claim to fame is his complete lack of coordination. You know that song “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer”? Yeah, that was Tumbler. The guy trips over snowflakes, and if there’s a chimney to hit, he will find it. He’s the reason Santa always does a pre-flight inspection—because if it were up to Tumbler, the sleigh harness might not even be attached to the sleigh at all. In fact, Tumbler’s so clumsy, he makes Santa Claus look like Santa Klutz. Let’s just say you don’t let Tumbler anywhere near the reins unless you’re aiming for a holiday disaster that people will laugh about until New Year’s.

So next time you sing about Rudolph, spare a thought for the Outsider Reindeer. They may not be saving Christmas anytime soon—they might actually ruin it—but who says Christmas has to be perfect? Santa still has a place in his heart for them because they are unique like snowflakes, each special in their own delightful way. It’s their quirks that make these reindeer so endearing. Just maybe don’t let Tumbler anywhere near the dessert table.

December 11th, 2024

Journal Writing

December 11th, 2024

The Naughty List's Bad Potluck

By

The other day, my girlfriend and I were strolling through a Christmas market, browsing cookies for a holiday bake sale, when we bumped into none other than Santa Claus himself. Naturally, I couldn’t resist smirking and saying, “Of course I’d find you here.” He gave a hearty chuckle, but the way he stroked his beard made me pretty sure I’m at the top of his naughty list now—possibly highlighted and underlined.

Now, Santa’s legendary weakness for cookies and milk got me thinking: what does The Grinch like to eat? You know, just in case he ever slides down my chimney uninvited to steal my Christmas cheer. If we take his theme song literally, I suppose I should whip up a three-decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce. Oddly, that sounds almost appetizing—well, minus the arsenic. But knowing my luck, I’d eat a bite and end up decking the halls of the ER instead. Nobody wants to spend Christmas hooked up to IV fluids.

Maybe I should keep it simple with rotten deviled eggs. They’d probably delight him—especially if I garnish them with a sprinkle of lint and a drizzle of dishwater for that extra festive flair. Then again, I should consider a plate of coal cookies and a glass of curdled sour milk. But making him feel too welcome might backfire—what if he invites his holiday villain friends over for a dinner party?

You know the gang. First, there’s Harold the Hare, the harbinger of Easter doom. He’s a hollow dark chocolate bunny with a bitter outlook on life (and a personal vendetta against jellybeans). He also loves re-hiding Easter baskets, but so well that you won’t find them until next year—when the candy’s just as rotten as he is.

Then there’s Cuspid, Cupid’s evil twin with a full set of creepy baby teeth. His arrows don’t spark love; they ignite petty hatred. One shot, and suddenly you can’t stand your coworker who’s always humming Mariah Carey songs.

Next up: Trick the Leprechaun, a Leprechaun artist with a knack for turning St. Patrick’s Day into a heist. He promises you a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, but while you’re off chasing it, he’s busy rifling through your wallet and swapping your family heirlooms for chocolate coins. By the time you realize you’ve been duped, he’s already greened out your bank account.

And don’t forget Tim the Turkey Vulture. He circles your house all Thanksgiving Day, terrifying guests into thinking someone’s about to drop dead. While everyone panics, he swoops in and picks your dinner table clean.

Finally, there’s Hank the Prankster, the guy who turns innocent April Fool’s jokes into borderline felony cases. Think whoopee cushions that deploy pepper spray or pies filled with cement.

I can already picture them squabbling over appetizers: Trick insisting the deviled eggs are secretly gold nuggets, Harold refusing to eat anything that isn’t dipped in misery, and Cuspid just gnawing on the centerpiece with his weird baby teeth.

Honestly, compared to hosting this bizarre holiday villain potluck, eating a three-decker sauerkraut sandwich (arsenic and all) doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe I’ll just brick up the fireplace and call it a day—or better yet, install a moat filled with eggnog.

Come to think of it, maybe I’ll leave just enough space for Santa—so long as he doesn’t bring The Grinch as his plus-one. Here’s hoping your holiday guests are less Grinch, jollier, and don’t come with a side of arsenic sauce. Disclaimer: No actual arsenic or villainous dinner parties were harmed in the making of this anecdote. Please don’t call Santa on me.

December 6th, 2024

Journal Writing

December 6th, 2024

Jumping Jehoshaphat’s Guide to Cardio

By

I’ve always wondered why people shout, “Jumping Jehoshaphat!” when they’re scared. It’s such a strange thing to yell—was King Jehoshaphat known for his leaps? Or maybe he was just ahead of his time when it came to cardio. Either way, if you’re scared of being fat, jumping seems like a pretty solid plan. And after Thanksgiving, I’m feeling a little Jehoshaphat myself. Guess who’s starting their New Year’s resolution early this year?

To kick things off, I picked up one of those fancy ropeless jump ropes from Five Below. Since it’s about to be five below outside, it seemed like the perfect time to start.

Jump ropes hold a special place in my heart—literally. Remember “Jump Rope for Heart” back in school? I loved that! Though I couldn’t tell you what happened to the t-shirt. Not that it would fit me now anyway. Which is why I need this ropeless jump rope. My only worry? I’ll still somehow manage to trip over it. But with enough practice, who knows? Maybe I’ll get so good that I can even master double Dutch. Or triple Dutch!

Then again, who pays when you go triple Dutch? Dating could get really complicated. Maybe I wouldn’t have to worry about paying at all if I became a celebrity jump roper. People would be jumping at the chance to cover my bill. Way better than just skipping out on the check, which is my current go-to.

As I was testing out the rope, I started thinking about those old skipping rhymes kids used to chant. You know the ones: “Cinderella, dressed in yella, went upstairs to kiss a fella…” It really got me thinking, what’s the grown-up version? Maybe something like: “Jehoshaphat, felt too fat, grabbed a rope and went ker-splat…” Clearly, I’d need to workshop it.

Honestly, I’m impressed with this ropeless jump rope. It counts your jumps and calories burned, which is pretty nifty. It even got me thinking about the future of jump ropes. My dad had one with a radio built in—super retro, right? But imagine tomorrow’s jump ropes: Wi-Fi enabled. You could compete against people online in some kind of Q*bert-style game. Now that’s something I’d jump onboard for.

November 2nd, 2024

Journal Writing

November 2nd, 2024

Lost in Udder Space

By

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

By

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

By

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

By

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?

By

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

By

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.