Posts Tagged ‘funny’

The Signs They Are a-Changin’

Thursday, September 2nd, 2010

As you have likely observed, I have a long history of getting discouraged and then suddenly becoming optimistic again. I’m not sure why this is. It’s my own opinion that I have a quick bounce. Bounce – or at least my definition, for what it’s worth – is the time between emotionally hitting the ground and springing back up. Even with extremely tragic or outrageously unfair circumstances, I tend to bounce within a few hours. This is why, despite my arguable host of mental problems and questionable sanity from time to time, anti-depressants don’t really seem to be a prescription I need. Anti-psychotics on the other hand? Perhaps.

Beach Status Signs

Not this kind of sign.

Nonetheless and as I’ve mentioned, the last few weeks I have felt kind of panicked. In the simplest of terms, it’s a feeling of “WHAT ARE YOU DOING??? THIS IS YOUR LIFE!!!” and it’s a really lame and anxiety-causing sensation, especially because there’s no clear answer. On certain terms, I could argue with the Voice of Urgency that I’m doing the best I can – I’m working on a new book (thinking and planning more than writing at the moment, but that will come), I’m living my life, I’m thinking deep thoughts, I have clever ideas at least once a week, I’m mostly in a good mood, I use very few aerosol products anymore, and, by and large, I’m not hurting anybody (as far as I know). On the other hand – and recognizing that the Voice of Urgency comes from my head and, thus, is me in some fashion – I completely agree with it. Somehow, in ways I can’t quite pinpoint, I am wasting time and, by extension, my life.

Ouch.

That hurts.

That more than hurts. That f*cking sucks.

And then enter – stage right – the bounce.

Not this kind either. If this kind is even real. I'm not sure. Somehow I doubt it.

I have long had (and recently had reinforced) the feeling that if I just keep pushing and writing and working that I will eventually hit upon the idea and the plot and the “it”, and then the magical, mystical force that makes stuff turn out happily ever after will kick in and things will go my way forevermore. Just as suddenly, all the work I’ve done up to that point will become useful and relevant, if not sought after. I like this idea. I am buoyed by the hope that I have the talent and the tenacity, all I need is the bright idea and a little bit of star alignment.

This is probably why I was overly excited when my two – count ‘em, not just one but two – fortune cookie fortunes the other day were so optimistic. The first read “Don’t give up. The best is yet to come!” Not too shabby. If fortune cookies were guarantees, this beats the hell out of “You find beauty in ordinary things, do not lose this ability” or “Don’t forget, you are always on our minds.” That second one freaked me out. What? Who? Who’s “our”? A collective hive mind or all of your minds individually? And who are you again? And when you’re thinking about me, do you think good things or wish me well or are you have subtle urges to do me bodily harm? In other words, is this a benign threat of some kind? Seriously, who’s “our”?

I'm trying, I'm trying. The signs are harder to recognize - let alone know - than one might presume.

But not the other night. Those predictions were all good. That night I got two fortuitous predictions: “Don’t give up. The best is yet to come!” and “Your dearest wish will come true within the month!” Sweet.

True, there were only a few days eft in the month, and my dearest wish didn’t quite come to obvious fruition during that time, but maybe the seeds were sown? Or maybe they meant 30 days more than the literal month-end? I’m willing to keep an open mind and a hopeful heart. You never know, I suppose.

Meanwhile, if the fortunes weren’t enough, get this: I found a pearl in an oyster I was eating! I did. A Washington state Sunset Beach oyster grown in the Hood Canal. That has to be some kind of  omen of impending amazing luck, right?

Right???

Well, I say so anyway, and in trying to prove it, I came across the following statistics:

  • The odds of finding a pearl in an oyster are 10,000 to 1
  • Odds of getting a hole in one: 5,000 to 1
  • Odds of an American speaking Cherokee: 15,000 to 1
  • Odds of being struck by lightning: 576,000 to 1
  • Odds of being murdered: 18,000 to 1
  • Odds of getting away with murder: 2 to 1
  • Odds of being considered possessed by Satan: 7,000 to 1
  • Odds of being on plane with a drunken pilot: 117 to 1
  • Odds of writing a New York Times best seller: 220 to 1
  • Odds of becoming a pro athlete: 22,000 to 1
  • Odds of finding a four-leaf clover on first try: 10,000 to 1
  • Odds of winning an Academy Award: 11,500 to 1
  • Chance that Earth will experience a catastrophic collision with an asteroid in the next 100 years: 1 in 5,000
  • Chance of dying in such a collision: 1 in 20,000
Change for Homeless sign

I don't think this is real either. If it were, wouldn't they just ask for dollar bills and small bottles of liquor?

So there you have it: I am almost as likely to win an Academy Award or could be considered possessed by Satan one and a half times before I’d find a matching, misshapen pearl in another oyster, and I’d have better luck hitting TWO holes in one as the same occurring. Thus, I rest my case. I think the math makes it plain: this is a harbinger of imminent good fortune if ever there was.

So bring it on, lucky stars: unload a giant truck of the best and make my dearest dreams come true.

I’m ready already.

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Blog posts you will never see

Friday, June 5th, 2009

Due to general threats against my person in the form of ‘pay back’ or that someone who will not be mentioned by name will start his own blog entitled “All about my daughter,” I would like to officially promise that the following anecdotes will never appear in this blog:

  • The alleged age (carbon dated via ‘best by’ stamps) and expiration date of certain food products and whether said processed/packaged foodstuffs can go bad. 

 

  • Ghosts and what they’re wearing or not wearing or should be wearing and why, in closing, there is no such thing as ghosts.

