Category Archives: humor

May 24, 2014 : Lesbian Stereotypes I learned by Binge Watching “The L Word”

 

  • There are NO overweight lesbians in L.A.
  • It is inevitable that you will eventually be best friends or lovers with the lesbian that aggravates you the most.
  • Lesbians, have little qualm with  sleeping with more than one woman a week.
  • Lesbians “in heat”, are loud mouth breathers.
  • Lesbians in L.A. wear tight pants, that are often times hard to remove.
  • Even “butch” lesbians in L.A., are fucking HOT and still pretty fem.
  • L.A. lesbians rarely, if ever, discuss their periods or reproductive health.
  • Lesbians eat A LOT of pussy, but they never discuss how it tastes.
  • Lesbians apparently don’t have very many heterosexual friends; especially heterosexual male friends.

 

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My dog is NOT an Alcoholic

I just peer pressured my dog into drinking some PBR.

Everyone else’s dog in the mountains does it.  Why won’t mine?

At first it occurred to me that maybe it was a snobbery thing.  For, she likes coffee.  But only REALLY good coffee.  She also seems to prefer independent roasters and free trade blends made under a fresh drip.

So I thought, sure, like me, if beer she was to drink; firstly IT WOULD NOT be PBR.  No, her palate would prefer a Guinness or a heady local Amber.

Instead, presented to her bowl, were the contents of a Silver, Red, White and Blue can.

Small tastes were consumed from my fingers as I sat urging her to give in to the fizzy beverage.  I tap tap tapped my fingers in the brew, and rubbed some in her mouth, forcing my fingers past her teeth.

She has a look of vague discontent interest.

I start bribing her, “Come on, just try it!  We will go for a WALK, if you just drink some of this.”

Her eyebrows waiver, questioning my context of the word “walk” as I eagerly and almost maniacally point to the beer bowl.  She leans in, interested, perhaps thinking the substance has magically changed.  But, no.  Just the same old PBR.

I repeat more frantically, and encouragingly.  I emphasize the word “IF” she drinks it.

She snorts at the bowl, and walks away.

I change strategy, I tell her she only needs to take one lap, which would be nothing anyway because she has a hard time keeping water in her mouth.  I am assuming she knows what “one lap” means.. One more time, nicer, more sincere.

I realize, I am acting evil, and my dog is like Jesus with some magical willpower to deny my evil machinations.

That Guy

Over the years, I take to notebook and write humor or sketch comedy, in order to process my observations and emotional pains.  I have been constantly reaffirmed in repetitive mental cycles, and actions; especially when it comes to my ability to try and function in a relationship.

I have the type of mind that fixates on certain things that make me uncomfortable.  The more I fixate, the further I want to run away from the fixation.  A very  Dolittlian “push-me-pull-you” situation.  

People are funny like that, and I am no exception.  So, to humor you, through my dysfunction, I bring you this short sketch that I wrote sixteen years ago.  I think it’s funny because, I still struggle (almost two decades later) with the same intimacy emotional issue, I was dealing with then.

Silly Human, when will you learn?

And now, I present you with “That Guy.”

 

That Guy

Lisa and Brian are set up by their mutual friend, Megan.  Lisa and Megan are on the phone, “pre-date.”

Lisa:  Megan, he sounds really great!  It sounds like we have a lot of the same interests, and I totally trust your judgement in the looks department.

Megan: Oh, you are just going to fall in love with him!  I’m sure of it!  So, where are you two going for dinner?

Lisa:  I didn’t tell you?  Ohmygosh… we both LOVE the same restaurant, Luigi’s!  So, that choice was a no brainer.

Megan:  Oh, you are going to have the best date!  I am so excited for you!  It looks like it’s getting around that time, I should let you go get ready.

Lisa: Good idea!  Talk to you later?

Megan: Yes!  Call me as soon as you get in!

Brian is at Lisa’s door at 5:30, on the dot.  Flowers in hand, he looks very presentable and gentleman-like.

