Posts Tagged ‘Humor’

Part I-

June 14, 2009

The honorable Prince Zaw

            I am typing this on the laptop of an elderly polish immigrant named, Strychacki Zbigniew. We call him Stanley for short. I am using his laptop for two reasons:

1) I made a scene at the Starbucks at Times Square a week and a half ago when I moronically dropped my Macbook, then subsequently dropped my “iced venti, sweet (indecipherable word), leche,” after trying to catch my beloved computer on its unfortunate way down to the stone floor. I bit my lip. Hard. After gravity was done yanking three years of pictures, documents and progress out of my hand and down to the ground like a fucking tractor beam, I bent down to pick up the now defunct laptop. It was still in one piece and I was shattered. I grabbed all of my belongings and high-tailed out of there, never looking back. I will never see those people again.

2) I have accepted the task of locating and getting in touch with Stanley’s good friend and prominent homosexual, the honorable Prince Zaw of Dubai. Downloading Skype onto his computer seemed like a good place to start. Apparently I’m doing this in exchange for two Marcepan candies made by Poland’s own famous Mieszko candy company. What joy! I didn’t expect the candies, but they were sloppily taped to a tattered note with my name on it in the bag with the laptop. They tasted like sugar coated with pure shit.

This is not fiction. 

It’s 3 am during the graveyard shift at The Manhattan House and I need to get some rest. I’ll explain everything tomorrow.

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A Scene from Gubbay Hall

May 7, 2009

We spend all of our lives trying to move from one place to the next. Or at least I have so far. I cannot be satisfied where I am. I move in to a place, I unpack, I sit in the chair. I stare out the window. Make a cup of coffee. Sigh. Go outside. Have a smoke. Watch the sun set behind my new neighborhood. The next day, the room is a mess, I’ve accidentally blown out the power, and I need to get the hell out of there.

The dorms over in Middlesex University in the northern suburbs of London were called halls. I know the difference in language is slight, but the little changes in terms added up over time. I found myself constantly jingling from the large amount of change that the British use in their currency system. I was not sure what the difference was between one quid and one pound; it turns out they meant the same thing.

Simon cracked open another tall can of Stella and looked at me with a dim twinkle in his eye. The room was a chaotic mess of rubbish, bitter, and wankers (which was our lot). I was finally starting to understand more than three words at a time that came out of Simon’s mouth; his accent was thick, but not nearly as indecipherable as Alex’s, who was from Manchester. We were discussing the differences between American and British slang. I was trying to keep up with the Brits as they spewed out talk in their strange code.

“Yeahp, Alex is a chav,” Simon mumbled, smiling.

Alex hit him on the arm. “Ye best not listen to this bloke,” Alex laughed, reaching for another beer. “He’s a bloody tosser.”

I frowned. “Tosser?”

Alex laughed. “Ye know. A wanker.”

I was still confused. Alex, sensing that his insult was lost in translation, made a vulgar gesture with his free hand. “Ye know, when there’s no tart around, ye have a wank. Yer tossing. Simon is a tosser.”

I nodded. The room erupted with laughter.

It turns out that a chav is a derogatory term for someone of the lower class. Chav seems to be the British equivalent of the American white trash. When I was hanging out with that crowd, generally I did not hear them refer to each other as blokes or chaps. But there were a hell of a lot of tossers and chavs. Oh, and of course, I was the token yank of the group. They flattered me.

Selective memory, I suppose. Paired with some wanderlust.

-Michael

The Sandwich Incident in 3 Acts

April 28, 2009

I
Little Billy Baxter took off down the hall. His sloppy, stupid mushroom cut flopped up and down with every step.
“Get over here you little son of a bitch!” I launched myself out of my seat and hesitated for a moment. When he disappeared around the corner with my sandwich, I darted across the cafeteria floor, throwing tiny little Jenny out of the way with outstretched arms. Behind me, things went silent and I could tell I had become the center of attention. There was a gasp—eyes locked in. My stomach growled deep below grit teeth.
I ran down the hall and cut a quick left, nearly taking down little James, who wore high socks and smelled like sour milk. The sound of the wind rushed passed my ears. At the end of the hall I could see him. He had a good lead, but his stubby little legs couldn’t take him too far. Not from me.
“Hey you! No running in the hall!” Mr. Harrison with the red face did nothing to stop me. Billy went right. I was gaining on him and I could see his little left hand clutching my beloved ham sandwich. The thought of his little bony finger imprints on my two previously flawless, fluffy, and wondrous pieces of white bread made me crazy with anger. My stride grew longer and my fists tore through the air.
He was a few yards away and I could almost smell it. It was either the ham or the smell of Little Billy Baxter’s imminent death. I reached out, stretching my right arm as far as it would go. It strained. When I felt his little collar in my hand, my heart started to pound. I yanked at it with all my might and heard the fabric tear as I heaved him onto the ground. There was a light thud and the sandwich exploded in all directions, escaping his weak grip. I screeched to a quick halt and looked down. There was a long trail of peanut butter leading to one of the pieces of white bread, indented with little Billy’s desperate handprint. Red was everywhere. Strawberry Jelly I suppose—no wait, blood? That’s when I remembered that I had already eaten my ham sandwich that afternoon. Silly me.

