I began the year politically correct by wishing the dog happy new seven years.
My friend Schuster promised Rufus that if he shot him this year, he would only use low caliber bullets so it wouldn’t kill him or hurt as much as last year, which must have moved Rufus because he promised Schuster that if he tried to strangle him in his sleep again he’d wake him first, which probably would make less sense when we all sobered up.
I’m thinking about officially changing my name to K3ith this year, which sounds much more futuristic than just plain old Keith, but my rebel buddies have already begun teasing me and calling me a sellout, threatening to raise my club dues if I even talk about it; I’m willing to pay the price because I thought you should know in case I disappear someday.
Juan really wished he could blame that sluggish, bloated feeling on some kind of man-period, but he knew it mostly had to do with eating an entire package of Oreos in a futile attempt at self-medication.
Travelling in your own country you miss out on that sweat-inducing fear of not quite understanding anything that is said to you.
Bedtime can be a stressful time for your house giraffe, so remember that the simple sight of you carrying the ladder and toothbrush at the same time may be all it takes to set off a panic, resulting in overturned lamps and bruised egos.
Everyone thought enough time had passed, but Henry ignored their pleas and refused to take off the guilt-colored earmuffs.
I asked around, but no one knew how much money God had in his wallet.
Some ideas should be killed off at the very beginning.
Men with dapper hats.
Henry slowly worked his way through the alphabet, researching and organizing each and every letter to his heart’s content.
“Im going to learn how to dance and finally see France and walk around the house without any pants.”
I resolve to spellchek my Scrines before I hit “publish.”
She laboriously reconfigured her truck to run on maple syrup, in a long-range bid to improve the economy of her native Canada and to make the world smell more pancakey to boot.
1978 was the best year ever, and it’s been pretty much downhill since then.
You know, they aren’t all made for walking.
Everyone will sneak a cat or two into their apartment during their lifetime, but only those wanting to declare open war will set the cat shit out in a cardboard box in the Oregon rain so that the chief is eventually forced to clean it up.
Gentle summer breezes playing with long wavy hair.
Now I know why men always look sad.
His emotions were like carpet stains - hard to explain how’d they’d gotten there, and nearly impossible to get out.
Beth knew that people looked down on her because of her ugly old car, but she felt that reflected more about them than about her.
“Of course I blame my mother for my weight problems,” Jane stated with complete seriousness, “Why would I be responsible for what goes in my mouth?”
“I’ve always been a sucker for a damson in distress,” said my arborist eying the wind-toppled tree with concern.
I started 2010 with a New Years resolution for 2011: I will not go skinny dipping at Scrine holiday parties as the email from Valerie asking about the vitality of my pork sword leads me to believe that what happens on Scrine does not necessarily stay on Scrine (besides it was really cold that night).
The godwit, a long legged wading bird, is known for its strong migratory tendencies as well as its peculiar brand of religious humor that often offends Episcopalians and Methodists.
I am quite suprised by the large number of nervous pooers (i.e. anxious shitting) that show up at my AA meeting.
“It’s true that two wrongs don’t make a right,” my friend Schuster told Rufus, “but three wrongs, on the other hand, can make for the start of a beautiful day.”
As inspired by: Br. Ezra's New Years Eve 2011
No one at the party went so far as to claim that Br. Ezra was in all likelihood the mythical Bigfoot, at least not while he kept his clothes on, but then we were a wishy-washy bunch, and the moment he stripped down and started his mesmerizing annual lumber towards the pool, several alternate theories concerning his true identity came up, all completely believable and most likely true.
Goober and the Ghost Chasers is my favorite Scooby Doo knock off (more so than the gold electroplated Bolex that I wear on my wrist).
By tagging 365 sentences this month I fully expect to add 456.25 days to the end of my life as Keith promises.
The Association of California Emergency Doctors and Trauma Physicians (ACEDTP) experienced major elation when the state legislature enacted Geres Law that instituted an application process and 30 day waiting period for anyone wishing to purchase a hamster or gerbil as a pet; in a related story, hospitals in West Hollywood expect a major decrease in ER visits during a full moon.
It is the writer’s undeniable right to promise you anything and everything, fully backed by a written guarantee if they can afford printer ink.
It’s day six of the new year and already my plans have gone awry.