(door-bell)

Lisa:  (opens door) Hey, you must be Brian!

Brian: (speaks at the same time)  Hey, I am Brian!  (they giggle) I brought you these.

Lisa: Tigerlillies!  Those are my favorite flower!  How did you know?

Brian: I guessed.

Lisa:  Let me put these in water, and then we can go.  Megan told me quite a bit about you Brian, I think we are going to have a wonderful time!

(In the car, driving to dinner)

Brian: Yeah, me too.  Wow, we really do have a lot in common.

Lisa:  It’s awesome that you love snorkeling, too!

Now we focus on Lisa’s internal dialog.

Lisa:  Oh man, Megan was right!  We do get along great… and he is SO CUTE!

Brian:  I am planning a group trip in August…

Brian switches to a new lane, and neglects to turn his signal off.  Lisa notices quickly but doesn’t say anything.

Lisa: Okay, he just switched lanes, and his signal is still on…. it doesn’t look like he is going to go over any further.  I wonder why he doesn’t notice his signal is still blinking.  Hmmm, maybe it’s just because he talking to me right now.  Or maybe he is just really focused on the road and our conversation… he must not hear that annoying click-click sound.  It’s cool, though, right?  I mean it’s probably to early to tell, but what if he is THE ONE?  He has so much ambition, and energy…

Brian: So have you ever been the Cayman Islands?

Lisa: No, but good snorkeling, huh?

Brian: Oh just beautiful!  I also love to go to….

Lisa: It’s STILL going.  Click-Click, Click-CLICK.  How could anyone ignore that?  He must be distracted.  Even though he is driving, he is looking at me a lot… and smiling.  I should just tell him it’s on.  It’s not a big deal.

Lisa: HeyBrian, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you, but your signal is on.

Brian: Oh, hey, would you look at that.  So I am pretty excited for Luigi’s.  (turns off the signal.)

Lisa: Me too.  It’s been a while since I was there last.

Lisa: I really can’t believe out of all the restaurants in the area, that we love the same one.  He really is pretty great.

Brian proceeds to make another turn, his signal stays on.

Brian:  Have you ever had the Luigi’s Special?

Lisa: No, I usually stick to the lasagnas… what is it?

Brian:  It’s a sampler pasta dish.

Lisa:  This guy is really not in-tune with his signals.  He has a great personality, good looks; but he is THAT GUY!  I hate THAT GUY, especially when I am behind him in traffic.  THAT GUY who ignores that his blinker just keeps blinking, even though he isn’t changing lanes, or making a turn.  CLICK-CLICK, CLICK-CLICK. …. Maybe I am over reacting. Am I over reacting?

Lisa is becoming visibly aggitated.

Lisa: Brian, can you please turn off your turn signal?

Brian:  I’m sorry, I didn’t even realize it was on again.

Brian makes yet another turn, signal is on, the car is silent but for the CLICK-CLICKING.

Lisa:  Is he deaf?  I can’t believe this is happening the entire way on a 15 minute car ride… IT’S STILL GOING.  What if he never turns it off?  Constant click-clicking.  Imagine our future family road trips across America, state after state, highway after bywaylane change after lane change: those blinkers slowly blinking until 

Lisa:  (blurts out loud)  I don’t think we should see each other any more!

Brian: Excuse me, but what?

Lisa: I think you should just take me home.

Brian: But I thought we were having a good time. I thought we were getting along?

Lisa: We were.  I was was… Listen, I think you are  really nice guy… but you are also “THAT GUY.”

Brian: What do you mean, “THAT GUY”?

Lisa is visibly flustered, and starting to react with panic.

Lisa: You know… you know… “THAT GUY”!  THAT GUY  WHO DOESN’T TURN OFF HIS TURN SIGNAL AFTER HE CHANGES LANES-GUY.  I MEAN, EVEN NOW, YOUR SIGNAL IS ON!

