Tag Archives: humor

So who am I supposed to text again?

anwering machine

Remember when you could just be, like, not home?
(thanks to ebay seller shopdontdrop2010)

About a month ago I purchased an overly-sensitive, overpriced, needy, demanding, uncomfortable piece of baggage otherwise known as a smartphone. I don’t think I’ve ever hated any gadget this much. This phone is so irrelevant to me that I’ve stopped carrying it out of sheer rebellion. I miss my little black cellphone which fit perfectly into my jeans pocket. This unwieldy 3 x 5 ½ slab of hardware is annoying in my pocket when I bend down to pick up litter every few feet on my walks, a time it seems wise to have a phone. It doesn’t fit into the side pocket of my purse either.

Once a year when our contracts are up we holdouts have to decide whether we can tolerate another year of shame. Of not looking smart. (I saw what I’ve always thought was a homeless guy with one the other day—I guess he couldn’t take it either). I’ve never seen such pressure to conform in my lifetime. I feel like a sellout. I’m more ashamed that we’re now paying double what the cellphones cost per month than I was about pulling out the little black antique in public.

I hate texting, hate seeing people’s heads always pointed down, or seeing phones poised over steering wheels. I work two jobs, alone, and the people I do communicate with deserve a phone call or email. I found out I don’t need to check my email when I’m not home, don’t like screen games, don’t need GPS (I love maps—the journey, ya know?), and, it’s a pain in the ass always digging around for my reading glasses to see the screen. How do all you middle-aged presbyopics deal with this?

This month the must-have apps promise success of your new year’s resolutions. Well first of all new year’s resolutions are lame—you don’t really take them seriously, you just think you have to proclaim them because everybody else does. Why wait until January 1? We all needed to drop twenty pounds last August, but we get a free five-month fat pass? Here’s a great app for you—self-control.

I’m amazed at the cultural pressure to have an active social life whether you want it or not. And in between girls-night-out and guys-over-to-watch-the-game, you’re supposed to stay connected. There’s a not-so-subtle discrimination against people not on Facebook or other social media. Are people that terrified of being alone with their thoughts, their job, a book, a movie, a pet? Do modern humans need to report in every time two neurons complete a synapse?

My cell phone was one tough little simpleton, it could go days without a charge. This one is a whiny little wuss. Every time I look at it it’s down another 20%. It’s harder to use than is necessary. Emergency or not, I’d still have to find a pair of reading glasses. The screen is always flipping around, the keypad disappears, it nags me with updates, it’s always filthy. It tells me I’ve entered my password incorrectly or have done something that makes it impossible to retrieve a voice mail. So I hold the phone like it’s a turd, careful not to touch anything.

People say once you have one, you won’t be able to live without it. Anything’s possible I guess. Why just the other day I saw my dogs out in the yard with plastic bags and little shovels picking up their own poop. Now that’s smart.

A Plethora of Hysteria

My last boyfriend had many sisters, half sisters, and stepsisters. He insisted on a family reunion which I was against from the start. What a pack of misfits. Cicada wouldn’t shut up, Rotunda broke my porch swing, and it was really hard to get rid of Remora. Neuralgia and Miasma gave me a headache and Candida and Chlamydia weren’t too appealing either. Rodentia, though cute, managed to gnaw through the main power cable, plunging us all into darkness. Hyena kept everyone up at night, and so did Ephedra. Not to mention that dimwit Cupola up there straddling the roof at 3 a.m.

Fistula, Influenza, and Trauma made extra work for everybody while Deliria and Phobia were needy and annoying. I could say the same for Coma, but at least she was quiet. Alfalfa, Chakra, and Yoga complained about Ganja, Hookah, and Tequila, provoking longstanding lifestyle differences (though I saw them slip into Sambuca’s room on several occasions). Urethra, Enema, and Bulimia hogged the bathroom which led to an abrasive altercation with Loofah. Tempura, Polenta, Tostada, and Lasagna joined forces with Spatula but even they were not safe from Granola’s snippy barbs.