I really wish people didn’t need a religion to tell them right from wrong or a Christmas season to tell them to be generous.
bad ideas sometimes follow through.
“The beautiful thing about life,” Milton the Bastard told the children, “is that it guarantees death for all you little screaming bastards.”
Mastery of sarcasm is the first task of tweendom: condescension, the first task of older sisterdom.
“I don’t get it,” my friend Schuster told the cop as they loaded him and Rufus into the back of the car, “you catch a hundred flies at a carcass and you cops don’t think a thing, but find me and my friend here at one and you get all bent out of shape.”
If I ever kill anyone, it will be in crushing, soul-destroying hot weather.
I was distracted by the thwip! thwip! sound of the other mothers’ helicopter blades.
Petra tasted each letter carefully before arranging her alphabet.
Somewhere in Atlantic City a prostitute earns her wings; meanwhile, a mother weeps quietly in a small forgotten town in Middle America.
I see lesbians (and it makes me happy).
Derek suffered an aneurism waiting for inspiration to arrive.
I realized conversation is a lost art when my hairdresser of almost 3 months still mentioned the kids, dog and job I have that don’t really exsist.
“I still don’t believe in reincarnation,” the ghost of Carl Sagan told me as he watched me frying the bacon, “because it just feels like too much beginner’s luck all in the same place at the same time, and from my experience, the universe just doesn’t roll that way.”
As it happened, learning to play the guitar did not open the door to fame and success; however, it did lead to some interesting conversations about the origin of those callouses on her left hand finger tips.
My friend is flying out to watch her father die, and it’s amazing how much we laughed lately on the phone; I think it’s because it makes us more alive and makes his death make some strange kind of sense.
It’s a parent’s job to make nonsensical rules and a child’s job to follow them.
“If you just cannot bring yourself to accept what we have here and to participate in this community, we’d like to remind you that you can
go to hell.”
I’m a sucker for tears and a quivering lower lip, but now I realize I’ve been had.
I was cheerfully enjoying quantity over quality as I began to build my reading log for 2010 when I stumbled into The Collected Works of T.S. Spivet which is big, beautiful, perfect for slowly savoring and which, despite the fact I’m only half-way through, I’m whole-heartedly recommending to my fellow Scriners.
Somehow it seemed quite appropriate when Juanita cut her finger slicing blood oranges.
Irritated by her own children, she put them outside and locked the door.
Years ago a very wise man named Keith explained to me his hypothesis about acknowledging and even measuring the passage of time by the curled, melted edge of his rubber spatula; personally I measure larger cycles within my life based on the short life and reliably frequent death of coffemakers.
In 4th grade I and my friends somehow found a way to lock the teacher in a storage cabinet; I don’t know how things turned out for the other boys, but things have tough for me ever since.
In a dark and dingy el nino year there’s no point in opening the blinds; I’m just happy to live when we have mastered electricity.
That I have been around to watch the evolution of music from the 8-track tape to an ipod shuffle the size of a pack of matches that holds 300+ songs makes me happy; that I’ve only got another 50 years or so of life left to witness more such musical miracles makes me sad.
I’m not mean; I’m just observant.
Far as I can tell, the difference between cowboy coffee and a French press is the latter requires a delicate glass carafe and a hefty shot of pretension.
The optimist in me believes the cup is half full, but unfortunately, half full of deadly poison.
Brad always sought out the busiest public restrooms to do his business.
“It’s important to remember, Barton,” the counselor said, “that you are in control of your fear of spiders, and that it is completely irrational for you to think that every piece of lint you see is a spider ready to jump you, but it is equally important to remember that God is mysterious and powerful and could, at the blink of an eye, decide to test your faith by turning your phobia into a nightmare come true.”
“I’m sorry for interrupting, and I certainly don’t mean to be rude,” Barton told the tree, “but do all your jokes use bark as the punch line?”
“It’s 2010, there is no ‘off the grid,’ buddy.”
“I just want an old trailer, parked up in the mountains with maybe a couple of solar panels and a propane tank and a dog—I wanna be totally ‘off the grid,’”
“If your girlfriend ever dares you to shave your underarms, don’t do it,” announced Hank, a little sheepishly, to his Tuesday night basketball buddies.
It kind of freaks me out that by far the cheapest way to order the expensive Japanese-made projector lamp I need is from a vendor in Sydney, Australia.
