Category Archives: Comedy Story

OBI-WAN KENOBI’S ZERO STAR REVIEWS

ObiWanZeroStars

I’ve been obsessed with Star Wars for a long time. Every few months, specific lines from the films will lodge themselves in my brain. Recently, while waiting in line at the DMV, this line popped into my head:

“You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.” – Obi-Wan Kenobi

Cranky, truth-bending Jedi Knight, hermit, and professional asshole, Obi-Wan Kenobi, said this to Luke Skywalker. He was describing Mos Eisley and its Cantina.

It only recently occurred to me how harsh it is. The Cantina really isn’t that bad. It looks pretty clean, Luke gets his drink quickly, the music is GREAT, and not so loud you can’t have a conversation over it.

“Wretched hive of scum and villainy” is a pretty shitty Yelp review for a place where you can openly slice people’s arms off, everyone just shrugs it off then goes back to smoking their space hookahs and shit.

It made me think Obi-Wan Kenobi would be an absolute menace if he wrote reviews online. So here are some of that crazy old hermit’s pithy zero star reviews.

For maximum enjoyment, read them out loud in your best Obi-Wan Kenobi voice.

CrankyObiWanChipotle

CrankyObiWanTWC

CrankyObiWanIkea

CrankyObiWanRadioShack

CrankyObiWanFacebook

CrankyObiWanTuesdays

CrankyObiWanLedZeppelin3

CrankyObiWanDexter

CrankyObiWanPinkberry

CrankyObiWanBlogPost

Now, for even MORE enjoyment go back and read them in your worst Obi-Wan Kenobi voice and compare!

Also, if you’d like to know how Obi-Wan might review your favorite restaurant, social media site, album, day of the week, etc. leave it in the comments and I’ll reply with a review! A cranky, crappy review.

If you enjoyed the post, check out the Patreon page that made it possible! Backing as little as $1 or $2 a month helps tremendously! Thank you!

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I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN

This comedy blog post was made possible by Patreon. One of the rewards for becoming a Patreon backer is suggesting a topic for the blog. My friend and kind Patreon patron, Angela Webber of The Doubleclicks, gave me the very fun suggestion of “toys that come to life.” This unlocked a deep memory of humorous toy horror. Enjoy!

VenomNew

I had a lot of action figures growing up.

For the most part, if any of them talked it was because I was saying things for them. I was working through emotional issues, like the time I made Han Solo and Princess Leia go see Yoda for couples counseling.

That’s a true story. Learned a lot about expressing ourselves, we all did.

But I only had one action figure that actually talked. It was a huge hunk of plastic molded into the shape of the Spider-Man villain, Venom.

At the time, I thought a talking action figure was amazing. Now inanimate objects talk to me constantly. The other day, I accidentally activated Siri in my pants. I was walking down the street when I heard Siri’s muffled voice come out of my front pocket saying, “Joseph! I can’t help you find what you’re looking for.” I understand, Siri, I understand.

But Venom was amazing! He said three awesome things! Each corresponding to a different button!

Pushing the first button made Venom say, “Die, Spider-Man!” This was great. It was like his thesis statement. Clear, concise, great open communication. Yoda would be proud.

The second button made Venom say, “Hisssssss!” To be clear, he didn’t make a hissing sound. He said “Hissssss!” like it was a word. It was over-pronounced and insincere. Venom said “Hisssssss!” like he was doing musical theater. Like “Hisssssss!” was his big solo number in A Chorus Line.

But the third phrase was worth wading through all the musical theater in the world. When you pressed the third button Venom said, “I want to eat your brain!”

At the time, an action figure that said “I want to eat your brain” was one of the best things in my entire life. It was the verbal equivalent of accidentally hitting yourself in the balls: it was equal parts scary and hilarious.

I took Venom around and made him tell everyone that he wanted to eat their brain. He told my brother, he told my chihuahua, he told Luke Skywalker in Bespin Fatigues, he told my mother who was actually fatigued from life.

Eventually, six or seven months later, it got old. I set Venom on my dresser and forgot about him.

Until one terrifying night.

I was having a dream that someone was talking to me. Saying the same thing over and over. I struggled out of the dream and realized someone was actually talking to me. Someone inside my bedroom.

It was Venom. And he wanted to eat my brain.

It took me a few minutes to identify it. But when I did it was unmistakable.

I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.
I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.
I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.

“Weird,” I thought as I got up, stumbled over to the bed, and hit Venom’s brain-talking button. Unlike Siri, Venom stopped talking immediately.

I went back to bed. And Venom started up again.

I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.
I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.
I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.

I tried hitting all of his buttons repeatedly but he wouldn’t stop.

The closest thing I had ever experienced to this was watching an adult with a baby that wouldn’t stop crying. I could have held him or gently rocked him. Instead, I wrapped him in a sack and buried him in my closet.

But I could still hear him.

I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.
I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.
I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.

I tried to hear what he was saying differently, to imagine he was saying something less horrific like “I want to eat more bran.” So I hid under the covers and listened to that for a while.

I WANT TO EAT MORE BRAN.
I WANT TO EAT MORE BRAN.
I WANT TO EAT MORE BRAN.

Somehow that was more disturbing.

I was full of questions.

Why didn’t his batteries run out?

Was…was it possible that he was actually alive?

What would that be like to be trapped in plastic with only three things to say?

What three things would I say?

Probably “Thank you,” “I’m sorry,” and “Why?”

Or maybe “burrito” mixed in there. But would it be a question or a statement?

Burrito? Burrito! Probably burrito with an interrobang. Burrito!?

Eventually, I gave in and decided to really LISTEN to what Venom was saying. And I realized he wasn’t saying “I want to eat your brains.” He was saying “I want to eat your brain.”

To me, “brains” always sounded like the physical matter. Zombies want to eat our brains. No ambiguity there. Our heads are their burritos.