As usual, there was bad blood between Piranha and Scuba. Polka aggravated Rumba, Magma and Tundra bickered, Siesta detested Tuba and who could blame her. Vanilla was a bore. Barista was so bloody perky that she finally woke up Inertia, causing second-degree burns to poor Stigma who was standing nearby. Amnesia was useless. Sepia looked so old! Academia and Diploma were always bragging and Replica was a complete phony. Pagoda was OK but Dogma, Myopia, and Propaganda were nothing but trouble. I do not wish to speak of Placenta. I was jealous of Lycra, distrustful of Nirvana, and mystified by Enigma. Only Charisma and Stamina didn’t attend—claimed they were out of the country. I should’ve done the same.

It didn’t end well. Junta, Militia, and Armada finally settled the conflicts—with Beretta. I am so done with reunions.

Artifacts of Madness

I come with a lot of baggage but it ain’t Louis Vuitton. It’s not even the kind with the little wheels. I schlep it around kicking and screaming.

COVERS OF WOMEN’S magazines at the checkout counter:  Drop 2 dress sizes in one week!  Next line:  Chocolate cupcakes to die for! Look inside and see the Ask the Doctor section. I have a large mass growing on the side of my neck. What should I do? Here’s a suggestion—why don’t you go get a big pair of shears and cut it off?

THE NEIGHBORS I have the restraining order against had their water shut off the other day. You can always tell a shut-off compared to a meter reading. Readings are done methodically by street. Shut-offs require the serviceman to wrestle with wrenches and rusted knobs. Next thing I see cop cars racing down the street. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know what happened—the serviceman called the cops because the homeowners came out and harassed him. Maybe threatened him, who knows. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen this happen to some poor schmuck trying to do his job. They need to start hiring tough guys, like repo-men, to shut off deadbeats’ water.

SERIAL LIKERS: I will never click on your blog. I have disabled ‘likes’ from my posts but there is no way to disable them from the reader feeds. But your robo-likes will no longer show up on my blog. Here’s an idea: why don’t you try writing something? I’ve clicked on a few serial likers’ blogs and found hundreds of comments on their About pages. I thought, wow, they must be good. But this is what you see:

Thank you for liking my post!
Thank you for liking my post! I’ll be back!
Thank you for liking my post! You rock!
Thank you for liking my post! I’m following you now!
etc., etc., blah blah blah

Please go do your part to keep Facebook shallow.

RECENTLY AN ACQUAINTANCE told me I need to kiss more ass if I want to be successful. He said it was part of the job. Sorry but I can’t do that. He said, fine, but are you happy? Uh, like kissing ass is going to make me happy?

Every now and then I put an ad in the paper advertising my housecleaning service. And every time, I dread answering calls because the cheapest people in the U.S. live in Arizona. They’re used to cut-rate labor and have no clue what a really clean house is, performed by an ethical person. I think of each cleaning job as a work of art that I sign my name to. Last week I placed a completely different kind of ad entitled Not Like Other Housecleaners. This time I wrote what my requirements are, and included a minimum price. I can only do one house per day. It was a little snippy but I’m sick to death of retired people following me around like I’m going to steal something,  interrupting me, asking me are you almost done? and forcing me to listen to CNN. It’s oppressive and I can’t do it anymore. Well damned if I haven’t been getting calls all week from really nice working people. I don’t have to fear returning calls, they already read the ad. I don’t know what the moral of this story is—maybe don’t kiss ass, it’s not worth your self-respect.

A bathroom I was asked to clean. I passed. I have cleaned for people who treated me like scum—lucky for them, I don’t name names. I did laundry for a local couple who were very nasty to me. If I showed the pictures of their laundry (which I had to pick up with rubber gloves and a stick), you would get sick. But not as sick as I.

A keyboard at a jobsite.

What I find on my front lawn in the morning. Gosh, I’m so glad they switched to Bud Light. Even f*cking a**holes need to watch their waistlines!

A neighbor’s yard.

A friend’s garage.

You don’t have to have doors or hoods on your cars here.

Only in B*sb**. 

This newspaper, from a very liberal city we visited in the Pacific Northwest, tossed around the word ‘anarchy’ like it’s The Big Solution. A tidy, anti-gun city  with mowed lawns, no litter, no smoking, and thousands of conformist students all with the same unkempt look, all on their phones. How do they know what anarchy is? They should come down here to the border to see it in actual use. First thing they’d do if someone threatened them is call the cops. Then they’d run back home to their mamas.

Look at the bottom line on the bus. Religion OR reality? I don’t get it. Are they saying people need to make a choice, pick one or the other? What kind of message is that?

A Smokin’ Cover Letter

lividia.lapsus@chronic.com
8/20/12  4:20 p.m.

