Your Daughter’s Hand
Mister Kelly, thank you for meeting with me today. You’ve probably guessed that I invited you here to ask for your daughter Jessica’s hand in marriage. Jessica means the world to me. We’ve been dating seriously for three years, and we’ve been having full, penetrative intercourse for awhile now.
I can’t be sure of any one moment when I knew Jessica and I were destined to get married. It could have been our time together in AmeriCorps or our hiking trip to the Adirondacks. One particular bout of highly-active sexual congress comes to mind. But, then again, it could have been any of a thousand times we were pleasuring each other carnally.
Now just feels like the right time to ask Jessica to marry me. I mean, after everything we’ve been through and done together and done to each other—the next logical step seems to be marriage and starting a family. We’re certainly well-practiced at the mechanics of making a baby.
I can’t describe to you the joy it has been getting to know your daughter—her warm laugh, her kind heart, her surprisingly flexible hips. Every day is a new surprise with Jessica. She’s very inventive.
They say that when you meet the right girl, something clicks. Like the way her and my genitals interlock—it just feels right. God, it feels right.
I guess what I’m saying is this: With your blessing, it would be my honor to ask your daughter to be my bride. She’s my sunshine and my hope, my inspiration and my naughty minx. I can’t imagine my life without her. Though one time we did do this roll-playing thing where I imagined her as a Spanish maid, but that’s not really applicable.
Anyway, what do you say, Greg? Can I call you Greg? How about Pops?
Lack of Sleep
This might be the lack of sleep talking, but I'm very grumpy and cold. There's not enough sunshine out. Also, my eyelids are heavy, and everything is stupid, and I hate everything. Again, that might be the lack of sleep talking.
Why did you let me stay up so late reading celebrity gossip blogs? I thought we talked about this. If you let me stay up late, I'm going to be grumpy in the morning, and that'll make you grumpy. Why would you want to make yourself grumpy? I'm so mad at you for doing that.
I'm sorry. I shouldn't take it out on you. It's not your fault that I'm upset; it's my lack of sleep. Also this lady walking ahead of us. Why is she walking so slowly?!! JESUS CHRIST, LADY!
Whoa, short fuse. I've got a short fuse this morning. I apologize. I'm sure everything will be better once I get some coffee and once I shove this old lady out of the way. What? Whad'ya mean I can't push an old lady? Why are you being so difficult?
I swear, if I had gotten more sleep or if I was in a better mood, you would let me push that old woman into a snow bank. You're so mean to me when I'm tired---never letting me push old ladies or yell at cars. I don't know why you have to be so cruel. When I'm fully rested, you never seem cruel at all. But, when I'm sleepy and grumpy---that's when you become a mean jerkpants.
Goddamnit I'm so tired.
You know what? That was out of line. I should never have called you a poopy-face jerkpants. Let's go back to bed for a few hours, and when we wake up, I can make it up to you. Also, let's quit our jobs so that we don't have to get up early anymore.
I think this is a good plan. I think this plan is gonna work out great. The first step, though, is turning around and going back to our nice warm bed---
Owww, stop pulling my arm towards the subway! You're being unreasonable!
Our Bodies
Our bodies are amazing things, don't you think? We're each made up of thousands of intricate individual mechanisms that all add up to a whole. A person. A self.
Our eyes bring in light and information. Our hands reshape the world. Our mouths get us into bar fights with Republicans.
Our ears capture the sound of distant screaming. Our noses detect garbage water. Our nice hair and above-average height gets us higher paying jobs. Our breasts fill the Internet.
Every part of the human body works in unison. Resilient and adaptive, we grow and re-grow, survive and procreate.
Our hearts pump cholesterol. Our lungs pull in marijuana smoke. Our tongues taste rice pudding and cinnamon pita chips, which are bonkers tasty together. Especially after smoking up.
Our bellybuttons find and collect our loose lint. Our armpits tell us when it's hot out. Our gall bladders do whatever gall bladders do. Our feet and vaginas also fill the Internet.
Our legs twitch restlessly. Our arms carry our bratty children. Our pinky toenails are kinda small and gross. Our nipple hairs keep us warm.
Without our bodies, what would we be? Floating waves of nothingness? Bags of primordial ooze? Whatever it is, it would be some crazy shit. Oh my god, these pita chips and rice pudding are amazing! I can't stop eating … Whoa, my hands are so weird right now.
Riding Instructions
Hello, folks, welcome to Smiling Sunrise Ranch. I'm your trail guide, Pete. Y'all signed up for the two hour horseback ride? Great. Before you get on your horses, I have a few instructions.