But “brain” singular seemed like a concept. Like Venom wanted to digest my mind. So I tried my best to hear it that way. I cowered in bed and listened to a possibly sentient action figure buried in a closet say:

I WANT TO GET TO KNOW YOU.
I WANT TO GET TO KNOW YOU.
I WANT TO GET TO KNOW YOU.

And eventually I drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, I was sure it was a fever dream. I went to the closet. I listened at the door. Nothing. I slowly opened the door. I gently unwrapped the towel.

And then I heard it.

I want to eat your brain.
I want to eat your brain.
I want to eat your brain.

It was just a whisper now. Soft and gentle like a lullaby. A brain eating lullaby.

I wrapped Venom back up and put him away. I didn’t hear him again.

Years later, I was packing up to move and I found Venom buried in the closet.

I assumed his batteries had long since burned out. I didn’t want to push his button and hear the nothing. But I decided to take a risk. I pushed his button.

I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN!

He screamed at full volume! Wow! I tried hitting his “Die, Spider-Man!” and “Hisssssss!” buttons.

I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN!
I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN!

To this very day, I still own that action figure. And to this day, all he will say is “I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.”

And he says it loud and proud.

A good reminder that I should try to be like Venom. I should say what I mean, loud and proud.

THANK YOU.
I’M SORRY.
BURRITO!?

That’s good, clear, open communication. Thanks, Venom.

If you enjoyed the post, check out my Patreon page! Thank you. I’m sorry. Burrito!?

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Cats Versus Dinosaurs

I hear people say–with alarming frequency–that they want politicians who are “regular people.” Presidents, governors, mayors who spend their time and energy thinking about the things regular folks do. You know, important stuff like burritos, vampires, and animated gifs of llamas that look like Tom Hiddleston. In that spirit, here’s a heated debate between two politicians about a subject near and dear to our hearts: Which popular animal is better? Cats or dinosaurs? Enjoy!

CatsVersusDinosaurs

CAT GUY:
Friends. Neighbors. Pet lovers. I’m a simple man. With a simple belief. Yes. I said belief. I only have one. And it is this: CATS ARE AWESOME.

I intend to prove this with a simple mnemonic device. The three C’s. Cats are cute. Cats are cuddly. Cats will lick their own crotches while staring at you with judgment in their eyes. That IS bold. Over the course of this debate, I will ask you to remember the three C’s. Cute. Cuddly. Crotch licking. It’s just that simple, America.

DINOSAUR GUY:
With respect to my opponent, Dinosaurs have everything that cats have and much more.

Take for example the mighty Tyrannosaurus Rex. Is a T-Rex cute? Yes, they have those tiny adorable little arms. Just imagine them doing things like opening a jar of peanut butter or smoking a little eCigarette. How cute is that?

Is a T-Rex cuddly? Yes. A T-Rex would give anyone a giant hug. WITH ITS MOUTH. Because it is the best predator the world has ever known.

Now I am the first to admit, and I’m on record with this, a T-Rex cannot lick its own crotch. But there are several dinosaurs who can. Take for example, the diplodocus. With a neck almost twenty feet long there is frankly nothing it could not lick. There are thousands of different cool dinosaurs, but a cat is just a cat.

CAT GUY:
You son of a bitch. There are millions of different kinds of cats.

There are sassy pants cats. Cutie-pie cats. Cool customer cats. Cats who like their bellies rubbed and cats who like their ears scritched.

Why, sir, there is a whole different group of cats you might have heard of called KITTENS. They’re like normal cats but more potent. They are the crack cocaine of the cat world. They are WEAPONIZED CUTE.

DINOSAUR GUY:
You bastard person. It is an insult to America to describe a kitten as a weapon. You want to talk about weapons?

Let’s talk about the pachycephalosaurus. It’s skull was ten inches thick. And I ask you what is more American than an animal that is specifically designed to resolve problems by repeatedly bashing it’s head against stuff?

Why, just one pachycephalosaurus could defeat entire communities of cats by smacking them with its head. A cat would pop up and whack! It would be the most beautiful and disturbing game of whack-a-mole the world has ever seen.

CAT GUY:
I do not agree, I do not agree. Any cat could beat any dinosaur in a fight and I will tell you how. The cats would wait. They would wait just a few million years. And the dinosaur would turn into a bird. And the cat would eat it. And I would take a picture of that and put it on facebook and all of my friends would like it.

DINOSAUR GUY:
Look, let’s talk common sense. Dinosaurs don’t even have to fight cats. The cats of today are defeating themselves with their rampant abuse of the street drug commonly known as catnip.

CAT GUY:
Hey, I make no argument that catnip is a major issue in the cat community. But the drug abuse is just a symptom of larger economic and class issues.

That said, many of our most famous cats have resisted the siren call of this deadly narcotic. Garfield. Hello Kitty. The Hang In There Cat from the motivational poster. I ask you, sir, what would a dinosaur themed motivational poster say? Hang In There Until We All Get Killed By A Giant Rock?

DINOSAUR GUY:
That is uncalled for, sir. But I have come to expect such uncivilized attacks from someone who loves such an uncivilized animal as a cat.

CAT GUY:
Uncivilized? CATS POOP IN A BOX. Where did dinosaurs poop? Literally everywhere! Montana! China! The middle of an Ikea store! Doesn’t matter to a dinosaur!

DINOSAUR GUY:
Yes! Yes! Dinosaurs did indeed poop everywhere. GIVING US FOSSIL FUELS!

CAT GUY:
That is dubious science at best, sir!

DINOSAUR GUY:
America, when you get in your car and drive yourself to the hospital after you have contracted toxoplasmosis or some other disease from cat poop, remember your car is running on ancient dinosaur shit and say, “Thanks, dinosaurs! Thank you for pooping everywhere! And no thanks, cats, for all the horrible diseases!”

