Category: Humor
How To Laugh
(If you’re short on time, skip to the bottom for numbered instructions.)
“You have a sister? What’s she like?”
“She’s cool. You’ll like her.”
“Do you guys look alike, notwithstanding she’s a girl?”
“Not really. She’s a lot lighter than me. It’s actually kinda funny. My sisters are all light brown, while I’m black–even though we have the same parents.”
“I knew someone who had the same problem.”
“What problem? What problem is that?”
Lucky for her, he asked this only moments before bursting into one of the most contagious laughs imaginable. Lucky for her, he had one of the best senses-of-humor available. His ability to laugh transformed a moment more serious souls might have let become negatively charged into one filled with the glorious sounds of laughter. Laughing uncontrollably, even she was unable to successfully join enough words together to mount whatever self-defense she had in mind.
Instructions for How To Laugh:
Step 1 – Resist all temptation to believe people actually think before they speak.
Step 2 – While smiling, immediately exhale the full amount of whatever air happens to be in your lungs.
Step 3 — Inhale as able.
Step 4 – Appropriate to the situation, repeat Steps 2 and 3 with ridiculously nonsensical rhythm.
This Past Sunday Women Learned There Is A Fourth Species of Spider…Now Wondering, “Are there more?”
Black Widow, Brown Recluse, Daddy Long legs. Until Sunday, women knew of no other spiders. Until Sunday, women would see a spider, then say, “Is it a Black Widow?”
Or, “I think that’s a Brown Recluse…I read that leaving near-empty mayonnaise jars out will act like a trap, if you suspect you have them.”
Or, “Hey, look, a Daddy Long Legs. Did you know that Daddy Long Legs are the most deadly spider in the world? It’s true. They just don’t have big enough teeth to pierce our skin. Kill it anyway, will ya, hon?”
But this past Sunday, a spider had the nerve to bite a woman. The spider didn’t look anything like one of the three, so she did what any reasonable women would do and Google’d it. Using her phone to take a picture, she searched Google Images for the spider. Lo and behold, it was another species of spider altogether. All along she thought there were only three species of spiders.
Words cannot describe the joy she felt as she called her mom to share the news. Naturally, her mom didn’t believe her at first. But then her mom remembered that her father had always said there were more than three types of spiders when she told him what she thought she saw when she was growing up.
Alas, the elated feelings were fleeting as the mother daughter tandem soon realized they unknowingly opened the door to learning. “Are there more species we don’t know about?” they silently wondered to themselves.
Old People Emailing
After finishing her morning coffee and chores, the old woman sat down at her computer. “What’s this?” she wondered, surprised. “Oh yes, someone sent me an email. Let me see…how do I…? Ah yes, here we go.” Counting “one-two” in her head, she clicked the mouse and opened the email.
She read,
“Dear Grandma,
It’s Pete. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday. Happy Birthday!
Pete”
“Oh how nice! Of course, I’ll read it Pete. After all, I’ve been emailing since 2005,” she thought to herself.
“Now how do I reply? Let’s see… What was it Pete told me? Ah yes, ‘to reply, find and click the left arrow.’ He always was a sharp boy. There’s the arrow, one-two and I’m off,” she said with a certain feeling of accomplishment.
“Now where’s that darn SHIFT button?” she asked looking down at the keyboard. As she held the SHIFT key down with her left index finger, she pressed the key marked “D” with her right. Thus it began.
Slowly and painstakingly, taking great joy in the fact that no matter how much she wrote the cost was the same, she responded to her grandson.
“Dear Pete,
Thank you.
Grandma”
Losing confidence for a moment, she closed in on the screen and searched for the SEND button. Relieved, she whispered, “And…send. (One-two).”
She couldn’t put a finger on why, but emailing always gave her a thrill. “I wonder,” she thought, “when he’ll receive it?”
An Apology to LinkedIn Connections
Dear LinkedIn Connections,
I wouldn’t have “Liked” me either. Hurt doesn’t begin to describe how I felt every passing day, every passing week. My fervent efforts appeared to fall short in the eyes of even my first degree connections. Molded by your advice, there I was pursuing my passion. And even those sage connections didn’t “Like” my work. Few canyons reach the depth to which my professional depression dove.
