Tag: wordplay

October 21st, 2026

Journal Writing

October 21st, 2026

A Floss Cause

By `

I had a dentist appointment today. Although I’m not really sure what I needed to have dented. Between you and me, I already have enough bumps, bruises, and dents to last a lifetime.

It’s like I’m a slapstick comedian, except I don’t do it to entertain an audience. Unless, of course, my girlfriend and dog count. Come to think of it, they do seem awfully entertained whenever I squirt toothpaste in my eye. They’re practically in stitches by the time I start brushing my eyelashes.

Speaking of my dog, she could use a trip to the doggy dentist herself. But unlike me, she probably wouldn’t literally trip.

Her breath isn’t exactly the freshest, which is surprising considering I feed her Freshpet. Apparently, the freshness doesn’t extend to the pet.

On a scale of 1 to 10, her breath rates a K9. The K stands for knockout. One whiff and you’re down for the count.

At first, I thought it was just morning breath. But by evening, I was beginning to mourn. Something clearly had died in her mouth.

Naturally, I tried giving her breath spray. But the mere mention of it sends her running with her tail between her legs. Quite a feat, considering she barely has one.

Next, I took Cesar Millan’s advice and gave her cranberries. I thought it would work considering he’s the Dog Whisperer and all. But that just made me wish my dog would whisper herself.

One thing’s for sure, her halitosis makes getting doggie kisses a lot less enjoyable. Not that it was ever particularly enjoyable in the first place. Kissing a Miniature Schnauzer is like kissing the Bearded Lady. Although, to be fair, the Bearded Lady probably has better breath.

Still, I don’t understand why she always expects me to scratch behind her ears afterward.

My girlfriend apparently got the wrong idea about the whole kissing business and really busted my chops over it. As if I hadn’t already put my mouth through enough at the dentist. And the circus.

After today, they’ve literally dedicated a plaque to my plaque.

Maybe one of these appointments, I can try to sneak my dog in with me. But something tells me that after the dentist catches wind of her breath, he’ll declare it a total floss.

October 19th, 2026

Journal Writing

October 19th, 2026

That's What's 7Up

By `

Why does writing have to be so hard? Sometimes, I literally need to coax the words out of myself. Not exactly easy since I’m more of a Pepsi kinda guy. Actually, given a choice, I would probably pick Mountain Dew. Yes, I do, do the dew, dude.

Coke is fine, if you’re a polar bear, which I’m definitely not. Never mind my thick layer of blubber and luxurious white fur.

I wonder why Mountain Dew has never chosen to use a mountain lion in their advertising. Now that’s a mascot I could get behind. And behind a mountain lion is exactly where I’d want to be, because with all this extra flab, I’d never outrun one.

Another reason I’m a Mountain Dewd is because I insist my dew be ethically harvested from only the freshest mountain peaks. Thank you very much.

Speaking of bottles, maybe my writing struggle is the result of bottling up my emotions. It’s hard to get in touch with your feelings when they’re all frozen solid. That’s life in the Arctic Circle.

Maybe that’s why I’ve resorted to writing about soda. I mean, who wouldn’t want to read a hard-hitting exposé on my soft-drink preferences? It’s the kind of groundbreaking journalism that could really shake up the beverage industry. Just don’t open it afterward.

Still, one thing is certain. I definitely write a lot more freely after a couple of bottles of Mountain Dew.

As of this anecdote, I’m currently on my fourth. And you know what? I dOn’T fEeL J-J-JiTtErY iN tHe LeAsT!

On second thought, maybe this whole writing thing isn’t as hard as I thought. I mean, I did manage to coax all these words about soda out of me. And I did it all without even belching once. Maybe I should just work in the fizz business instead. Surely after writing this I must be colafied.

Although, between you and me, the hardest part of writing isn’t finding the right words. It’s typing them with these enormous paws.

October 17th, 2026

Journal Writing

October 17th, 2026

The Swee-Test

By `

It’s Sweetest Day, and I’m wondering if there’s going to be some kind of swee-test this year. I’m not sure I’m prepared for that. Oh, God, what if there’s a pop quiz about the best ways to pop the question?

I’m a hopeless romantic—emphasis on the hopeless. I haven’t read a romance novel since… well, ever. I wouldn’t even know what qualifies as romantic these days. Proposing atop a skyscraper? That wouldn’t work because my girlfriend is afraid of heights, and I’m afraid of… well, marriage.