Brian:  I’m sorry, I had no idea it was such a big deal.  I mean, sure every now and again I forget to turn it off… but really, you don’t even want to finish the date?  I promise, I will be more aware of the signal.  I won’t do it again.

Brian proceeds to make another lane change while talking… yet again leaving the signal on.  Lisa waits, her patience obviously slipping away.  She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, staring obviously at the offending turn signal knob.

Lisa:  Here we go again… even after he promises he wouldn’t let it go like that.  Is he fucking with my head right now?  Is this some stupid test?

Lisa waits, she sighs loudly, her face wrought in disgust.  She sighs again.

Lisa:  You are doing it, AGAIN.  See, I told you.  You are “THAT GUY”!

Brian:  What?!?  No!  That’s not fair.. you didn’t give me any time.

Lisa: (getting dramatic now) There was an ample thirty seconds, there… half a minute!  It only takes a second to turn it off.   I really need you just to pull over right now… You know, Brian, this really pains me.  You really do seem like a wonderful, sweet, attractive man.  However, I really can’t handle being in a car with THAT GUY who won’t take a second to make sure his turn signal is off, when he isn’t turning or changing lanes.  If there is one thing in the world that REALLY gets my goat, it’s THAT GUY.  So please, just pull over and put me out of misery.  Right now I need the stability that my transportation will not blink, or CLICK-CLICK unless it is turning or changing lanes, or pulled over with the hazards on…. and it appears to me that right now, Public Transportation holds that stability for me.  Good-bye.

Lisa gets out of the car and walks to a near by Bus Station.  Brian looks at a loss.

Brian:  Okay???

Lisa gets home and rings Megan up on the phone.

Megan: Hey, what’s up?  It’s early, what are you doing home?

Lisa: It didn’t work out.  The date started out nice enough…

Megan:  But…?

Lisa:  But he is THAT GUY who never turns his signal off after changing lanes.

Megan: Oh, Lisa!  I am so sorry!  I didn’t know…

Lisa:  I know!  Why does it seem like all the GOOD ONES are either married, gay, or THAT GUY?

In 2005, Lisa learned she has a condition called Misophonia, that causes her to be triggered into agitation by certain sounds.  She is currently an active member of Misophonics Anonymous.  In 2012 she launched the worlds first dating site geared toward pairing Misophonic people together, who suffer with compatible triggers.  A passionate en-devour, built in hope of helping others find intimacy as they cope with their sensitive condition.   A year later she met Dan, a 34 year old Misophonic engineer from Indiana.  He developed a turn signal system that automatically shuts off immediately after a turn or a lane change.    Lisa and Dan, love to road trip across America, and they are expecting their first child in February 2017.  Lisa says, she hopes her children are born without the burden of Misophonia, but if they are, she will love them anyway and help them with the hurdles the condition imposes.  

 

 

 

Letters of Annoyance.

Dear Bag in a Tree;

Hey YOU, Bag in a Tree, blowing obnoxiously in the midnight wind.  You have been annoying the shit out of me for the last four months.  Enough is ENOUGH!!

I know, I know; when you finally deteriorate some other, NEWER, MORE ANNOYING breed of bag will take your place.

Could you please just leave me alone for tonight? If you do, I promise  I will refrain from lighting the whole goddamn tree on fire.

Signed-  The lady on the other side of the window

 

Dear Guy Working on the Light Pole,

Hey there, Guy Working on the Light Pole.  I really appreciate your service to our electrical grid and all, but FUCK YOU for staring inside my bathroom window while I was taking a shit.  Your job is to fix the goddamn power line, and it would behoove you to keep your eyes on the job and OUT of my bathroom.

Sincerely~ Mr. Shitz  Apt 3D

 

Dear Crazy Raking Neighbor Lady;

I’m not sure if you noticed, but alleyways are always a mess.   The wind blows trash here from Indonesia.  It’s nice that you want to keep YOUR section of the alley clean; but if you’re going to go so far as to RAKE the ROAD, maybe you should go so far as to clean the WHOLE block of alley you live on.