“Joy! Bright spark of divinity!” In a moment that can only be described by Beethoven’s Ninth, I saw the light. Consequently, I owe you an apology.
Whether you felt my anger or not, I’m sorry for ever doubting you. I’m sorry for being upset with you. It’s difficult, you know? I’m new to this, and I was only thinking about me. Until recently, I wasn’t able to look at the problem from your perspective, but I see the truth now.
I realized that LinkedIn is a professional website! How did I ever miss this fact?! This means that supervisors, co-workers, and any of your other professional connections are going to see that you “Liked” my blog. If they’re worth their salt, they’d surely trust your integrity and assume that you actually read my post before “Liking” it. Why is this a problem? Because if they know that you’re reading my blog, guess what they know you’re not doing? Work!
I am so sorry for ever doubting you. All this time I thought you didn’t actually enjoy my writing. Now it is clear that you do, but you just aren’t ready to go public yet. That’s cool. I’m O.K. with that, as long as we understand each other.
In closing, let me just say one more time that I’m sorry. Know that I never stopped liking you, even when I thought you didn’t “Like” me. As time passes it seems like saying I was “angry” might have been too strong; it was more a general feeling of confusion. Okay, I think your boss is beginning to suspect something, so you’d better get going. Thank you for your time. (For real, go! Don’t worry about me. From now on, I’ll just assume you “Like” every single post.)
Very Respectfully,
A Mugwump
A Reading’s Surprise
Staring at the small, basic kitchen table that doubled as his computer stand, he just sat. It wasn’t ideas that he wanted, but help. Was this everything? Could this really be how life was supposed to play out?
Only moments earlier he had such hope, such expectation. Now, he only felt resignation and frustration. “Curse you, World!”
Believe it or not, he was upset because he couldn’t believe what he had just read…about definitions. That’s right, he had just read that there are apparently at least two different types of definitions from where the defense of an argument can be mounted. The first being, stipulative definitions or what really should be called creative or inventive definitions. The second, categorical definitions.
The book stated that categorical definitions differ from stipulative in that they focus on classifying ideas in categories (hence, “categorical”). For clarity, here is a categorical definition of motorcycling: one of the many types of transportation available to modern man. On the other hand, this is a stipulative definition of motorcycling: the greatest way to travel from one place to another.
No, this just won’t do. By his thinking, there should just be one type of definition. There should be only one clean, nice, simple way of making sense of the world. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? That’s the point of defining a concept, right? The point of a definition is to organize what an individual sees or believes to be into a set of data that can help fulfill life’s potentialities, right?
As if life wasn’t difficult enough, he now had to deal with this new information that even the very tool he had been using to define his reality couldn’t be simplified down to one type of meaning. How was anyone supposed to get any work done in this madness?! He must change this. Life cannot require this level of complexity.
His first task, then, was to get everyone to agree on everything.
Who Killed the New Kids?
“Censorship is murder.”
Too strong? I thought so at first. Then again, this was an assignment for college and I wanted a good grade, so I decided to run with it.
The task that lay before me was developing this radical thesis. So I thought and I thought and I thought. I asked my housemate what he thought. So he thought. Then we both thought. Here’s the result: Censorship is murder because I believe that “to be a human, as opposed to all other known life forms, requires an unfettered ability to communicate one’s value (in the form of words, images, or music) to other humans. And an external restriction of a person’s expression of value is the same as telling them they have no value. In other words, it is a malicious attempt to end their life.”
It was beautiful.
After developing my thesis, the next assignment was to write about my first experience with censorship. What I discovered was frightening. Even now, I am afraid of the implications.
187. 68. 32. Those are the amounts posters and/or pictures of The New Kids on the Block my cousin Jenny, my sister Kate, and I had on our bedroom walls, respectively, in the summer of 1990. I feel like I should be embarrassed to admit this. I would be if I led the bunch. That I was a distant third clearly showed I was just trying to fit in.
