Tag: humor

Morning Coffee

First lines from a sampling of flyers selected from the window ledge to my left:

-“Gibson Pearl’s unique fusion bellydance roots from her extensive background in tribal, as well as the influence of both traditional folkloric and contemporary modern dance.”
-“LE NOIR ET ROUGE, A sexy black and red festivity where scarlet matches the energy and passion of the females and the black color of the night compliments the men of fashionable character.”
-“International CLITORIS DAY CELEBRATION, A celebration of female sexuality that is appealing to all!”

I can’t believe we’re not gonna be home this weekend.

Keg in the Bathtub

In Kalamazoo, Melissa and I score an upgrade to a suite at the Radisson. It’s enormous.

Melissa: This room is the first time I’ve ever wished I was a teenager again, so we could throw a raging party.
Me: And have hot teenage sex.
Melissa: There’s no such thing as hot teenage sex.
Me: What!? You’re forgetting all about the hot teenage boys.
Melissa: I guess you could have like twenty seconds of hot teenage sex.
Me: Hot teenage hotel room sex with someone in the bed next to you who has to pretend to be asleep.
Melissa: Haaaaaaahhht.

Privacy

Logan: I hope you don’t mind, I made you a “friend” on Flickr.
Bryan: I don’t know if we’re close enough yet.
Me: I don’t really use those features. The only person who can see my family-only photos is Bryan.
Melissa: So you upload a lot of personal porn.
Me: Totally. Personal porn for Bryan and the entire team at Flickr, who we have brunch with once a month or so.
Melissa: Heather’s like, “Maggie! Someone hacked your account!”
Me: Uh… No. That’s my bush. It was supposed to be private. But… I guess you can look at it, or whatever.
Melissa: And you’ve tagged it maggiesbush.
Maggie: Oh yeah, all of them are tagged and cross-referenced. Like you have a personal collection of porn so huge it needs to be easily searchable.
Melissa: There’s like 400 tags on each photo.
Me: A lot of them are in Japanese. Korean. Like, “Is that… Hindi? Huh.”

Dirty Talk

Rachel: The size charts are weird.
Me: I’m usually a B, but I’m probably a C right now.
Bryan: Are you guys talking about boobs?
Me: No. We’re talking about pantyhose.
Bryan: Oh. Talk about boobs instead.
Me: Boobs, boobs, boobs. I love boobs. Boobs.
Rachel: I have two of them.
Bryan: You guys suck at this.
Rachel: Maggie has boobs.
Bryan: Warmer.
Maggie: Rachel also has boobs.
Rachel: Bryan and Ryan do not have boobs.
Me: But what they lack in boobs, they make up for in charm.
Bryan: Forget it.
Ryan: I’m gettin’ hot.

Open Letter

Dear Can of Baby Corn,

The hell? How do you keep ending up in my pantry? I never purchase you. I’ve donated you to the food bank at least three times. And yet here you are, again — stony, steadfast, utterly useless. Baby Corn, you are beginning to stress me out.

Even if I wanted to use you, I wouldn’t know how. Grill you and take little, tiny nibbles? Blend you up in a hideous baby-vegetable smoothie? I am at a loss.

Baby Corn, your persistence is unsettling. The can of Haggis, I married into that. Bryan keeps it in the cupboard as an uproarious pantry joke. The twelve cans of aging garbanzo beans? Those are leftover from the overambitious homemade-hummus fiasco of 2006. But you? You are mute and inexplicable.

Go away, Baby Corn. You’re making everyone uncomfortable.

Sincerely,
Maggie Mason

P.S. Take the can of Mandarin oranges with you.

Theories

I pull into the quiet lot behind the Gymboree, the five and dime, the gourmet grocer. As I lift Hank out into the sunshine, a security guard scowls at us. His stance is wide, his arms crossed. Who is this guy?

I look around the small, peaceful parking lot — I can almost smell the Pablum on the air. Why in the world would they hire a security guard? I picture a herd of soccer dads ramming each others’ minivans in a frenzy to beat the line at the nuevo Cubano coffee shop. Perhaps the stroller meets have turned ugly. The Bugaboo moms are lying in wait for the Orbit moms who have learned to use their ponderous diaper bags as weapons. Maybe there was a standoff at the baby center because one of the parents mentioned that their baby was already beginning to talk “for real,” so they were thinking of dropping the baby sign class. Beneath the mundane exterior of this yuppie commercial complex beats a bloody revolution.

The security guard adjusts his mirrored sunglasses, and strolls past a couple of loiterers on a nearby bench. One of them calls out:

“Heeeeey, dickfaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaace!”

Ah. Or that could be it.

High on Life

Oddest quote I came across while researching an essay for a fatherhood anthology:

“‘The strangest thing I’ve tried to snort? My father. I snorted my father,’ Keith Richards was quoted as saying by British music magazine NME.

‘He was cremated and I couldn’t resist grinding him up with a little bit of blow. My dad wouldn’t have cared,’ he said. ‘… It went down pretty well, and I’m still alive.'”