 

  • Whether or not certain unnamed individuals currently the possess the proper products necessary to open a museum of hair products and assorted toiletries of the early 1990s.

 

  • Whether or not it is karma or simply just irony to harass someone about the giant melted chocolate stain they got on their (which are actually your) pants, and then immediately develop a matching blood stain on the pants you’re wearing.

 

In conclusion, as as previously asserted, I will never mention these incidents in this blog.

 

In other news, I bothered my father’s car to visit an old high school friend, and – thankfully, because although I grew up here and learned to drive here and once drove all around this town knowing what I was doing, I no longer really remember jack sh*t. It’s total stranger in a strange land stuff. – it has an older GPS system built into it.

I started out into my journey and had gone a solid ten minutes on the same road when it struck me as odd that the GPS hadn’t piped up once. I noticed a button on the screen that said ‘audio,’ and when I pressed it, she prompted me to turn right in another half mile.

Just short of a half mile later, I once again grew concerned about her silence and pressed ‘audio’ again, where she confirmed that I should make a right turn in another 200 feet.

This continued throughout the 30 minute drive, and it struck me that this technology was strikingly human: It was like driving with someone who knows where they’re going and is supposed to be giving you directions, but just sits there silently, thus forcing you to stop at every corner and ask open-ended questions like,

“Should I….?”  

“This turn….?”  

“Left or right….?”  

“Is this a good lane to be in…..?”  

“Does this look familiar to you at all….?”

In other words, just helpful enough to keep me from accidentally driving to West Virginia. Barely.

 

 

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My Best Tax Tips!

Thursday, March 19th, 2009
Makes my blood run cold just looking at it.

Makes my blood run cold just looking at it.

I am not an accountant, and I hate doing taxes.

Nontheless, despite my pledges that THIS is the year I hire a pro, there I am on April 14th: installing TurboTax, rifling through mountains of paper, and drinking heavily.

 

However, along the way, my pain is your gain. I have picked up some tips, and with April 15 on the horizon, I thought I’d share them with you.

1. 2 cats + 1 dog = 1 dependent deduction

2. If you have ever worked or thought about work while in your home, it is now an office. Take a deduction!

3. If you wear glasses, go ahead and click the box for ‘legally blind.’ If they call you on it later, just say you had a fierce case of hysterical blindness that has happily reversed itself.

This is the chia puppy. Get three for a break on your taxes!

This is the chia puppy. Get three for a break on your taxes!

4. 2 ferrets + 6 goldfish + 3 chia pets = 1 dependent deduction

5. The adorable bowler hat, amazing new purse, and 4″ green patent heels you couldn’t resist buying? Uniform, uniform, uniform. Deduct it, baby!

6. A tip from my mother with respect to dry cleaning charges: “Claim it until they tell you to stop.” She actually IS an accountant. Seriously.

7. Cook the books! (I don’t know what that means, but it sounds like fun, doesn’t it? Like something Martha Stewart might do! She’s been to jail. She’s not worried about it.)

8. Owner of six or more mammals of any race, breed, species, or creed? Mark yourself down as head of household.

9. Be certain to sign all your returns as “Bozo the Clown.” It helps your tax lawyer get you a lighter sentence on grounds of insanity later on.

 

Happy FIling!

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No country for drunk men

Wednesday, March 18th, 2009

Note to all would-be drunk drivers out there: There’s a new scapegoat in town. Plead insanity.

Or just act insane. Either way.

DUI defendant claims that he’s his own country

EASTON, Pa. – A man accused of driving drunk said Pennsylvania courts have no jurisdiction over him because he’s his own country. After seeing the paperwork that 44-year-old Scott Allan Witmer filed with the court claiming sovereignty, a Northampton County judge said Tuesday he cannot be released from jail until he gets a mental exam.

Witmer, who represented himself, said he believes police lack jurisdiction to pull him over. As he said in court: “I live inside myself, not in Pennsylvania.” He said there is no victim in the crime and asked to go to trial.

Defense attorney James Connell, Witmer’s standby counsel, said a challenge to the traffic stop would need to be filed as a pretrial motion.

 

I kind of like this idea, not so much from the drunk driving angle, but as a general approach to life. All those times I pulled out the American passport, only to be lambasted about the behavior of George W. Bush? No more. Now I hail from Vanessica, where Malamutes roam free and the crime rate is low. We’re neutral, like Switzerland, and we won’t get on board with the Euro because we’re snobs.

 

Pay my taxes? I think not.

April 15 is now a day of pagan celebration and merry making because here in Vanessica, we have no taxes. We’re ruled by a kind and extraordinarily attractive leader, who only doles out punishment if you absolutely twist her arm. She’s not passive aggressive, but she is conflict-averse. However, if you set her off? Look out.

 

If I have more time later tonight, perhaps I’ll work up a little flag for this proud nation? I’m thinking something in yellow and maybe hot pink. With some flowers and maybe a dog paw print. But before you get all carried away, don’t go sending me your tired, your poor, and your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Here in Vanessica, we live inside ourselves, so I would have absolutely nowhere to put them.

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Something God and I have in common

Sunday, March 15th, 2009
Not necessarily your god, but a god.

I also like to kick back with some bananas and grapes while a little mouse wearing a gold belt brings me tangerines.

I know what you’re thinking.

What could I possibly have in common with God?

I mean, he’s a supreme being; a diety worshipped all over the world. I’m more of a demi-god, worshipped only in certain small villages in Central Africa and within a specific two-block radius of Flint, Michigan.

Well, let me tell you: Beyond our magnificence, munificence, and occasional use of lightening bolts to smote others, God and I share one immutable principle: On Sunday we rest.

Because that’s how we roll.

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