For those of you who don’t recall, The New Kids on the Block were it back then. Their top single, “Hangin’ Tough” spent 132 weeks, that’s nearly two and a half years, on the Billboard charts.
Despite the New Kids’ success, all was not well in households across America. Mine was no different. My memory gets fuzzier by the year, but this much I do remember. My sister was taking piano lessons. She was three years older than me. She was 12, I was 9. Mrs. Misty Bolton, the wife of our church’s pastor of music, was her piano teacher. Even a cool lady like her couldn’t see the storm brewing on the horizon.
I can hear the nice, neat, well-timed piano playing now. Whatever my sister may have lacked in expression, she made up for in crisp playing–just like an older sister to show how its done.
At this point in the story, it’s important that you join me in the room.
You’re already at the front door of the house? Good. Open it. Once you make your way through the front door, you see a hallway to a kitchen table straight ahead. You discover that what you thought was the right wall of that hallway is actually the left side of the staircase which leads to the second floor and a little balcony. Turning all the way to your right, you see the room where the piano is. You know the piano is in the room, not because you see it, but because you can see a reflection of it in the wall sized mirror that hangs opposite it.
This room, unlike any other in the house had a name: the “blue room”. It was named for its predominant color, beginning with the blue carpet, extending to the blue walls. The blue carpet was a plush, thick, luscious carpet that incurred my mother’s wrath if it was needlessly tread upon.
“Key-an’t you go around?,” she’d exclaim. She could be rather vain about carpet.
Do you see me yet? Good. Here it comes.
“Mom! Comeeer. Misty, I mean, Mrs. Bolton says she’ll teach me to play the New Kids on the Block songs if we buy the book! Can we? Pleeeeease?,” my sister begged.
Our mom was no push-over, but it seemed like such a simple request involving learning to play piano didn’t necessitate that kind of begging. It turned out that no amount of begging could overcome the music snobbery we were about to witness.
“Nnnnoooo, I’m not going to hee-ave you playing that garbage! It’s bee-ad enough I hee-ave to hear it and see it all dee-ay long as it is. I will not buy thee-at book for you. Nice try though.”
Crushed! Devastated! If my sister wasn’t crying on the outside, she was on the inside. Try as they might, my boy arms lacked the strength to lift her out of her misery.
-Fast forward to the next lesson-
Guess who showed up with the sheet music book for the New Kids’ latest album “Step By Step”? Mrs. Misty Bolton. This was a bad idea. She obviously had not spent much time in our house. Suffice it to say, my mom was not happy. And so after my mom let Mrs. Baldwin know she wasn’t happy, she made my sister pay for it out of her piddly allowance and then she took the book away and hid it. No piano of hers was going to play the New Kids’ music, and no piano teacher was going to defy her wishes!!
Well, there you have it. My first experience with censorship.
What’s that? You thought I was supposed to be explaining how this experience led me to believe censorship was murder?
But don’t you see? I just did. My mother censored the “Step By Step” album. You still don’t understand? Okay. Okay, quick reminder then. How did the New Kids follow their “Step By Step” album? Don’t remember? That’s because the New Kids on the Block never released another original studio album. By the time those five guys did release another original studio album, they weren’t the New Kids on the Block anymore. They were NKOTB. Still not with me? Fully connecting the dots now– a simple writing assignment in which I was asked to defend my original thesis, that censorship is murder, led me to stumble upon the frightening revelation that the New Kids on the Block died after my mom censored their “Step By Step” album. Therefore, my mom killed them in an act of what appears to be cold-blooded murder! This is the same woman who raised me to do the right thing and all these years she’s been hiding this secret! She, too, must pay for her crime. And I have to turn her in. But how do I turn in my own mom??!
I guess, I’ll just have to take it step… by… step.
Blog. How Else Will You Learn What You Like?
Hi there! My name is Pete Peterson. I’m a 22 year old college dropout and have been blogging for a week now. I’m so excited because I already have 15 followers, and none of them are my family or previous friends. How cool is that?
I guess I should have known that people would follow my blog. I write well and my posts are funny, smart, clever, dramatic, creative, and most importantly they display–albeit sometimes unconsciously–my desire to make money blogging.