After admitting that, though, maybe I should be more afraid of my girlfriend. Spending Sweetest Day at Urgent Care wouldn’t exactly be sweet.

Then again, at least I’d get a lollipop. Although who wants to suck on one after being sucker punched in the jaw?

Maybe I could even propose to her right there in the waiting room. That’s romantic, right? You know, somewhere there are plenty of witnesses, just in case it isn’t. And as an added bonus, I’d be first in line for first aid.

At least I’d be prepared for the doctor’s tests, if not the swee-test. Whether I’d pass them after my girlfriend was through with me is another matter entirely.

Of course, maybe I’ve misunderstood this whole swee-test business. What if it’s not a written exam at all? What if it’s some kind of rom-com competition?

Couples would compete in a series of increasingly embarrassing romantic challenges. Naturally, the winning couple would be whichever one hadn’t broken up by the end.

I really think my girlfriend and I would stand a chance, provided that couple from the horror movie Obsession weren’t contestants. Although, judging by my earlier comments about marriage, I’m beginning to think my girlfriend and that woman might get along famously.

But just to be safe, does anyone know a good tutor?

Or a good bodyguard?

September 15th, 2026

Journal Writing

September 15th, 2026

Dog Tired

By `

I’m tired. I’ve considered taking a cat nap, but I don’t think that would be enough. What I probably need is a dog nap.

What’s a dog nap, you ask? Well, it’s like a cat nap, except sometimes I dream about chasing the mailman.

At least, I hope it’s only a dream.

Come to think of it, I’ve been exhibiting a disturbing number of canine tendencies lately. For starters, I eat like a chow hound and could stand to lose a pound or two—not wind up in one.

It’s too bad they don’t make Science Diet for humans. Of course, it doesn’t take a scientist to tell me I need to lay off the Pup-Peroni Pizza.

It’s not my fault. Put anything cheesy and gooey in front of me and I’m going to woof it down, whether it’s topped with dog treats or not. Naturally, I expect belly rubs after devouring the whole thing. Frankly, I don’t understand why more restaurants don’t offer this service. Dessert menus are nice, but sometimes after a large meal what you really need is someone to tell you you’re a good boy and rub your stomach until you fall asleep.

Followed, of course, by a dog nap.

What I probably need at this point is some exercise.

I thought about taking up tennis, but something tells me my opponent wouldn’t appreciate being served a ball drenched in slobber.

Maybe I’d benefit from getting a personal trainer. Then again, I’m afraid all they’d train me to do is sit and stay, both of which I’m already really good at. I could even play some workout music on Spot-ify. All the trainer would have to do is hold a treat in front of my nose and yell, “Run, Spot, run!”

I’d be in the best shape of my life.

Just don’t ask me to roll over.

So perhaps I’ll start exercising tomorrow.

Right after my dog nap.

Or sooner, if the mailman shows up.

August 27th, 2026

Journal Writing

August 27th, 2026

How Quesazilla Destroyed My Carpeting

By `

Over the weekend, I came down with a bad case of quesadillas.

It’s a lot like tacositis, only cheesier and just as contagious. It’s a real medical condition. Look it up. I swear I suffer from it like every other Wednesday morning. I fear I might also be coming down with churrosis of the liver, but that’s another matter entirely.

Anyway, I served the quesadillas with a side of sour cream and salsa. Unfortunately, I learned firsthand that quesadillas and energetic Latin dances do not mix.

In hindsight, I probably should have realized this before attempting a particularly ambitious hip maneuver while holding a loaded tortilla.

The quesadilla survived.

The salsa did not.

Now I have a stubborn stain on my carpeting. I mean, having a stain is bad enough… let alone having one that’s stubborn. No matter how much I try to reason with it, it still refuses to believe tacositis is really a thing.

Now instead of needing a doctor to cure the feverish way I devour tacos on a regular basis, I probably have a greater need for a Rug Doctor. It may not be an actual doctor per se, but hopefully it still has some Tums in its little black bag.

I have a feeling that, because of all the tacos I’ve been eating, my digestive system is about to go south.

South of the border, that is.

At that point, a case of the quesadillas or a disagreeable stain on the carpet might be the least of my worries.

My biggest concern is why the Rug Doctor and the Roomba are suddenly doing the Rumba.

One Latin dance-related mess for the week is more than enough. Especially after Quesazilla just finished rampaging through my living room doing something that looked suspiciously like the Samba.

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.

September 27th, 2024

Journal Writing

September 27th, 2024

My Five Senses? More Like Non-sense!

By `

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.