Actual thought I just had while watching the Mentalist:

“Oh, please. No moderately sane witch would cast a killing spell. It would come back on her double-whammy.”

It’s possible I’ve spent too much time in San Francisco.


Things I have recently wondered about life and death because of Josh Allen:

-If my non-cremated body were shot into space, would it rot? If so, how much would a NASA-patch shroud slow the decomposition rate? If not, what are the mathematical odds my body would be discovered by alien life forms? Pretty slim, I’d think.

-Actually, I bet people use Power Point at funerals at lot.

-It seems like Purell would kill sperm, right? Someone has tried that out by now.

-Why do magicians dress like Dracula?

Group Project

Foods You Can Bring Into Your Mouth Simply by Sticking Out Your Tongue, a Partial List*

  • Popcorn
  • Nerds
  • Pop Rocks
  • Cheerios
  • Fruit Loops
  • Cap’n Crunch
  • Cheetos
  • Dry cereals of all sorts
  • Puff corn
  • Pirate’s Booty
  • Pixie Sticks
  • Skittles
  • Rasinettes
  • Hershey’s Kisses
  • Lik a Stik powder
  • Lik-M-Aid
  • Fun Dip
  • Cotton candy
  • M&Ms
  • Dip ‘n’ Dots
  • Sprinkles
  • Chocolate shavings
  • Pringles
  • Peanuts
  • Ice cream
  • Sour Patch Kids
  • Sunflower seeds
  • The crumbs at the bottom of the chip bag

    Honorable mention: Cheese

*Responses to my tweet.

Comedic Ass Sniffing

Am I a stupid person? I’m not a stupid person. I read all the books you’re supposed to read, I keep abreast of current events, I can find my home state on a map. So if I admit you’re smarter than me, will you do something for me?

Please limit yourself to one joke per evening that forces half the group to go heads down on their iPhones in feverish Wikipedia searches, while the rest of us pretend to laugh uproariously in feigned recognition of your obscure reference point.

Okay, thanks.

Tiger, Tiger

Antique shopping, I round a corner and nearly trip over a boy in a paper tiger-mask. He starts, scrambles backward, then pauses in my path. His hands are on the floorboards, and he rocks forward and back, eyes fixed on mine. I smile for a moment, and then realize he is gangly, tall, perhaps too old to be crawling around.

We pause for a moment, at impasse. A giant warehouse fan whirs beside him. He turns his head, bares his teeth one at a time, and growls softly into the fan blades.

In Stride

You, sir, are sporting oversized aviator sunglasses, and your shirt is unbuttoned to the middle of your chest. Your head is shaved. You are strutting backward up the street, your arm at a right angle to your body, as you point up the block, greeting someone you know.

That guy? The stranger in the distance? He is the man. “The man,” you would say, if he could hear you, but he is too far. Instead you point silently, profoundly. You point with emphasis.

…You are still doing this — still walking backward, pointing meaningfully at this person, who is no longer visible. The friend walking with you offers his feet an awkward smile, shakes his head.

Maybe the friend walking beside you has a girlfriend. And if he does, she wishes he would hang with you less.

No promises about the Elmer’s Glue

This morning I used the last of some deodorant, and I felt victorious, like I had bested corporate forces that were waiting for me to buy another pack before it was time. I should have left this fateful stick in my gym locker, or dumped it from my bag in a hotel room, or found it dried and crunchy in a drawer crammed with confusing hair products.

For my next feat, I shall use the last of a bottle of honey before it becomes a bear-shaped crystaline brick, or perhaps consume an entire bag of ground-up coffee beans before they start tasting like dirt.

Then we’ll have a party. You bring the coffee.