CAT GUY:
Cats do not give humans diseases!

DINOSAUR GUY:
Cats have given human society one of the most dangerous social diseases of our time. I am of course speaking of Cat Ladies. Strange, agoraphobic hoarders who collect cats like they were Pokemon trading cards.

CAT GUY:
Well, Dinosaurs have also created a menace to polite human society.

DINSOAUR GUY:
What? What menace?

CAT GUY:
Dinosaur Kids.

DINOSAUR GUY:
What the hell is a Dinosaur Kid?

CAT GUY:
A Dinosaur Kid is a normally sweet, polite child who will absolutely LOSE THEIR SHIT if an adult says one mildly incorrect fact about a dinosaur.

DINOSAUR GUY:
That is a slanderous stereotype!

CAT GUY:
Why, even adult fans of dinosaurs can’t stop themselves from shouting obnoxious pedantic corrections about dinosaur factoids. For example if I said something like a triceratops had four horns! All located on its buttocks!

DINOSAUR GUY:
Hnnggghhhh.

CAT GUY:
Or did you know that a brontosaurus ate only meat and was actually covered with a thick layer of sequins? Yes, everyone knows the brontosaurus was basically a giant meat-loving showgirl!

DINOSAUR GUY:
Urrgghhhaaauuuaaa.

CAT GUY:
And the velociraptor? Oh boy, the velociraptor was the biggest dinosaur of them all! It was eight thousand feet tall! It had seventeen tails! It had claws for eyelashes! It only ate marijuana plants and as a result velociraptors pooped Grateful Dead CDs! PLUS velocirptors always wore fedoras!

DINOSAUR GUY:
Stop it! Stop it! You monster!

CAT GUY:
There’s no reason to be oversensitive. Be like a cat and play it cool.

DINOSAUR GUY:
GARFIELD IS STUPID. IT’S A TERRIBLE CARTOON. IT’S ABOUT A CAT WHO EATS LASAGNA. IT’S AN ADVERTISEMENT FOR HEART DISEASE. IT’S A BETTER CARTOON WITHOUT THE CAT IN IT. DOES THAT UPSET YOU? WHY DON’T YOU JUST “HANG IN THERE”?

CAT GUY:
Hey! Hey! Too far! Too far!

DINOSAUR GUY:
You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. That was unfair. Look, we’ve both said some hurtful things. Let’s just call a truce. I admit there are many cool things about cats.

CAT GUY:
And I concede that not all dinosaurs were great big stupid heads.

DINOSAUR GUY:
In fact, I would like to reach across the aisle and say the best animal of all would be a monstrous cat-dinosaur hybrid.

CAT GUY:
Indeed. A compromise is exactly what America deserves.

DINOSAUR GUY:
A compromise in the form of a giant, furry, Tyrannosaurs Kitty Rex. It would be cute and clever.

CAT GUY:
It would poop in a box!

DINOSAUR GUY:
It would have a skull at least two miles miles thick!

CAT GUY:
And as god is my witness, it would find a way to lick its own crotch.

DINOSAUR GUY:
Because America.

CAT GUY and DINOSAUR GUY:
Thank you!

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Batman on Jingle Bells

Like most normal humans, I spend a lot of my time thinking about Batman. During the holiday season, I find myself wondering how The Dark Knight would feel about the infamous altered lyrics to the holiday tune “Jingle Bells.” So I wrote that. For maximum enjoyment, please read this out loud to yourself in a deep, guttural bat-voice. Enjoy.

Hello. I’m Batman.

I am vengeance. I am the night. I’m upset about the Batman version of “Jingle Bells.” You know, the one where children replace the normal chorus with one about me, Batman. I’m Batman.

Not only are the lyrics insulting, they’re riddled with inaccuracies.

Here are the traditional bat-lyrics:

Jingle Bells, Batman smells
Robin laid an egg
The Batmobile lost a wheel
And the Joker got away
Hey!

I will note the Hey! is optional. Let’s break this down line by line.

Jingle Bells.

That’s fine.

Batman smells.

You would think I’d have a problem with that line.

YOU WOULD BE WRONG.

Of course, I smell. I spend hours fighting, sweating, and bleeding in tight constrictive body armor. I am rank. I am like a thousand filthy locker rooms filled with a thousand wet dogs.

I am your worst olfactory nightmare. And I like it that way.

My goal is to strike terror in the hearts of criminals. I can’t really do that if I smell nice. I don’t want to pop out of the shadows, grab some punk, and then have them say, “Well, he looks scary but he smells like lavender.”

That’s just stupid.

I don’t want Catwoman to be able to track me through the city because she can pick up a faint odor of cinnamon and nutmeg.

I’m not a fancy coffee drink. I’m Batman. Let’s move on.

Robin laid an egg

This one is just dumb, dumb, super-double-dumb. I didn’t even get it at first. Why would Robin lay an egg? Oh, because Robin is also the name of a bird.

Ha ha ha. Very funny.

NO, IT’S NOT. HE’S AN EIGHT YEAR OLD BOY.

I can think of at least three reasons an egg should not be coming out of him.

You think it’s funny to sing Robin laid an egg? Well, you take a second and picture that actually happening. Gross.

Besides, I don’t even work with Robin that much anymore. He’s too loud and bright. It’s like Katy Perry doing a duet with The Cure.

Yes, I know pop culture references. Shut up. Let’s move on.

The Batmobile lost a wheel

Okay, this happens sometimes. It’s a car I use to fight crime. It’s not like I accidentally drove over a broken Nalgene bottle on my way to take the kids to soccer practice in the PT Cruiser.

The Batmobile gets shot all the time. WITH ROCKETS AND EVERYTHING.

I lose wheels. What am I supposed to do? Pull over and call AAA?

That’s STUPID! This one makes me really mad. Let’s move on.