I guess this last trait is really the one that has captured most of my follower’s attention. I never would have believed how many people know how to make money blogging. The best part is that they are very helpful. They’re willing to almost give away the secret. I know better though, than to expect anyone to give away their golden goose. It does make sense, then, that they would require a nominal fee to learn the really good stuff. I’m happy to pay it because I really do want to make money blogging.
We’re all the same, my followers and I. That’s how I learned that I love to travel. All of my willing-to-teach-others-how-to-make-money-blogging followers love to travel. Truthfully, I have never left the home town I grew up in, which is just outside Big City, USA. Just the same, I figure if all my followers love to travel, I must love to travel.
I can imagine it now. Endless beaches against a backdrop of snowcapped mountains. Large trees all around with even larger leaves. There’s probably fit young women at these locations as well. With no crummy 9-5 job to worry about, I could finally start wearing my 80s style tank tops every day, or maybe I’d wear no shirt at all. I’d probably choose to wear sunglasses most of the time, even if it didn’t make sense. I think I’d also begin to post pictures of myself too. I’d make sure to always have water in the background somewhere. I think that would be classy. Yep, I’m going to love traveling.
It’s exciting, I’ll tell you that. It’s so exciting, in fact, that I’d like to invite you to follow my blog. Do you love to travel? Do you know how to make money blogging? Then follow me! The only way to get there is together.
How To Do The Inconceivable.
(If you’re short on time, skip to the bottom for numbered instructions.)
Because it is time, that’s why. Someone needs to grab the bull by the horns and reveal the secret to accomplishing anything. The following few paragraphs are going to give you the tips you need to do anything you can conceive.
In the recent Tom Cruise movie Oblivion, T.C. and his female counterpart are two-weeks away from completing their mission on the ‘remote site’ that is Planet Earth. After the two weeks, they will return to the new human settlement with those who survived the war. Granted, the work they were doing was not in itself particularly difficult or boring. Loneliness seemed to be the biggest negative. And the dream of how life would be like in two weeks’ time kept them going.
How many of us ever thought we’d spend as much time and energy as we have to accomplish so little? How did we do it? Where did we get the strength from? Were we born with it? Even if we were born with it, we must fight the desire to victimize ourselves. Instead, as a group we need to accept total responsibility for our lives.
Where did the strength to put up with a life we never conceived come from? The strength came from believing a lie. The lie that there will be more time in the future. Break down the concept of the future a little and you’ll see why this is a lie. The future has not happened. The present is happening. The future “is not”. The present “is”. What do you gain if when you trade what “is” for what “is not”?
The future will never be. Can you understand this? The future will never “exist.” It will never “be.” That’s it’s definition. If you believe that the future is something that “will be”, then you’re no longer describing the same abstract idea that’s being discussed here, and is commonly labeled “the future.” There is no catching-up. There is no getting ahead. These are impossibilities.
I have been nearly exclusively reading the classics for almost a decade now, and a common theme is best summed up by Jon J. Muth in his children’s book, “The Three Questions”, based on Leo Tolstoy’s ideas. “Remember then that there is only one important time, and that time is now. The most important one is always the one you are with. And the most important thing is to do good for the one who is standing at your side. For these, my dear boy, are the answers to what is most important in this world.”
The choice is always yours. If you want to do the inconceivable follow the instructions below. If you want to exist in reality, stick with living in the present.
Instructions for How to Do The Inconceivable:
Step 1 – Believe that after you’ve accomplished it, you’ll have time to do what you really want.
Step 2 – Understand that there is only one step.
A Fine Morning Indeed!
Barefoot, I journey from my bed to the cabinet containing store brand one-minute oatmeal. Still groggy, I see two silos before me. One nearing empty, the other ready to tag in at a moments notice. Will I get it right? Noticing slight wear, I reach for the one on the right. I am so good. The moment doesn’t last, as I notice something sticking to my feet. I don’t want to know. Wiping them off on my ribbed bamboo kitchen mat, I continue preparing the meal. Again, my feet feel soiled. I cannot ignore it anymore. I must vacuum. Upon placing the container on the counter, tip-toeing, I make my way to the three-season room where I keep her.