II
Today is my special day. After all, it’s my birthday. My mommy told me that if I got an A on my spelling test yesterday, she would pick me up early from school and take me to Happyland Ranch. I got every word right, even ‘biscuit’—after all, it is Happyland Ranch; the happiest ranch in the whole wide world! I couldn’t wait to ride the pony. Last year the pony had pneumonia and some man named Elmers had to come and take him away. That’s what my mommy said. This year, my mommy said that the pony was happier than ever. There are sheep that go baa, and you can pet them too! There are even little yellow ducks. Geez I love ducks. This is my special day.
I looked up at the clock. She was coming at 12:30 to get me. I couldn’t believe I was going to leave school early. I sat at my table with Jenny and my best friend, Benjamin, waiting for mommy to come. I wasn’t hungry that afternoon. I was all filled up on my mommy’s special vanilla cupcakes that she baked for me and my class; they had rainbow sprinkles. My favorite.
When the little hand… no wait; the big hand got to 30, I said bye to Jenny and Ben. They had pudding all over their faces. I couldn’t wait! The last time I got to go home early was when I had pneumonia.
I was so excited that I got up and ran down the hallway, I couldn’t help it. I took my peanut butter and jelly sandwich with me in case I wanted it later. I think Mr. Harrison said something to me when I passed him, but nobody likes Mr. Harrison anyway. My daddy says he used to touch children, but my teacher touches me all the time. She gives me hugs and one time she even put a little, yellow star sticker on my shirt for me when I gave Jenny my apple juice, because her mommy forgot hers. Poor Jenny.
At the end of the hall, I could already see my mommy’s blue car outside. I thought I saw her waving and smiled.
Then I heard someone running behind me. Maybe they were going to Happyland Ranch too. That’s when I was choked and thrown to the ground. My new collared shirt that Grandma got me, with yellow stripes and a ‘Happy Birthday!’ sticker from Mrs. Stankowitz ripped in front, right down the middle. I lost my sandwich and my nose bled everywhere when my face hit the ground hard.
It’s my special day.

III
Big Heath looks like he’s thirty, but he’s just thirteen. He’s big, freckled, has red hair on his head (and face) and likes to kick his dog. He probably couldn’t tell you the difference between right and left. I don’t know why I hang out with him. He’s a terrific asshole. Not that he’s terrific, but he’s terrific at being an asshole. He’s the only thirteen year old I know who smokes Marlboro Reds.
I remember one time he peed his pants in Mrs. Barbarito’s math class. He didn’t do it because he had to pee that badly, he did it just to be funny. I didn’t think it was funny, but everybody else seemed to. I didn’t think they had a choice. I pretended to laugh; otherwise I might end up like Michael Deever, who forgot to laugh at one of Heath’s stupid jokes. After school, Michael opened his backpack and found a dead, bloody raccoon. Nobody knows where he found it to this day.
Heath doesn’t have any real friends; people are just afraid of him and act like they’re his friends. If he were to disappear tomorrow, I don’t think anybody would care. There would be an unspoken relief in the air and I think the meatloaf would taste just a little better.
That’s why it didn’t even faze me when Heath got up from our lunch table and ran after some little second grader, ten minutes after eating my goddamn ham sandwich, which he makes me give him every day. I started telling my mom that I’m really hungry and now she makes me two. I usually sneak out and eat the other sandwich on the playground just before lunch. She wonders how I’m still so skinny.
Oh man was he in trouble that day. Principal Connell nearly beat his ass, himself. Apparently Heath thought that the little kid took his lunch—my lunch. What a moron. I watched him eat it right in front of my face. I heard he gave the kid one hell of a nosebleed when he punched him in the face—or threw him on the floor, depending on who you ask. I heard it was this little kid’s birthday or something. Man, that really blows. His parents got called in as usual and did nothing as usual. The school suspended him for like three days and he had to write a written apology to the Baxter family. When he was back in school, I asked him what happened and he said he thought the kid stole his (my) sandwich, so he roundhouse kicked him in the face and flushed his bloody face down the toilet. Yeah, okay.
Big Heath is a terrific asshole.