The Joker got away

Again, yes, this happens. I keep letting the Joker get away. I want to end his reign of terror once and for all, I want to take his spindly clown neck in my powerful bat-hands and just…it would be so easy…but then I would be just as bad as him wouldn’t I?

Finally, the optional lyric: Hey!

This one doesn’t bother me too much. But I would prefer that it was a more aggressive crimefighting type noise.

Something like Unnnghha!

That would be better. In fact, here are some better lyrics for the whole damn thing.

Jingle Bells, Batman repels

Like I’m repelling crime in a broad sense. Or it can be “rappels” like I’m climbing down a wall.

Robin is not here

He’s not. I don’t hang out with him any more. When was the last time you saw us together? Get over it.

The Batmobile performed to spec

That’s respectful to the engineers who designed the car. It’s an impressive technical accomplishment.

The Joker is in jail

Because I do actually catch him sometimes. LIKE CONSTANTLY. LIKE EVERY TIME WE FIGHT I CATCH HIM, JERKS.

So, putting it all together, you should sing.

Jingle Bells, Batman Repels
Robin is not here
The Batmobile performed to spec
The Joker is in jail

Unnnghha!

Or if you must associate Batman with a holiday song, here are some other options.

You could turn “O, Holy Night” into “O, Dark Knight.” There’s a missing syllable so you have to kind of bend the note like O, Da—ark Knight. But like so many things in life, it will work IF YOU FORCE IT.

Or you could sing a song from my perspective. Like you could change “All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” and make that “All I Want For Christmas Is Your Two Front Teeth.” Because that’s what I’m saying to some criminal punk before I punch him in the mouth. And I knock his teeth out. For Christmas.

Or you could take “Let it snow!” and change it to “Let Her Go!”

Like the Joker is dangling someone you love out of a window so you sing a song about it.

Let Her Go! Let Her Go! Let Her Go!

That would have to be in a minor key, though, just thematically.

Anyway, I have a lot of ideas. I could go on like this all night.

But duty calls and I must answer. For I am the caped crusader.

I am vengeance. I am the night. I know I smell and I’m okay with that.

I’m Batman. Unnnghha!

Did you read it in a deep voice? Does your throat hurt? Happy holidays! This story is now available in audio format as part of my comedy album A VERY HOLIDAY THING. The album and the blog post were made possible by funding from Patreon. Thanks, patrons!

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JAMES BOND PREPARES A TURKEY

As you know, James Bond is good at everything.

That includes preparing a turkey for Thanksgiving. Here’s how to prepare the turkey exactly how James Bond would do it.

ONE: Wait until a turkey is about to commit an act of international espionage and/or terrorism.

TWO: Confront the turkey and do battle with it. This must take place somewhere exotic that is also a high place. A skyscraper, moving train, or the Golden Gate bridge are all good options.

THREE: Murder the turkey in self-defense. Don’t make a quip about it. Show the turkey some fucking respect.

FOUR: Put the murdered terrorist turkey in your freezer until right before Thanksgiving.

FIVE: Have passionate, but emotionally distant sex. Not with the turkey, though. With a beautiful, exotic human person.

SIX: Take the turkey out of the freezer. Sit in a chair staring at it while it thaws. Sip vodka and keep one hand on your silenced Walther PPK in case the turkey comes back to life and attacks you. Stare it down with your cold blue-grey eyes.

SEVEN: Stuff the turkey with breading, exotic herbs, spices, and a lemon peel. Put some caviar in there. And a bottle of champagne. And a wrist watch for product placement purposes. Stick a radio in there to track the turkey just in case. Glaze the turkey with eight bottles of vodka to silence the screams of all the men you’ve killed.

EIGHT: Shake the turkey. Do not stir the turkey.

NINE: Put the turkey in the oven. While it cooks, wonder why the fuck you’re doing this since you’re British.

TEN: Pace back and forth like a caged animal while admiring your abs and waiting for the little button thing to pop out so you know the turkey is done.

ELEVEN: Remove the turkey. Set it on your table. Do not carve it. Put on a tuxedo, walk a few steps, then turn suddenly and shoot one of the drumsticks off.

TWELVE: Eat the turkey with an intriguing mixture of brute force and cold ironic humor.

THIRTEEN: When you are finished eating the turkey say out loud to no one, “THIS IS THE END OF EATING A TURKEY, BUT JAMES BOND WILL RETURN.”

FOURTEEN: Undo the top button of your tailored pants, sit down, and hum your theme song to yourself until you fall asleep on your couch.

THE END

This story is now available in audio format as part of my comedy album A VERY HOLIDAY THING. The album and the blog post were made possible by funding from Patreon. Thanks, patrons!

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Hermione Granger and The Sorority Girl of Anger

Recently, I did a show with my friends and uber-talented musicians The Doubleclicks. We were looking for ways to collaborate. I love writing genre parody pieces for pals to perform such as this one with Bill Corbett and Kevin Murphy. I asked the ladies if they had any ideas. Angela said she had always wanted to play Hermione Granger of Harry Potter fame. I had always wanted to hear Hermione use more offensive swear words. I realized that Hermione had it in her to be as righteously pissed off as the Angry Sorority Girl. Enjoy the text and a link to Angela’s performance below, you stupid ass-sorting hats.

If you just opened this like I told you to, sit down in a chair and cast Petrificus Totalus on yourself, because this howler is going to be a rough fucking ride.

For those of you that have your heads stuck up your robes, which apparently is the majority of Gryffindor, we have been FUCKING UP in terms of nighttime events and general social interactions with Hufflepuff.

If you’re reading this right now and saying to yourself “But oh em gee Hermione, I’ve been having so much fun with Neville Longbottom this week!” then hex yourself in the face right now so that I don’t have to fucking find you in the common room and do it myself.