First off, you should have signed a waiver absolving Smiling Sunrise Ranch of any responsibility for any injuries you might sustain on this ride. Our horses are trained, but riding horses is never a 100% safe activity.
Any first-time riders here? Wow, that's a lot of hands. Well, don't worry. You should be okay as long as the horses don't get spooked.
I see some of you are wearing rain ponchos. I ask that you not take those off during the ride, as that might spook the horses. We've got some high winds today, which could bring down a branch or two. If that happens, it might spook the horses. Also, we've got snakes in these hills. That'll spook the horses.
Please take of your sunglasses, since glare from sunglasses will spook the horses. Also baseball caps tend to spook the horses. If any of you ladies are wearing perfume, that might spook the horses.
There's a real spooky cactus down in the gorge. It looks like an old witch carrying a VCR. That'll spook the horses. The horses can also get spooked by a cloud or the lack of clouds.
Coughing will spook the horses. If the rider is thinking about mice or gerbils, that'll spook the horses. Um ... if any of you are closet organizers for a living, that'll spook the horses. Sitting too high in the saddle will spook the horses. Or too low.
One of the horses is named Vladimir. His name tends to spook him. Another one is named Spooky.
What else? Oscar race rumors will spook the horses. Sand sometimes spooks the horses. If your horse hiccups and burps at the same time, that'll definitely spook the horses. Mustaches, sideburns, goatees--those all spook the horses.
Finally, try not to be nervous or scared. That'll for sure spook the horses. And, then you'll probably get thrown and die of a broken neck.
Alright, let's head out. Yeehaw!
Your Apology
You're saying I have to actually accept your apology? I've never accepted an apology before. I wouldn't know where to start.
Isn't it enough that I acknowledge your apology? See, that's how I normally do things. You apologize; I nod and say "uh huh"; then, I explain exactly what you did wrong back to you. That way you know that I recognize your many faults, and we can move forward.
Well, I guess we can't really move forward, because I refuse to stop seething. I just keep looping through all the things you've done wrong, which implies that I still have a problem with you. Which I do. That's the whole point.
If I accept your apology, that ends it right there. Clean slate. Tabula rasa. It means I can never again passive-aggressively bring up your misdeed. What's the point in that? It's as if you don't want me holding petty grudges. Wha?
If I accept your apology, there would be no snowballing of emotional baggage. [Shut up, I know it's a mixed metaphor. Give me a break. Don't point out my mixed metaphors again, unless you want an earful about the time you ate the last donut. I'm still mad about that.]
Listen, what I'm saying is this: You apologized. That's on you. If you crave forgiveness so bad, maybe you shouldn't do anything wrong in the first place.
Now, get off your knees and stop crying. You're making me feel empathy for your mistakes. I hate that.
Massage
Hmm, I wonder if I should tell this masseuse that I’m deathly allergic to lavender? Nah, I bet it’ll be alright.
I mean, he’s a professional, and I’m sure he knows best. If he wanted to learn if I had any allergies, he would've asked. Well, I guess he did ask and I said no. But, a professional would have understood I was just being polite, right?
He’s probably not using lavender anyway. It’s probably shea butter. Shea butter would make sense. Although, my back is starting to get hot and itchy. There might be lavender in the massage oil. Can I be sure of that, though? My wheezing suggests yes.
Maybe it’s just a different massage technique. Maybe he’s only using a little lavender to shock my system into relaxation. Who am I to jump in and tell this guy how to do his job? He’s been giving massages for years. Meanwhile, I’ve only spent the last few minutes receiving my excruciating massage.
Sometimes I wish I weren’t so Midwestern. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? I could speak up about my lavender allergy and he might take me to the ER before I die? Oh, but that would probably put him out. He must have other massage appointments later. I don’t want him to lose any future business. And, he might feel guilty about using lavender in the first place. That settles it; I won’t say anything.
…
I should say something. I think my motor functions are shutting down.
How do I approach it? Maybe something like, “Hey, funny story. Remember when you asked if I had allergies and I said no? Well, I just automatically say no when I think that’s what people want to hear.” Nah, that sounds too pushy.
Maybe I could ask for a break, and I could quietly sneak out and drive myself to the hospital. That is, if I can keep my eyes from swelling shut. Would my masseuse be offended if I snuck out halfway through a massage? Probably. I’d better not risk it.
I have an idea. Maybe I can text Colleen, and she could call the spa and tell them that I’m allergic to lavender. Then someone at the desk would come back and tell the masseuse. I wonder if all that could happen in the next minute or so. Because, I’m feeling a little woozy. No wait, now I remember seeing a “no cellphones” sign in the lobby. I’d better not text.