It may be intelligent and might even be well deserved, but your snark is the reason you’re not getting invited to the parties.
There’s a moral to this tale, of course,
Since now to the finish I’ve come,
Remember the higher a social monkey climbs
The more it shows its bum.
Wombat poop is cubic.
I never wanted a dog, those old, gaudy technicolor movies ruined them for me, because if there are two things that a twelve year old doesn’t want, they’re to learn a life lesson, and have a dead dog.
When he heard that there would now be sarcasm punctuation Jeff realized that he must have gone TOO far.
It turns out that voters’ pamphlets make excellent, oversized coasters for my coffee cup.
Ever since the nineties, and the downfall of irony in general, Mark was sure to keep an old copy of the New Oxford Dictionary (which in itself is a little ironic) so that when, inevitably, he babysat his grand kids, and they hopped on the internet, and wrote down “see coincidence” on their vocabulary homework beside the word, he could laugh about the good old days, and know for sure that he didn’t have Alzheimer’s, yet.
Pulled pork sandwiches prove that the pig is perhaps the most unrecognized hero in existence.
The concept of weight limits on elevators has nothing to do with safety, but was implemented early on when P.T. Barnum insisted on bringing his gassy pet hippopotamus onto the lift with him.
“So when you say ‘platelet’, doctor,” Henry said, “are you referring to those small dessert plates at the buffet?”
“If death is like sleep, I’m totally okay with it.”
As inspired by: Jo's Beaky, Fluttery Monsters
As inspired by: jaded beauty
I hope he gets fired, his wife leaves him, and he ends up living in a refrigerator box by the West Side Highway and drinking Woolite like Gene Wilder in Everything I Wanted to Know About Sex and Was Afraid to Ask and while he’s drinking Woolite, I want him to fully realize the meaning of the world regret; I wish this almost more than I wish to feel happy and loved again…almost.
Reality tastes like burnt caramel.
Coffee never tasted so good except tomorrow’s.
“All afternoon I’ve been floating inside; those breasts were a minor miracle in the midst of this gray, cold week.”
“Oh, and you can play with my boobs, too.”
I feel bitter as I drink yesterday’s rewarmed coffee.
I dread sleeping because the succubus who visits each night is an ancient crone with leathery wings and scaly skin her breath smells like dead and rotting things who perches on my chest, tickling me with demonic glee instead of the cute college co-ed who lives next door and wears a tank top and flowered cotton panties to bed every night (not that I am looking in her window because that would be illegal).
A child of the microwave era, Katie explained that her second grade teacher was retarded because now matter how many times she explained it, he didn’t understand that 200 is the same as 60 plus 60.
Perhaps it is because I am in recovery, but throughout the day I find myself feeling guilty and anxious for no apparent reason.
As inspired by: 'mouse's the power of boobies, craigslist edition
Mouse’s Scrines on boobies and Craigslist inspired me to Google fun bags, but this was not what I had in mind.
The chief contemplated the busy work of the day ahead, most of which seemed to him the result of either someone’s clumsiness, misguided anger, or anal retentive need for perfection in what was clearly an imperfect situation.
Someone spilled coffee on my Methodist coloring book.
Deciding whether we’re living in a dystopia or a utopia depends on how you view human nature; I think we’re somewhere in between—four-way stops are still recognized, at least around my house, though some people seem to be too rich to drive properly.
“So, how’s the hunting out there?” the chief asked the undercover narcotics officer who was looking for a new apartment; “Too good,” the officer replied.
The first sign is the stilted language, the second sign is when they actually send you a check for several hundred thousand dollars they’d like you to clear which says “hold to the light to see official watermark” and there’s no watermark, and the third sign is when the bank types in the routing and account numbers and the computer just sighs, “Again?”
“Good pork sausage is better than cash,” Henry told the teller, “so quite giving me grief and deposit this into my savings account right now before I call over the manager.”
All things considered, looking like an elf with a mullet isn’t the worst thing that could happen.
Avoiding someone is much easier if you never, ever leave the house.
The only thing unusual about that morning was that he awakened an hour earlier than normal when his cell phone insistently chirped him aware of its low battery.
Even if you’re one-in-a-million, in China there are 1,300 people exactly like you.