A ham sandwich.

A ham sandwich.

Flip Bondy

April 21, 2009

Here’s a little piece of microfiction for your enjoyment. Although some optimists may disagree, I’m convinced it will never be accepted for publishing elsewhere, so here it is, bound by the blogosphere:

Flip Bondy was a fine young innovator. He was a go-getter and family pets enjoyed licking him. His parents bought a second fridge when he was a child, just to show off his good grades. Flip Bondy was bound for success. After all, he ate his toast with the butter side up.
It was his lucky day in 2020 when NASA chose him to develop the adhesive to hold together the most important spacecraft mankind has ever built. It was to be a marvel of modern technological design. The idea was ambitious. We were to launch all of our planet’s garbage, nuclear waste, Bluetooth headsets, junk mail, hair metal, shoe pebbles, apple cores, etc. etc. deep into space to be forgotten about and never spoken about again.
It took six years of hovering over various glue samples at his desk, careful formulation, rigorous testing, and hovering over even more glue samples to develop the adhesive. Despite his terrible headache, it was clear that his efforts paid off. On March 15th 2026, Adh-Easy X-Treme  HappyMagic X-Core was ready to hold together man’s most important undertaking. Flip Bondy was elated. The press lauded him for his efforts and pretty women asked him on dates. In four years, Clusterf*** I, as the spacecraft was affectionately named, was on the launch pad.
On March 15th, 2030, the world looked on with wondrous, optimistic eyes and gleaming smiles. From this day forward, the world would be free of fruitcakes, fanny packs, splinters, DMVs, clothing tags, flat tires, unopenable soy sauce packets, etc. etc. Mission control began the countdown. Five—four—three—two—one—Clusterf*** I lifted off the ground seamlessly and for the first time, the world was completely burden free. A split second later it erupted into the most expensive, most toxic and most inconvenient fireball in history.
The whole surface of the planet was littered with AOL CDs, isotopes, used tissues, drunk uncles, burnt chips at the bottom of the bag, etc. etc. Scientists in caves peeled scented JC Penny flyers from their faces and deemed the earth unlivable, the water undrinkable and the air unbreathable. Lucky for everyone, the fine young innovator, Flip Bondy was busy at work. Within weeks, he invented a world renowned oxygen system for people’s subterranean homes. At last, the people of the world could stop holding their breaths. Things were looking up for Flip Bondy until he one day, still high on glue, forgot to pay his oxygen bill. He died face down on the buttery side of his toast.

Take a “propagander” at this

April 21, 2009

Although, no, this is not a work of fiction, its certainly a compelling piece of propaganda; which I do consider to be writing as well. I wonder if people laughed at it during WWII… or did her milky, white, Syphilis-infected complexion actually strike fear in the hearts of our armed forces?

Relaxis for the axis?

Relaxis for the axis?

I suppose they do have a point (I don’t know anyone with VD who’s ever successfully defeated the axis), but that’s not what caught my attention. Upon seeing this, I immediately felt absolutely terrible for this woman. I know she’s doing a duty for the country, but by doing so, she’s most likely taking herself off of the market for good– the ultimate sacrifice for your country, I suppose. Maybe Hitler wasn’t a good enough scapegoat (no VD?) and we needed to point fingers at a random American housewife for her unwarranted, unprotected, raunchy sexual exploits. Gotta love the fact that “good time” girls is in quotes. Could the quotes be unnecessary like on The “Blog” of “Unnecessary” Quotation Marks, further degrading her by implying that she’s not a good time at all (won’t play Yahtzee! with me)?

Would something like this work today? Probably not… Did it then? Doubtful– but people probably had a good laugh at her expense. Poor girl.

…I might have a good laugh if “VD” appears in our tag cloud. No worries, my next entry will be a little more serious, but I just had to get this out there. Poor girl.

“Medium” Wings

April 21, 2009

So, I was looking through the “blog” of “unnecassary” quotation marks the other night. It was actaully Thursday night, very late, I had just gotten home from being out on the “lovely” town of Glassboro. I was a little under the influence but I looked at this website and I laughed and laughed and laughed until my roommate popped her head in my direction and told me to shut up. But then I showed her the website, and she also found it hilarious. The next day, I looked at it again… sure enough it was as funny as the first time.

And then I went to work . (Work is a restaurant/bar where I serve college kids and loathe my wanna-be college kid managers.) I was standing in the kitchen, waiting for my food, when I noticed a guest check out of the corner of my eye. It was written by a manager, and given to a cook. It was lying on the counter and I stole it. This is what it said:

"medium"Now, either A) the boss was trying to play a cruel practical joke on a poor man named Tom, or B) he too is an unnecessary quotation marker.