Tag: humor

July 5th, 2024

Journal Writing

July 5th, 2024

Modern Art and Monkey Business

By

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

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

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

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

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

June 28th, 2024

Journal Writing

June 28th, 2024

Scarfing Lunch and Solving Mysteries

By

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

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

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

“What’s with the ascot?” they asked.

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

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

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

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

June 21st, 2024

Journal Writing

June 21st, 2024

Cardinal Red and Other Colorful Confessions

By

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

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

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

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

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

June 19th, 2024

Journal Writing

June 19th, 2024

The Myth of the Happy Camper

By

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.