Thanks,  Your Confused Yet Observant AlleyWay Neighbor

 

Dear Nasty Cashier Lady;

Did you ever think that maybe your job sucks because your attitude sucks?  Get over it and put a goddamn smile on your sourpuss face.  Shopping is stressful enough without a GRAND FINALE- such as your condescending flair, in the check out line.  Here is a tip; CHECK YOURSELF.

-Anonymous Coward

 

Dear Little Old Person in the Car Ahead of Me;

I know you’re old and value what you have left of your independence, but, Dude… You can’t even see over the steering wheel!!  Your “freedom of mobility” is compromising the safety of others.

Now listen, I respect  your wisdom as an elder, but at this point in time you seem to show bad judgement when it comes to operating heavy machinery.  Due to this issue alone,  I suggest you immediately surrender your license and bribe a legally licensed grand kid to cart you around.

-Concerned Citizen/ Defensive Driver

Four Miles, For Miles.

My thighs were sticking together.

I am sure a rash was happening.

The friction of skin upon skin, creating a burn like Sin.

Being in one of the most social of lady places; the bathroom, I queried another female patron.

“Do you have any powder, by chance?”

Answering the question with an action, she pulled a large zip-loc bag out of her purse.

“I need just enough to dry out my lack of thigh gap.” I respond with more dryness than my pasty but saturated Vaginal neighbors.

“Ohhh, hunny.. this aint’t talc… It’s coke.”

Immediately, I imagine the options of relief.

“Too expensive for my needs, but I bet the numbing sensation is worth it;” imagining the potential, I add ” I need four miles worth of ‘numb’ dryness.”

She queries, “Four miles?”

I am pretty sure at this point she is already coked out and her brain is having a hard time equivocating.

“Yeah… four miles home. I think by cab that is about fifteen bucks… and that just seems too much to me, for this podunk town….. too much, even though, I… Even though I am having this issue.” At this point I am attempting to handle the pain with a smile… I am a liar, and this shit hurts.

Eyebrows cocked, head tilted, she questions, ” An issue?”

“A woman’s issue…”

She looks incredulous for a moment until a spark of understanding, spreads over her already tightened facial muscles.

“OOOoooohhh, Auntie Flo!”

I see she is now slightly softened by compassion and understanding.

“Uhmm… No.” I can’t help but pause, acknowledging that if that WAS the case, it would be the least of my concerns; and that is why God made toilet paper.

“No?” She repeats, but with a sense of fear… like maybe I will tell her I just found breast cancer, or one of my ovarian cysts just escaped.

“No. I have heinous thigh sweat, and…uhm… massive chaffing.” I don’t know why I am so ashamed of saying this in front of a person carrying enough cocaine to be indicted on a felony, but it is how I respond, nonetheless.

“oh. OH. OooooOOHHHHhhh!” Images percolate in her mind and her eyes get big. I like that she seems to REALLY “get it”.

“Yeah…”

“Oh, hunny… that’s rough!”

Without losing a beat… I say,

“No, it’s RAW!”

I have pulled her into coke induced empathy, and she nods knowingly. “Yeah… whew, them’s the pits.”

On a roll, I say “More like the crevasses.”

Still feeling a bit desperate and despondent about returning to the bar,  I ask ” So, do you have anything else in that big, magic bag that might help me?”

She begins the notorious “Puffy Purse Scavenger Hunt.” Digging deep in its depths for something significant or (in her mind) useful.

” Uhm, well, how about…Preparation H? err… uh.. Advil?”

By the looks of it, she has a whole different set of ‘women’s issues’; the pain, numbing my verbal filter, causes me to outwardly express as much.

I am disappointed AND defeated, but she is quick to respond, “Damn straight! I do! And I don’t leave my house ill prepared.”

