Crowded Fallout Shelter
Boy, this nuclear fallout shelter got crowded real quick, huh? I guess it's understandable, but geez louise! Everybody must've had the same idea.
That's the thing about a big city. You think you're the only person who knows the secret location of a fallout shelter. But, even if only one in a hundred people also know, that shelter is gonna fill up fast.
I'm not sure why this particular shelter is so popular, though. It has a very distinct old man smell. Maybe nobody else notices it.
But, whatever. Where else are you going to go on a Friday night during a nuclear disaster? Its not like I can be mad folks know about my "special spot." I don't own the place. I think that guy with the shotgun does.
I just wish I had enough room to turn around. I saw a can of chipped beef on the shelf behind me, and I could really go for some chipped beef. I haven't eaten since the sirens went off.
Do you think anybody might get tired of the crampedness and leave before the nuclear holocaust is over? Probably not. People tend to be stubborn about this kind of stuff.
Anyway, I had an idea to help pass the time while we're down here: a sing-along. Everybody likes a sing-along. Hey, everybody! Who wants to have a sing-along? Maybe Sweet Caroline? Nobody? I guess they can't hear me over the weeping. DOES ANYBODY WANT TO SING SOME NEIL DIAMOND? A SING-ALONG? NOBODY? Yikes, tough crowd.
...
Man, I can't believe I got stuck in the lame fallout shelter. Bunch of wet blankets, if you ask me. I am not looking forward to spending the next few years of Armagedon with you mopes. For real.
“Busted” at The Moth
"Busted"
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In honor of the Real Characters storytelling show I'm putting up tonight (and every first Thursday of the month) at Ochi's Lounge, here's an audio clip of one of my Moth StorySLAM performances.
Unlike almost everything else on this blog, this story is completely true. Still funny, though. Don't worry; I wouldn't subject you to one of my sad stories. That's what I pay my therapist for.
The theme for the night was "Busted," and I'm grateful to fellow storyteller Luke Davin for recording it from the back.
The Evil Dr. Hypnotic
Your dastardly plan will never succeed, Dr. Hypnotic! I don’t care if you do have me tied up in your evil lair. You’ll never destroy Metro City! Not while I’m… a… chicken. Bawk b’kawk!
Wait a minute! No! Your hypno-powers won’t work on me. I’ve trained my whole life to do battle against evil doers. My mind is a steel… drum… There are steel drums on this beach. Ooh, piña coladas. Don’t mind if I do.
Aarrgh! Must… resist! Mustn’t look at… spinning spiral of hypno-evil. But, it’s so… mesmerizing. And, I am indeed getting sleepy. Very sleepy.
Dr. Hypnotic, you fiend! Can’t you see you’ve gone mad? Does nothing remain of mild-mannered psychologist, Leo Silverberg? Something of him must have survived the tragic, accidental death of your wife during a hypnosis session intended to curb her craving for cigarettes. Also, the toxic waste spill at her funeral that fused a swinging pocket watch to your hand.
I swear, when I break free of these chains that are also snakes… Hey! Chains can’t also be snakes! I must be hypnotized. Why, there aren’t any chains at all. So, I’ll just stand up and punch you in the face. Like this.
There. Done and done. Dr. Hypnotic’s wicked plans have been foiled once again, and Metro City has been saved by me, The Masked Defender.
Yes, thank you for that congratulatory thumbs up, baby elephant standing atop a mountain... Huh... I wonder if I'm still hypnotized. Well, shoot.
Delicious Popsicles
Listen, if it were up to me, everybody would have popsicles.
But, it’s not up to me; it’s up to your mother. I was given strict instructions as your babysitter—no popsicles for the kids. But, that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy my popsicle.
Don’t look at me that way. Rules are rules. Without rules, it’s chaos. You’re too young to understand, being ages 3 and 5, but one day you will. Whoops, my popsicle is dripping! Let me just get that … mmm, delicious.
I wish I could give you popsicles. I do. Especially because there are tons in the freezer. Seriously, your mom must have gone to Costco. But, she gave explicit instructions. “Do not give Madden or Quinn any popsicles. It will ruin their dinner.” And, I refuse to ruin dinner by giving you yummy grape popsicles like the one I am eating right now.
Pouting isn’t going to get you anywhere, Quinn. In fact, it makes me less likely to sneak you a popsicle against your mother’s wishes. Which I could totally do. But, I won’t. Even though I could. Because I’m the adult.
As an adult, I am not bound by the “no popsicle” rule. See? That’s why I can break open this second popsicle for myself. But, you guys are children—children who aren’t allowed to have popsicles. It’s a fine but important distinction, and I am truly sorry that it exists.
One day, you’ll thank me. Some day in the distant future. Maybe a swelteringly hot day, like today. You’ll say, “Andy, thank you for refusing to give us popsicles—no matter how hard we begged. It taught us an important lesson.” I’m not sure what that lesson is, but then again, I’m not the one in charge. Your mom is.
Ouch, this second popsicle is giving me a cold headache. Do you kids ever get those? They’re the worst. I’m gonna have to throw away the rest of this sweet, tasty popsicle. You probably shouldn’t watch while I … open up the trashcan … and done. No more popsicle. It’s a shame. So delicious.
Anyway, who up for starting dinner? Let’s see what’s in the cabinet. Ooh, I hope you guys like lentil and barley soup!
My Life Goals
I thought I’d share with you guys a list of my life goals. I haven’t read The Secret, but from what I’ve cobbled together, it seems like you’re supposed to externalize your desires. Then, at night, Oprah Winfrey comes and leaves a new car under your pillow. So, this is me externalizing. My life goals are to:
- Someday own a second pair of shorts.
- Travel to Istanbul and really Istanbul it up.
- Remain roguishly handsome.
- Finally get Esperanto up onto its feet.
- Ride on a motorcycle without wetting myself.
- Build my own home. Or, my own Build-A-Bear.
- Finish writing my bucket list.
- Wear more whimsical hats. (“More” both in number of hats and amount of whimsy.)
- Stop hitting on my bosses’ wives.
- Learn how to play two ukuleles at once.
- Buy second ukulele.
- Meet Jim Henson and shake his hand. (This one might be tough.)
- Own a dog that looks like me. A roguishly handsome dog.
- Somehow have my blog “discovered” by the Colbert Report folks, and be instantly hired to write for the show. Failing that, win the lottery.
- Slowly become crotchety and/or curmudgeonly.
- Became better at proofreating.
- Work at a frozen custard stand. Steal as much custard as I can fit in my pockets.
- Stop watching Glee. It’s horrible, but I can’t look away.
- Dance like no one is watching.
- Have kids that look like me. Roguishly handsome daughters.
- Die in an epically heroic manner.
- Have it turn out that I survived somehow. Be lauded.
- Find that pen I lost.