I do not give a flying fuck, and Hufflepuff does not give a flying fuck, about how much you fucking love to talk to Neville.

Flying Fuck, by the way, is a really fun spell that I invented.

Anyway, you have 361 days out of the fucking year to talk to Neville Longbottom, and this week is NOT, I fucking repeat NOT ONE OF THEM.

Yes, I know I said 361 days out of the year. I know that a week is seven days long. I know the math doesn’t work out. I have a time turner, bitches!

This week is about fostering relationships with those boring losers from Hufflepuff, and that’s not fucking possible if you’re going to stand around and talk to Neville about gillyweed.

Newsflash you stupid cocks: HUFFLEPUFFS DON’T LIKE IT WHEN SOMEONE IS MORE BORING THAN THEM. HUFFLEPUFF IS NOT GOING TO WANT TO HANG OUT WITH US IF WE FUCKING SUCK.

This also applies to you little shits that have talked openly about Quidditch being boring. Are you people brain dead like Neville’s parents after they were tortured with the Cruciatus Curse by Bellatrix Lestrange?

Of FUCKING course, Quidditch is boring. We get all dressed up and go out to the stands and then some FUCKING CHOSEN ONE PRAT catches the golden snitch in the first thirty seconds and it’s all FUCKING over!

But Hermione, you say in a whiny little bitch voice, “I’ve been cheering on Gryffindor, doesn’t that count for something?”

NO YOU STUPID FUCKING ASS SORTING HATS, IT FUCKING DOESN’T.

I’ve not only gotten messages about people being fucking WEIRD at Quidditch (for example, being stupid shits and saying stuff like “durr what’s the TRI-WIZARD TOURNAMENT?” is not fucking funny), but I’ve gotten messages about people actually cheering for the opposing team.

The opposing. Fucking. Team.

I don’t give a SHIT about sportsmanship, YOU CHEER FOR GRYFFINDOR NO MATTER WHAT STUPID SHIT HAPPENS TO HARRY POTTER!

AND YOU ABSOLUTELY DO NOT INTERVENE!

NOT EVEN TEACHERS INTERVENE WHEN CLEARLY DANGEROUS SHIT IS HAPPENING, YOU STUPID FUCKING FUCKS!

I swear I will fucking cast cuntius puntius on the next person I hear about doing something like that.

“Ohhh, I’m now crying because your howler has made me oh so so sad! I’m pulling my tears out and putting them in a pensieve so I never fucking forget. “

Well, good.

If this howler applies to you in any way, meaning if you are a Longbottom loving little asswipe that stands in the corners at night looking at Filch’s fucking cat or if you’re a weird shit that does weird shit during the day, this following message is for you: APPARATE YOUR ASS AWAY FROM TONIGHT’S EVENT.

I’m not fucking kidding. Seriously, if you have done ANYTHING I’ve mentioned in this email and you’re suffering from some rare curse like Smartus Oppositus where you’re unable to NOT do these things, then you are HORRIBLE, I repeat, HORRIBLE FOR GRYFFINDOR!

YOU’RE LOSING US LIKE FIFTY FUCKING POINTS A DAY. AND WE WILL NOT WIN THE HOUSE CUP THAT WAY, YOU MAGICALLY STUPID FUCKS.

I would rather have six or seven Gryffindors who are actually relevant to the fucking NARRATIVE, than a bunch of lame Dean Thomases and Seamus Finnegans being awkward.

Seriously. I swear to fucking Godric Gryffindor if I see anyone being a goddamn boner at tonight’s event, I will cast a spell that turns you into an actual walking talking boner. I’m not even kidding. Try me.

And for those of you who are offended at this howler, I understand. Now that I’m getting to the end, I see I’m really just projecting my own feelings on to you. I’m upset with Ron Weasley. And I’m taking it out on you. It’s very hard being the most intelligent person in the room. All the time. I always know the right answer and most of you are really dumb.

Like really fucking dumb.

Like every year, there’s a big mystery going on at the school. Like with monsters and evil wizards and shit and you don’t even FUCKING notice. Wake up, SHEEPLE!

In conclusion, I apologize and take back the majority of what I said.

And if you don’t like that you can go fuck yourself.

*letter explodes*

Angela’s enchanting performance at Nerd Night Out in Portland, Oregon.

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An Interview with the Easter Bunny: The Lost Obsessed Episode

Are you like me? Have you always wondered if the Easter Bunny is obsessed with the British television series Sherlock?

Well, the answer can finally be revealed! Last December, I did an interview with Santa Claus for my podcast Obsessed and it was great fun so I decided to interview the Easter Bunny.

Not to shatter the fourth wall too violently, but I set up an interview with the Easter Bunny as played by Jill Bernard. She’s an improviser, a co-founder of HUGE Theater in Minneapolis, and one of the funniest humans I’ve ever met.

Unfortunately, we had some technical issues with the podcast recording so it’s mostly loud electronic buzzing, awkward silences, and a bunny talking. In short, it is an audio podcast only David Lynch could truly love.

But all is not lost! I’ve transcribed the interview so the truth about the Easter Bunny and her obsession with Sherlock can be revealed. Enjoy!

JOSEPH:
Hello, Easter Bunny, and welcome to the Obsessed podcast.

EB:
Hi, Joseph! Thanks for having me!

JOSEPH:
Now, Easter Bunny, I wanted to ask you right away, do you like to be called the Easter Bunny or do you have another name, a Christian name?

EB:
Yeah, I like being called the Easter Bunny. Wouldn’t you? Like regular bunnies just get called “Bunny.” But my friends call me EB sometimes.

JOSEPH:
Excellent. And for the people listening to the podcast, can you describe your general appearance, EB?

EB:
Yeah, I’m a small bunny wearing a sharp jacket. And I have a fluffy white tail, fluffy ears, a twitchy nose–but not in a negative way. Also, I travel everywhere with this basket.