God Jeebus, she must be a Virgo… I know what she is talking about, because USUALLY, I AM that lady (minus large zip-lock bags filled with illegal substances).

Agitated with my observations, I add in a whisper of “apparently…” with far too much judgement and sarcasm.

An awkward silence ensues, and I find this to be prime time to exit stage left. Besides, she doesn’t have what I need, anyway.

Betcha if I needed a safety pin, there would be one floating around in there.

Maybe, just maybe, this is my fault.

Maybe, if I was at a family restaurant, instead of this dark bar,  I would have better luck with my needs.

Maybe under other circumstances I could find a nice overweight and sympathetic mother… with a small baby, and an overstuffed baby bag.

And I would ask for her help… and she would reach deep into that well stocked baby bag of hers, and pull out just ONE of ten travel size baby powder bottles; and she would hand it over with loving care, and say “Keep it. You know you’re going to need a reapplication some where down the road.”

And she would wink at me, maybe even squeeze my hand or my shoulder and I would feel safe, protected and loved.

I would respond with a smile and a humble “Thank you”; thinking my good Karma must be returning in the form of self preservation, and I would walk home properly powdered.

Instead of looking for a family restaurant, with a responsible mother carrying a plentiful baby bag; I walked back into the bar intent on the only legal numbing I know… whiskey.

They know me here and the bartender asks if I will take another double Jameson on the rocks. I say “yes and add on a pint of Fat Tire.”

My favorite short order Cook sits to my right, and says “I’ve got those, put ’em on my tab.”

“Oh you don’t have to do that… I’ve got it.” I respond with a shyness.

“Nah, you gave that warm knit hat that you made, to my friend who was sick… and that hat kept her head and ears warm all winter.”

I can’t argue with such kind logic, and thank him for the drinks.

My good Karma is not in fact going to self preservation right now; or maybe it is, it’s just my momentary perspective…. I do need these drinks right now, if only to distract my brain from the chub rub forming on my inner thighs.

“Well, thanks again. I really appreciate it.”

And I do appreciate it as I slip out the back door to the patio; to go think some more about perspective.

The Zen Buddhists say to “judge nothing.” To see all as life, without duality.

So I adopt this perspective for the moment and take a long swig of whiskey. I hold it in my mouth for a while, letting the alcohol drench all of my taste buds. Slowly, I swallow it’s gentle burn down my throat.

I let the alcohol sit in my mouth like a tincture; letting the medicinal properties seep into the porous membrane of my mouth, allowing the liquid to cross the blood brain barrier and stimulate an exquisite release of dopamine.

Anyone observing may think I am contemplating the “swallow.” Wondering why my process is less smooth and desperate as their own, as they urgently suckle the heads of bottles containing weak watery beer. They drink it like they need water, like a hungry baby at the nipple.

I am outside, and no one is here. No one to watch or judge.

The air is thick with humidity and the clouds compound into a thick grayness above; growing heavy with precipitation, the thunder begins to take over.

I smile at the age old vision of God and his army of angels rolling bowling balls down an infinite bowling lane. Each roll of thunder, a ball. Each strike of lightening, the strike of all ten pins. After some time, it begins to hail. Perhaps this is a sign of a Heavenly game of 300, and the hail is celestial confetti falling to Earths floor.

The hoots and hollers,  vibrating clouds, reverberate the cheers of a job well done. The Heavenly Team has won the League Championship.

Unbeknownst to them, we sit below like ants; watching as our flowers are beat free of their petals and our cars become dented with new geography.

A few people now have gathered beneath the rain shelter. We chat about the weather, avoiding conversations that dig much deeper. It’s okay… I didn’t come for more than distraction from my physical malady; which I have almost successfully mastered, until I again remind myself of the impending four miles.  Four Miles… for miles.

 

I take the last drink of whiskey, and chew on a couple of ice cubes as I stand to take my first apprehensive steps toward home.

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