I always thought it was important to be a results-oriented person until I impulsively screamed during sex: “I finished first!”
I’ve always wanted to argue a case before the Supreme Court, but I have a fear of being asked, “Do you even know what amicus curiae means?”
If you want to witness some nice brawling, accept any invitation to a Political Affiliation Reveal party.
Was I dreaming?
I have this vivid image of calling 911 and the operator only wanted to talk about her problems. After twenty minutes, I realized my burning home was less important than her disagreements with her roommate.
Every relationship begins with trust. Just provide me with blood and hair samples, and then let the magic begin.
Has this ever happened to you?
Last week, I was trying to think of something interesting to write about, but was distracted by a space alien captor probing my body orifices. Then a few days later, I headed into the woods for a little solitude, and wouldn’t you know it, Big Foot kidnapped me and insisted on showing me his new breakfast nook he carved out in his cave. These distractions are killing me. I think I’m just going to write about shopping for socks.
Establishing emotional bonds with anybody has always been difficult for me, but I will continue trying until the day I wonder why I can’t connect with my undertaker.
That’s why I don’t see Stockholm syndrome, a condition in which hostages develop a psychological bond with their captors during captivity, as being a totally negative thing. To me, it’s an opportunity to experience a connection I so crave with one or more creatures that are not a dog, cat or turtle.
Being a hostage certainly has its drawbacks. No one likes to have their mouth duck taped shut while their captors are negotiating with the police, Still, to feel an almost affinity with a gun-toting hoodlum who holds my life in his frenzied hands, at the very least, beats feeling alone in a crowd at an after-work mixer. At minimum, my abductor would “get” me and hopefully, should I survive, I would get him or her.
I’m sure you’re thinking, “You’re just looking at the positive aspects of being held hostage,” and you’re right. What if, for example, I was immediately released as a goodwill gesture to the police? Why me and not the other hostages? That kind of rejection would be hard to accept.
Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. You have to take a chance and keep an open mind and an open heart. Plus, who knows? Maybe I’ll bond with someone on the hostage negotiation team.
How can you tell if someone’s natural facial expression is a queasy grimace, commonly known as resting bitch face (RBF), or they are simply downright ornery?
As someone who’s often accused of looking like Jack the Ripper on his worst day – even while happily folding my laundry, I know what it’s like to be constantly asked, “Are you okay? Is everything alright?”
It’s precisely because of my sometime – okay, all the time – less-than-sunny facial expression that I give every angry, moping, sullen, surly face I encounter a free pass. Cutting a few ill-tempered characters some slack is a small price to pay for showing a little empathy for every RBF I meet.
I’ll absorb an icy glance from any might-be psychopath on the off chance they are actually a wonderful person who was voted Most Unapproachable in high school.
As someone who is regularly misjudged as a threat to society or, at the very least, a threat to my book club, who am I to judge folks who don’t say “Hi” while attempting to break into my car?
So your constant look of oncoming nausea regularly causes family and friends to dial 911. Big deal. It still beats trying to force a smile whenever a sales clerk says “Have a nice day.” (Note: According to many studies, so I’ve heard, more crimes are committed by smiling sales clerks than scowling proof readers.)
Will the world ever be more accepting of sullen facial expressions? Probably not. But here’s one thing you can count on: If your angry puss ever encounters my resting bitch face, it will be met with an accepting and non-judgmental frown.
After years of wondering where I got my compulsion to flick errant crumbs off messy eater’s lower lips, I decided to trace my ancestry with one of those DNA kits.
It’s been quite a journey. So far, I’ve discovered:
I had a great uncle who was a failed bootlegger of non-alcoholic whiskey.
My quarter half aunt twice removed was the first female elevator operator to announce: “Third floor, women’s lingerie.”
An extremely distant relative on my father’s side cured a young Abraham Lincoln of his stove pipe hat phobia.
My paternal great-great-great-grandfather was the first Pony Express rider disciplined for riding side saddle.
My great-great-not-so-great-aunt traveled with her husband to California in 1850. After their gold mine went bust, she opened the world’s first brothel for pets.
Immigration agents at Ellis Island granted my great-great-great-grandfather entry to the United States, but not his pet komodo dragon.
I’m also related to Lewis and Clark’s first official biographer, who in 1813 was fired for refusing to remove a chapter titled: “More Than Just Good Friends.”
My DNA search didn’t lead me to an explanation of my crumb flicking urges, but it’s nice to know I have enough interesting descendants to more than make up for our present day family of couch potatoes.
Thanks for sharing your wonderful vacation cottage with us. The sights, the sounds were relaxing and restorative. By the way: Did you know Big Foot lives in the woods behind the boat shed? He taught our son how to search for grub worms in exchange for the Wi-Fi password.
Looking forward to our next stay.
The Grayson family
July 9 – July 23
We had a great time at your wonderful cottage. Caught 15 stripers on the first day! Thank you for your gracious hospitality. We hate to leave. Just a note: The grill’s propane tank is empty due mostly to Bigfoot’s raccoon roasts.
Can’t wait until next summer.
Tom and Gail Hannity
July 23 – August 6
This is our 6th year at the cottage. We so enjoy this lovely, quiet spot. Perfect weather, wonderful friends and delicious food. Just curious, did you give Bigfoot permission to use the shower?
She – I’m not ashamed of having a smoking hot nose. Sure, there are down sides; like always having to tell guys: “Hey, my eyes are up here, no, up another inch.” And people are constantly asking if I’ve had an implant. Hell no, I was born schnoz-alicious.
Jealous friends can be cruel, but I always say, don’t hate me because I have a sizzling snoot. If you’ve got it, flaunt it – and during the cold and flu season, blow it.
He – When God created me, he must’ve said, “Give him the Jamie Farr and don’t skimp.” I’m so thankful he/she did. Every time I walk into a bar (actually, my nose arrives a little earlier), the ladies immediately want to snuggle with my muzzle. Can you blame them? I don’t like to brag, but I have a tattoo of the Declaration of Independence on my beak, and that’s just on one nostril.
Would girls like me as much if I had a small honker? Perhaps, but I wouldn’t give up this prodigious proboscis for all the Kleenex in Kurdistan.