JOSEPH:
And can you describe the pants situation?

EB:
Well, there’s an upside to being a bunny. I don’t have to wear pants and it’s not weird. I can just wear a jacket. Who else gets to do that?

JOSEPH:
And can you describe the contents of your basket?

EB:
I just brought some samples for the studio audience. We got some standard eggs, some chocolate replicas of myself, a sticker book collection, and some temporary tattoos.

JOSEPH:
Awesome. So everything that a kid would expect to find in their yard.

EB:
Yeah, I didn’t know if this basket was for a boy or a girl. I could have brought like a Transformer or an Easter themed Barbie.

JOSEPH:
So you still give presents based on gender? Because a lot of parents want things to be gender neutral now.

EB:
Well, I have a gender neutral basket. That basket has, like, elephants.

JOSEPH:
Okay, let’s talk a little bit about the eggs. Because I asked the internet for questions and the big one was “Do the eggs come out of you?”

EB:
Do you really want to know? I mean this is kind of a hot dog factory question.

JOSEPH:
I want to know how the sausage is made, I really do.

EB:
Okay. Yeah. I excrete these eggs.

JOSEPH:
And…and…do you shoot them out over the year and refrigerate? Or is this like a night before thing, you just gotta get in there and groan ’em out?

EB:
You know it’s one of those things that I put a note on my calendar around January that says, “Hey, you should get on the egg excreting.” But then you just put it off, you put it off. I got Call of Duty. And I’m really distracted. So I don’t really get around to it until February.

JOSEPH:
And this brings up another question. You play Call of Duty, a stereotypically male video game, what is your gender?

EB:
Yeah. Well. I’m female. I produce eggs. The stories call me “Mister” sometimes, but I don’t mind. It feels very K.D. Lang to me. I mean, I’m wearing a jacket and no pants. It’s all there if someone wants to look.

JOSEPH:
Okay. I have to ask you about your religious affiliation. Do you consider your work to be religious or secular?

EB:
Um. Well. Here’s the thing. I would be more than happy to bring baskets to all the children of the world, but I’m made of ham.

JOSEPH:
Okay.

EB:
So as much as I would like to reach out to Muslim kids or Jewish kids–I feel the call of their hearts and want to bring them baskets–but I’m made of ham so I can’t go into their lives. It’s heartbreaking. Sometimes I cry.

JOSEPH:
So when you’re delivering baskets do the parents or the kids ever see you?

EB:
No, I want to be invisible like a dim sum bus boy. I want to be unseen. If I could email people their Easter baskets, I would, but you gotta do it in person.

JOSEPH:
Okay. And why do you hide the eggs? That seems like kind of a fuck you to the kids to make them work to find the eggs. Why don’t you just leave them on the doorstep or something?

EB:
I want to teach kids that not everything is instant gratification. If you hand them everything they develop a real lazy ethic. I tried that. I tried it for one year. And all the kids just woke up with eggs in their hands.

JOSEPH:
Was that around 1974? Is that what happened to Generation X?

EB:
Yep! That’s what happened. Also waking up with an egg in your hand is very startling. A lot of the eggs were broken. “Ahh! What’s that?” a lot of people said. I tried it, Joseph, and it wasn’t positive.

JOSEPH:
Well, I’m glad you tried. So, I’d like to get into your specific obsession. We like to have guests on the podcast to talk about what they’re really interested in and you are interested in the British television show Sherlock.

EB:
Oh yeah, I love it. In fact, that’s why I was so late this year on excreting the eggs. ‘Cause I was watching Sherlock again.

JOSEPH:
So that’s not something you can multi-task, the egg excretion?

EB:
Well, not with a show like Sherlock. It takes a lot of focus. If you’re watching something stupid like The Real Housewives of Whatever, you could probably excrete eggs at the same time, but Sherlock, you’re going to miss something, a crucial detail, and you’ll have to go back and watch it again.

JOSEPH:
But you have watched it multiple times, right?

EB:
Oh yeah.

JOSEPH:
So why does it speak to you?

EB:
Oh, man. I like putting together clues. I feel like I’m smart like Sherlock. Like I have to figure stuff out. When I’m in a kid’s house delivering their basket or hiding their eggs, I have to figure out clues. I’m like the reverse Sherlock. Because when I hide eggs it’s like I’m making a mystery. And while I’m hiding eggs I like to think, “Could Sherlock find this egg?” The answer’s yes because I’m hiding them for a small child to find.

JOSEPH:
So, it’s like you’re hiding them for Watson.

EB:
Yeah.

JOSEPH:
So how do you feel this obsession manifests for you? Like certain obsessions you can buy a t-shirt or you can engage in the activity. How do you engage besides just watching?

EB:
Well, I have a tiny violin that I’ve been playing just to be more like Sherlock. And as I go around, I try to solve mysteries the way Sherlock would. So while I’m in people’s homes I try to figure out things about them. Like whose parents are having an affair or was anyone ever murdered here. That kind of thing.

JOSEPH:
So when you figure that out do you do anything with that information? Like if you came into my home and thought I killed someone, would you just be like “Cool, I’m going to go excrete some eggs” or would you do something about that?

EB:
Did you kill someone?

JOSEPH:
No, but you can look at my clothes and try to guess like Sherlock.

EB:
Okay. Well, I see that you’re wearing black pants and a black shirt which means obviously you’re on the tech crew of a high school theater production. You’re wearing red converse shoes which means you were the best man in a hilarious wedding. Your shirt seems relatively well-kempt, but it is not new which means you just did a high school theater production which means you’re about eighteen and a half years old and, yes, you murdered someone.

JOSEPH:
Excellent! That was just like Sherlock. Except you don’t have a Watson to explain it to so the audience will never know what it really means.

EB:
Yep!