You know what? Let’s just ride it out and see where this goes.
…
Hey, what’s that tunnel of light up ahead? Hi, Grandpa Ross. Long time no see.
Mom’s Computer
Alright, Mom, let's set up this new computer you got for Christmas. Now, there are going to be some differences between this one and your old computer, because they’ve changed a bit since the mid-90s. For instance, when you turn this one on, notice how it doesn't make a grinding ka-chunk ka-chunk sound?
The second thing you might note is that this new computer starts up in less than 45 minutes. Also, it’s not dirty beige. And, the screen doesn’t flicker a weird tangerine color. And, you can open email attachments without deleting something else first. And, you can have more than one window open at once. Welcome to the future, Mom. Tomorrow is here today.
You can even watch videos on your new computer. Just type in search terms for your interests, like “Diana Krall singing” or “knitting tutorials.” Oh, I got it—remember when you wanted to cook a duck, but you didn’t know how to prepare it? Well, let’s type in “boning a duck” and wait a sec and … OH MY GOD! THAT’S DISGUSTING!
Homepage, homepage! Click the little homepage button!
Mom, I am so sorry. I swear I had no idea that video was gonna come up. I’m sorry you saw that. I’m sorry I saw you seeing that.
Let’s try again. How about we try “de-boning a duck?” I’ll just type … that … in and … OH, C’MON! THAT’S JUST THE SAME VIDEO IN REVERSE WITH THE BENNY HILL MUSIC PLAYING!
Well, I guess it’s too early to explain what a “meme” or a “remix” is to you, but it’s a thing that happens on the Internet. And, I think we just bumped into one of the more repugnant ones. I promise the Internet is not all just ducks and men with psychosexual mental disorders.
Let’s give this one last try. We’ll forget about ducks and do a simple image search. Something safe like “hot air … balloon … pictures.” Now, we just wait for the page to load and … MOTHERFUCKER! THAT’S JUST GROSS! That is so gross, yo! Don’t they have a content filter system?!
Alright, that’s it. We’re turning off your computer. Mom, you are not to go on the Internet ever. You hear me? Everyone on the Internet is disgusting and crass and disgusting. They are disgusting dirtbags. Filthy, disgusting dirtbags.
Every single one of them.
Employee Review
Hey, Ted, thanks for coming in. Have a seat. I thought maybe we could wrap up the winter quarter with an informal employee review. Just to see how things are going in the office and if there’s anything we could do better. Here, I’ve printed up a worksheet.
How are things progressing for you? Are you satisfied with your position here? Because, I have to tell you, I’ve noticed a few changes in your demeanor lately. Subtle stuff. Like, I’ve noticed you’ve started pointing to things with your middle finger.
I understand some people naturally use their middle finger to point out numbers in Excel or graphs on an overhead. But, I clearly remember you using your index finger before. So, that makes it seem like you’re giving everybody the finger whenever you point. Like I said, these are subtle changes.
Also, in the lobby, you don’t push the revolving door anymore. You stand and let the other people in the revolving door push it for you. Now, nothing in the employee handbook that says you have to push when going through a revolving door, but it makes me wonder what else you’re not doing.
Do you know what I’m saying, Ted? I don’t expect everyone to go above and beyond. I understand that this is just a day job for many of you guys. But, here’s a little example: Every evening, I like to take my wastepaper bin and walk it over to that trash closet. It makes Hector’s job a little easier, and it’s really not a lot of extra work for me.
In your cubical, though, I’ve noticed the wastepaper bin is always overflowing at night with human feces. See the difference there?
I understand you’re busy cutting out pictures of your coworkers and X-ing out the eyes, but it sure would be helpful if you could empty out your trash. Especially if you’re going to be shitting in it.
I mean, you clearly have time to post angry, threatening notes in the break room. And, leaving all those dead mice under Mrs. Gregory’s keyboard must take up a lot of your day. Maybe instead you could put that energy into sharing the workload.
I hope you understand I’m not trying to be the harsh taskmaster here. I’m just trying to keep the cogs moving, you know? Ted? Are you listening to me? You seem distracted.
Ted, do you have anything to add at this point? No? You’re just gonna sit there clutching that letter opener and mouthing curse words? Well, that’s your prerogative.
Alright, well … good talk. Um, I hope to see you at the office bowling party after the break, and I wish you a very happy New Year, Ted. Keep up the good ... nevermind. You can go now.
Yoga Pants
Hi, welcome to Lydia’s Yoga Shop. We sell activewear for the active woman. Come on in, and I’ll give you the tour. As you can see, we sell a wide range of yoga pants here at Lydia’s Yoga.