Dear Mr. DeStickler,

I am writhing to applify for the poofreader position you have adversitized in Obscure Jobs Monthly. I overstand you seek a detailed person—I pay acension to many details and would be happy to provoke you with a list. The requireships for this deployment and my commandeering use of linguage are a perfect match.

Let me be a blunt. I am very dispendable and pried myself on being resluts-oriented. I am self-deficient and dipsomatic with a divisive backgrowned in fending misteaks. I aslo have execrable communicable skills, deadication, and always finish what I star

My bong-term experience in the wirting world has taught me how impotent it is to be articular in educationable pubications.

I look to forwarding an intervention with you soon.

Sincerably yours,

Lividia Lapsus

____________________________________________________

lividia.lapsus@chronic.com
8/20/12  4:25 p.m.

Dear Mr. DeStickler,

I just relized I flailed to detach my resume. I am currently quality control manger at a despinrady in Arizona. I mean dinspedary, no that’s not right…depinsnary? Wait, dispensary. See how I checked the spelling? Dude please. I need a new job.

Thank you in advants for your consinderation.

Lividia

The Bane of a Traveling Companion

Nothing brings out the savage in generally easygoing people like being cooped up in a tiny car/motel room together for a week. On a recent road trip with J, we lurched between arguing and not speaking at all, highlighted by a full-on brawl at 1 a.m. in a rest stop off a California highway that resulted in me refusing to get back in the car.

Money
The biggest issue, as always. The cash we brought lasted a total of two days and the rest of the trip was financed with a credit card. Two fill-ups a day at $4 a gallon equals about $90. A day. Just for gas. Add that to one type-A and one type-B personality, just for fun.

handy clothes-hanging area in motel room

Motels
We sought the cheapest, sometimes sneaking the dog in. Our last stop was out of weary desperation in a crowded city. First thing I do is check the bathroom—the toilet water was level with the top of the bowl. A few flushes confirmed a considerable clog. J went to report to front desk. They actually said, do you want a plunger? Another motel had a broken air conditioner (fan worked but no compressor kicked in) and when we told the manager he helpfully clarified: Work fine! Look, hot air outside, cool inside! Why do people want to be in the service industry? And why, why, why, can’t they install a few clothes hooks, especially in bathrooms?

Showers
We’re all built basically the same—head, torso, legs, feet. So how the hell does the languid descent of water droplets from some lame shower three feet above my head reach anyone’s anatomy? What am I, a gymnast? I want a bath, or at least some kind of unit on a hose you can take down. I gave up after a few nights. I just don’t get the whole American shower obsession. The water is going in the wrong direction.

Food
I generally don’t eat much, and lifestyle stress, lack of money, and cleaning houses keeps my weight stable. J decides to go on a junk food binge. It’s impossible to resist when two feet away. I not only gained weight and got stomach cramps, but the steady input of oil and fat combined with long-distance driving acted as an irrigation system that germinated, then ripened a bumper crop of zits. And not just on my face. I don’t want to talk about it.

Peeing
I gotta pee. I drink a lot of fluids and it’s my biological heritage to quickly process and release, passed down from my mother. I hate restrooms, they’re usually disgusting and women are pigs. I’d rather go on the side of the road, and seven years in Arizona has emboldened me even further than when I lived in wooded areas back east. I’m happy with a cactus for a screen, or even a tumbleweed, if nothing else the open car door is enough. I stopped caring long ago if someone sees me peeing. When I have to go, I have to go. When I’m traveling by myself, it’s never an issue. I am armed for god’s sake and you’d have to be an idiot to not see someone coming toward you. But traveling with a man, all of a sudden it’s “someone will see you.” Stop the fracking car, now.

Temperature
When traveling alone, dealing with my broken personal thermostat from hot flashes isn’t a big deal. Open the window, shut the window. Turn on AC, turn off AC. But this brings out the berserker in a man. Guess I can’t blame him.

Sex
What is it about crappy motel rooms that makes men want to have sex? Here I am calculating with dread the next minimum payment on the Visa, they’re having some sort of tailgate party in the parking lot, the AC doesn’t work, the dog refuses to eat, I’m bloated as a dead jellyfish, haven’t shaved my legs in days, and I have a painful lesion in my mouth from the disgusting amount of potato chips I’ve been stuffing in. His snoring has kept me awake for the past three nights and we’re close to a combat situation. I’m about as sexy as a coldsore. So back off, buddy.