JOSEPH:
So, if there were a lot of Sherlock merchandise that you could purchase–let’s imagine there’s British television Sherlock underwear with just a big picture of Benedict Cumberbatch on the front–is that something you would want to purchase and own and wear?

EB:
I don’t know. Because then I’m wearing a jacket and underwear and it crosses the line for people. If there was a little tie with Benedict’s face on it that would be cute.

JOSEPH:
And do you like Benedict? I think a lot of people are drawn to this adaptation of Sherlock because it’s fast-paced and intelligent but also because they really like Benedict Cumberbatch.

EB:
Have you noticed his nose is twitchy and he has little beady eyes? He’s a dreamboat from a rabbit perspective.

JOSEPH:
And to me, that’s a rabbit name, Benedict Cumberbatch.

EB:
Absolutely.

JOSEPH:
Now, if you were offered a role on the show would you take it?

EB:
That would be amazing to be on the show!

JOSEPH:
What kind of role would you want to play?

EB:
I would like to be like some master criminal mastermind that Sherlock has to come to terms with.

JOSEPH:
And would you try to disguise the fact that you’re a bunny?

EB:
Yeah, I’d wear a wig. I want to see this episode now that you put it out there.

JOSEPH:
So how many times have you watched Sherlock?

EB:
Oh, a lot. Probably eight times. That and Call of Duty is why I didn’t start until February on the eggs. Sorry, kids.

JOSEPH:
It’ll work out, right?

EB:
Oh yeah, it always does.

JOSEPH:
So I would like to do some lightning round questions. I got some questions from the internet.

EB:
Oh my.

JOSEPH:
These are just random questions people wanted to ask the Easter Bunny. So do you drink alcohol?

EB:
No.

JOSEPH:
Why not?

EB:
You gotta keep your mind sharp. You gotta stay clean.

JOSEPH:
If you drank alcohol would it show up in the eggs?

EB:
Yeah, that happened one time.

JOSEPH:
What was it you drank?

EB:
Blackberry Brandy. It’s nasty. At first I thought it was delicious which is why I kept drinking it. But then I woke up in a pool of my own eggs.

JOSEPH:
Would you ever wear a utilikilt?

EB:
I don’t know. I like having my lower haunches free and easy. And things get caught on your tail.

JOSEPH:
So you don’t wear a utilikilt because of your tail?

EB:
Yeah, unless I wore it under my tail and then I’d look like a gangsta rabbit and no one wants that.

JOSEPH:
Is Bugs Bunny real?

EB:
No, that’s a cartoon, don’t be stupid.

JOSEPH:
Can you run faster than Superman?

EB:
Oh yeah.

JOSEPH:
Awesome. Next question. Why do Cadbury eggs, not the ones you produce, but Cadbury eggs taste like shit?

EB:
Oh. Well, you have amazing shit. Whoever wrote that question should keep going with whatever their diet is.

JOSEPH:
Excellent. And if you could excrete something besides eggs what would you excrete?

EB:
Mp3 players. Just small ones. iPod Shuffle size. And it would come pre-loaded with sweet jams.

JOSEPH:
What kind of sweet jams? What kind of music do you like?

EB:
Like Bach.

JOSEPH:
And the final lightning round question: Do you own a firearm?

EB:
No. I have paws. Firing a gun with a paw is hard. But for home security I tend to use lasers.

JOSEPH:
So like a grid?

EB:
Yeah.

JOSEPH:
So, is your home like a cave?

EB:
Yeah, it’s a hutch. So I don’t get a lot of people breaking in on purpose. Just like curious Boy Scouts. Or cavers.

JOSEPH:
Is there anyone else around the hutch cave thing? Do you have a man friend? Are you dating anyone?

EB:
Oh, no. I used to try to date within the mythological community and that doesn’t really work out. I get some leprechauns drunk dialing me, though.

JOSEPH:
Understandable.

EB:
I’ve also tried to date regular rabbits. But they don’t really interest me. All they want to do is IT, because they’re rabbits.

JOSEPH:
And you don’t have that same drive?

EB:
No. They’re not going to sit down and watch Sherlock with me. They’re rabbits.

JOSEPH:
So, they only want to have sex?

EB:
Or just stare at you and be terrified.

JOSEPH:
So, it’s sex or terror and that’s it?

EB:
Yep.

JOSEPH:
Okay, EB, I have some final questions for you. These are the serious, pompous wrap-up questions I ask all my guests. Are you ready?

EB:
Yeah, sure.

JOSEPH:
If you could only say one word for the rest of your life, what would that word be?

EB:
Hop.

JOSEPH:
Excellent. If someone made a rock opera about your life, what would it be called?

EB:
Eggs Oh Yeah.

JOSEPH:
What’s the punctuation in that title?

EB:
A semi-colon.

JOSEPH:
So Eggs Semi-Colon Oh Yeah?

EB:
Yes, to imply they are separate but dependent clauses.

JOSEPH:
Like Sex; Terror.

EB:
Yes.

JOSEPH:
And finally, Easter Bunny, what is happiness?

EB:
Happiness is strolling through a meadow filled with hidden eggs and discovering them on a bright, beautiful morning.

JOSEPH:
Thank you, Easter Bunny!

-fini-

Thanks for reading this lost episode of Obsessed! A new episode will be up next week. In the meantime, you can listen to recent episodes with Wil Wheaton and Mike Phirman on Beer and Pro-Tools or Sharon Stiteler and Ari Hoptman on Swearing!

If you enjoy my work, you can make more comedy stuffs happen with a small pledge to my Patreon! Thanks!

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Attack of the Holiday Letter

I get a lot of year-end holiday letters. Holiday letters are odd because they’re just updates about people’s lives with pictures of children. They’re like Facebook on paper. Many of the holiday letters are great, but a few are strange in a very specific way. They are defensive. Aggressively defensive. It’s as though there is an unspoken challenge to prove your life is PERFECT IN EVERY WAY. I wrote the following parody of a holiday letter for our annual New Year’s Eve show. Some of the letter is accurate to letters I have received. Some of the letter features creative license. See if you can tell which parts are which! Enjoy and happy new year!