First up is our Kriya style of yoga pant. These are cut low at the waist and are terrific for everyday wear--running errands, catching a matinee. These start at around $78.
Next, we have our Prana yoga pants. These pants are cut higher in the waist with comfortable flat-locked seams. This style is terrific for swinging by a boutique or Trader Joes. These start at around $95 and come in charcoal or midnight black.
I should mention that none of our yoga pants are meant specifically for yoga. In fact, we actively discourage doing actual yoga in these yoga pants. It’s far too sweaty.
These are our Turiya yoga pants. These are designed to be worn during pedicures. Note the four-way stretch in the seat and the slight flair along the leg opening. These start at around $112 and come in a massage oil-resistant fabric.
Our Abhaya yoga pants are great for picking up little Dashiell or Dakota from Montessori. They have a pleasant lift and separation in the seat. These are $140, but it’s worth the price when you see the jealous looks on the “working” mothers’ faces.
Again, we ask that you not do any yoga or yoga-related activities in these pants. No pilates, please.
Our Swami yoga pants are designed for watching Julia Roberts movies. They feature hip pockets and anti-chafing Juliamax™ technology. These are on sale today for $98.
Ah, I see you’ve noticed the Maitri yoga pants. These are perfect for a visit to the spa or a weekend away to Napa with your girlfriends. They’re also great for quick trips to Starbucks or the mall. You can have an affair with your personal trainer in these, or you could read the Betsey Johnson interview in Vanity Fair. Really, these are great for reading any magazines—O Magazine, Glamour Magazine, Elle, Real Simple, Vogue, Cosmo, US Weekly … God, do you remember Domino Magazine? I miss Domino.
You could sign up for an awareness walk in our Maitri yoga pants. You can shop for gluten or soy-free groceries in these. They’re good for attending museum events or gallery openings or divorce hearings. These yoga pants are great to wear while recycling huge numbers of plastic water bottles. You can dabble in starting a wallpaper design business in these. You can carry your tiny dog around the dog park in these. You can shop for bridesmaid dresses in these.
Really they’re good for anything except yoga. They cost around $125, and the matte finish is a nice contrast to any over-sized diamonds you might be wearing.
Can I interest you in any of our cashmere tanks or camis?
Legend of Scrabble
Let me tell you now the legend of the greatest Scrabble game ever played. Some say the game was a myth. Others say they were there on that fateful subway ride. You may hear tell the game was played by a man and his mobile phone. I say it was played by two giants.
The year was 2010. Right up near the end of it. The outside world was cold, forbidding, no place for man nor beast. But, inside that F train, there was the warmth of battle.
Our hero received his first seven tiles, and there before his eyes laid a bingo—not lined up all in a row, no sir. Jumbled. But his mind was sharp, his courage strong, and he knew all seven letters could be arranged to spell the word “founder.” That’s 12 points, plus one double-letter, all doubled for the first turn, plus 50 points for using every tile. 76 points in one turn. You heard me right—76 points. It was a harbinger of things to come.
What followed was a mad, wild adventure across nine subway stops. Long, impressive words sacrificed without compunction to line up many small words side-by-side. The Z and Q not feared, but welcomed. The letter W placed on a triple-letter square to make not one, but two words. It counted twice, my friends. Twice times three.
Just then, the internal processor of the cell phone began to rile, cutting off entire sections of the board with misplaced Vs. It hounded his every move, placing a J where no J should go. Our hero fought back valiantly, even opening up the board in an act of chivalry.
Did the cell phone respond to this with equal good sportsmanship? No! It warned that the battery was running low. There was no electrical outlet in sight. Worse, our hero’s charging cord was left at work. Unless the game ended soon, all would be lost.
That’s when our hero noticed it. Up there in the corner. He saw not only a bingo, but the greatest bingo of all—a bingo that stretched from one triple-word square to the next. Could he believe his eyes?
His opponent had laid down an L along the edge of the board. There it was, waiting to be set down—the word “relining,” as in “to line again.” They weren’t impressive letters. No, only the G was worth more than a single point on its own. But together, together they reached from corner to mid-board, lining the perimeter like a cavalry cresting the hill. 110 points in a single move. 110 points using simple Es and Ns. It was his final move.
As far as the eye could see, commuters stood from their seats and applauded our hero. Mittens clasped together in rejoice. His fellow travelers wiped tears from their eyes at having witnessed the game. They would go on to tell their children and their grandchildren. Word of his accomplishment spread, and few believed the tale.
But, I know it to be true. I was there that day on that very train. I saw it with these two eyes, and I tell you I will remember that commute to my grave. It was surely the greatest Scrabble game ever played.