TV
For the millionth time I wonder how anyone can stand TV. There may be no microwave, fridge, working air conditioner, or bathtub in these shabby rooms, but the damn TV works fine, doesn’t it? TV is agony. We brought a laptop but the volume’s not loud enough and the wifi connections are so bad you spend most of the time drifting in and out of service. The lightbulb is too dim to read by. All I want to do is sleep but that would be too easy.

Radio
Disc jockeys should have their vocal cords cut.

The best trips I’ve ever taken were by myself. I love to talk to strangers. After five minutes you can walk away. You?

Cosmic Effluvium

I met Planchette in a pasture where we were both staring at goats—he was hoping for some new kidskin gloves, I just wanted to snap a few photos. He claimed we met by coincidence but I realize now how random encounters are much more certain to occur when one person is stalked. Next thing I know we’re speaking in tongues and he was laying hands on me. Much was made of his expertise in touch therapy, but he was your basic medium. Planchette put the sham in shamanic healing and taught me the true meaning of mentalism.

I experienced a vision of life reincarnated but it turned out I just needed stronger glasses. His approach to our relationship was holistic—he wanted comprehensive possession. I made the mistake of mocking his new-age views so he insisted I submit to past-life regression—now I’m channeling a two-year-old. He promised we’d transmigrate to an oracle of divine relocation but instead I landed in a near-death experience.  His audible frequencies usually put me in a somnambulistic trance and teleported me to a higher unconsciousness, and he was always mad that I didn’t return his telepathic voice mails. Sometimes I’d turn ghostly white and start scrying.

Planchette boasted he was certified with the Countrywide Collusion of Simulated Psychics. We’d often hand out coupons for free dream interpretation via text messaging, then direct them to his website where he sold shamanic healing kits. The kits included tiny drums, rattles, his new CD The Dronings of Our Ancestors, some mild stimulants, and a package of Kleenex, all assembled in a handy carrying case for the paranormal price of $189.95.

It’s true he had a hypnotic effect on me but thank goodness I was fine once the narcotics wore off. I intuited I was in the gateway, maybe even the vestibule, of a psychic disturbance so I sat down to engage in some automatic writing, but what came out bent my pen. Next time I feel the need for an astral projection I think I’ll just stay home.

You’re So Vane, You Probably Think this Storm is About You

Dear Kelvin,
I’m all for whirlwind romance, but cool it with the high pressure, it’ll only result in a squall. All this hot air has prompted a wind advisory. Just because you have a few degrees from Contrail Community College doesn’t make you a supercell.

Dear Glacia,
Oooh, blustery. Thanks a lot for the cold front. Whatever happened to “oh baby you raise my dew point like no one else?” You seemed pretty saturated to me last night but then you always were a little hoary.

Kelvin,
Sorry but my humidity is relative. We’ve been drifting for a while now and the effects are cumulus. Must you drizzle? You’re like a fog that never lifts. It shouldn’t be a surprise my subtropical region is in a depression. What do you want me to do, sit and spin? No wait, I’d need a vertical axis for that.

Glacia,
You should be glad my visibility was poor last night because you were a category 5 disaster. Did you actually pay for that new permafrost? What, in centigrade? And you blew through that row of desserts like a cyclone. Weren’t you embarrassed by the evacuations? Try getting your face out of the trough now and then and you might appear more gradient.

Kelvin,
I predicted that torrent. You overcast me with your wit. It wasn’t my idea to eat at the High Winds Buffet, so chill out. I need to circulate before I vaporize into atmosphereless haze. By the way, how’s the job down at the cloud bank?

Glacia,
Turbulent but thanks for asking. How’s yours slinging funnel cake at the state fair? Good luck starting at absolute zero. Your density precipitates you.

Kelvin,
What in hail are you talking about, you nimbus? You know I don’t speak Celsius.

Glacia, let’s clear up this unstable anticlimate. Wanna meet me at the Isobar?

Kelvin, can I take a rain check?

Aw c’mon Glacia, give me a 50% chance. Afterward we can play twister.

Kelvin, you don’t really deserve inclemency…but if I can ride your thermal and you promise to wear a windsock…

Glacia, to the stratosphere, you little dust devil! I’ll set up the lightning rod…