Oh the joy. I have an Oreck, see. So slender. Such a durable tangle-free chord. And light as a feather. Not that it matters; I’m a man. I’m strong. I grasp the sublimely coiled chord draped studiously from only the top hook, and in one motion the vacuum is connected to an energy source. Pausing, I’m compelled to note that even the plug seems purposefully designed. Like every time before, as if alive, the wide prong seeks its way to the left eye of the shocked face that personifies the outlet.
Decision time. This is what I live for. Rotating brush on or off? Fantasizing about surprise victory over stubborn debris that suction alone won’t pick up, I let the brush slumber a little longer.
It is smooth going at first. Plasticky popping sounds proclaim progress. Despite the apparently recent remodel of the kitchen, the lower cabinets hang just low enough to be a stumbling block. Good thing I have the edge cleaner. Horse-hair edge cleaner. I’d have it no other way. Is it going to be enough…? YES! “Got ya!,” I exclaim.
Speaking of the bamboo mat, it looks clean, but curiosity and a sordid past get the better of me. Let’s see what 102mph of suction can find. Snap, crackle, pop! No it’s not the hatted Rice Krispie gang. Instead, it is the sound of a growing fondness for such an amazing partner in life. Having returned to a state of strong purity as only bamboo can, I purposely locate myself on the mat as I direct my attention towards the last of the dried food. As I revel in the success of the chore, the clean mat warms to the temperature of a mom’s loving embrace.
“Well done son.”
If Movies Could Speak – A Letter
Dear Spoiler Alert,
As you know, it has been a while since I’ve written you. No, this isn’t a dream. Please try to pay attention. I’ve been thinking a lot about our relationship. No, I’m not actually your child. I know it is difficult for you but can you be patient and hear me out? There’s something I need to tell you. No, I’m not pregnant with a demon. It’s about us. Well, actually it’s about you. No, you’re not dead. Come to think of it, I don’t know where to begin. No, the end is not the best place. Do you remember growing up? No, I’m not here to tell you your parents were actors. Do you remember your first Christmas? No, there’s no change, Santa Claus is still a fantasy.
Writing this letter is proving more difficult than I imagined. No, I’m not writing from prison. I think there is something wrong with you. No, you’re not an android. You see, when we were young… No, you were not abducted by aliens. When we were young, there was a time when you used to let me experience life for myself. No, I’m not breaking up with you. Please just continue reading. Life used to be so full of wonder. No, we are not about to be overrun by zombies. I used to laugh, get scared, and generally love my life. No, you can’t have my bike; this isn’t a suicide letter.
One day something changed. No, we still haven’t found life on other planets. I don’t remember the specifics. No, I did not just awake from a frozen sleep. I can remember a time though, when a pretty girl gave you extra attention because you knew something before everyone else. No, I’m not that girl’s daughter. Please keep reading. I have a little more I want to say. We’ve all done it. We’ve all ruined the end of a movie for someone else, at least accidentally. No, they didn’t send me to bring you in for a lobotomy. But with you it was different. You never apologized. You never changed. From that first time until now, you have been making life miserable for me. No, you didn’t infect me with the rage virus. Please just try to continue reading. Because of you I am unable to add enjoyment to life. Because of you I am unable to capitalize on life’s unpredictability. I don’t want to know what happens at the end. Can you understand that? Life isn’t about being the first to know what happens next. It is about spending time with people. Experiencing things together. No, I haven’t met someone else.
You need to know that there is no end. Do you understand? No, that’s not because our energy continually passes on to other beings. I mean to say that I think you should try living in the moment. There is no big reward for sharing what happens at the end. When I know the ending ahead of time, it doesn’t add value. Really, it only highlights your personality’s flawed nature. No, you don’t suffer from multiple-personality disorder. Ugh, I give up. No, this isn’t where I reveal that I’ve always been the bad guy. Is there nothing I can say to get to you change? Is there anyone you’ll listen to? No, this isn’t an intervention.
I hope you understand I had to try. I guess you always knew how this would end.
Your Good Friend,
Motion Pictures
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Captain’s Log 