Dear Person Who Is Not As Good As Me,

It’s been another busy year! And yet my family continues to make time to excel at everything!

Our beautiful daughter Morgan (Age 7, 11th grade) continues to love everything about school. Her favorite subjects are math, history, english, art, science, social studies, advanced therapeutic pottery making, and every other class. Her favorite sports include–but are not limited to–basketball, baseball, soccer, lacrosse, badminton, polo, water polo, water football, water cricket, and competitive hugging. Also, Morgan recently won the Hunger Games.

Morgan is very happy and fulfilled doing all of these activities, she does not feel in any way that her parents are pushing her to succeed for their own validation. Her smile never seems forced and tortured as though she is about to explode from the inside out. She also likes to bake cookies. Sometimes, she eats the dough before cooking it. I guess she’s a rebel like her mom! Smilie face!

Our wonderful son Jordan (Age 3, 4th grade) is a sensitive little guy who has read Lord of the Flies six times and even got a chance to act it out when his Boy Scout Troupe got lost in the woods behind our beautiful and large suburban home. Jordan got the following badges: Leadership, Civics, Fire-making, Face Painting, and Primal Savagery. Jordan can also recite Pi to the 8,000th digit and enjoys ballet.

BUT he also loves cars, raw meat, and other outdated cultural signifiers of masculinity. No, he really does! I’m not just saying that because I’m aggressively clinging to damaging gender stereotypes. Smilie face with a wink!

My husband Ken continues to be a kind and supportive partner who makes more money at his job than your spouse or partner does. Also, Ken is immortal. The only way he can be killed is if another immortal cuts his head off with a broadsword in a parking garage, construction site, or other abandoned building. Good thing Ken is keeping up with his broadsword combat classes at the local Y!

Our sex life is not boring or bland. We never have to try new positions or dress up as characters from THE STAR WARS to stimulate interest in one another’s aging bodies. NO! My husband Ken’s penis continues to impress in both length and girth. Everything is so great that when I have an orgasm a rainbow shoots out of my you-know-where.

Of course, it’s also been a busy year for me. I am keeping up with my crafting. I knit an entire shelter for homeless people. I am always calm because I am always doing yoga. I AM DOING YOGA AS I WRITE THIS.

I also beat Kanye West in a freestyle rap battle in the parking lot of Wal-Mart and self-published a fan fiction novel in which Oprah Winfrey has sex with Edward Cullen. It sold a million copies. I can open a bottle of Trader Joe’s wine by harnessing my rage and screaming so loud the top of the bottle shatters. When people say things I don’t like, I just start singing something from The Sound of Music. I am not in denial about anything!!! I BEAT EVERY LEVEL OF CANDY CRUSH!!!!!

In closing, here are some religious beliefs that you may not share but I feel comfortable ramming them down your throat because the holidays. We should all get together soon; it’s been too long.

Well, I think this festive holiday letter illustrates that I am better than you in every way—physically, emotionally, spiritually, sexually, and financially. If you challenge any of my beliefs, make no mistake I WILL END YOU.

With Much Love From My Family to Yours,

A Motherfucking Crazy Person

P.S. I have more friends than you do on Facebook.

This story is now available in audio format as part of my comedy album A VERY HOLIDAY THING. The album and the blog post were made possible by funding from Patreon. Thanks, patrons!

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The Imaginary Advent Calendar 2012

Last year on Twitter, I joked about wanting an advent calendar that had little bottles of whiskey inside the door instead of chocolate. This year, I discovered the joke was a reality.

I was too late to order my whiskey calendar, so each day I tweeted the gifts found in my Imaginary Advent Calendar. Here are all my gifts in one place. Enjoy!

Day One: A mimosa and guilt.
Day Two: A sweater vest and some opium.
Day Three: Fine lace doilies and desperate longing.
Day Four: $67 in cash and a gun. Uh-oh.
Day Five: A smaller Advent Calendar and the horn sound effect from Inception.
Day Six: A small effigy of me and a warning to stop my investigation.
Day Seven: Holiday pants.
Day Eight: A tiny voice whispering a prophecy about The Boy Who Lived.
Day Nine: A tiny snow shovel and a large bottle of pain meds.
Day Ten: Fake passports, a candy cane sharpened to a deadly point, a list of targets. Who am I?
Day Eleven: An episode of Friends on VHS and a loud modem sound.
Day Twelve: Some Doritos and a dime bag of Myrrh.
Day Thirteen: A snarky AV Club article sort of complimenting but also mocking Advent Calendars.
Day Fourteen: A hugging robot. A robot designed only to hug people.
Day Fifteen: A huge pile of unused Oxford Commas. They just want to help us understand one another.
Day Sixteen: Two live squirrels and an empty bottle of Ritalin. Jesus.
Day Seventeen: Mistletoe and a mirror. Creepy.
Day Eighteen: A fruitcake and a big pile of existential dread.
Day Nineteen: The nativity scene recreated with Ikea furniture. Have to assemble it myself. 🙁
Day Twenty: A large chocolate bunny. Holidays are confusing.
Day Twenty-One: A 404 error message. Oh my.
Day Twenty-Two: A small note that read, “Our bad. Math is hard. LOL. Happy Holidays, the Maya.”
Day Twenty-Three: A Nutcracker doll that came to life, did the Gangnam Style dance, then became a doll again.
Day Twenty-Four: A stress ball, magic refilling box of wine, ham, an ox, a lamb, a jazz snare drum.
And finally…
Day Twenty-Five: A flock of doves, a mimosa, and a Kickstarter campaign for next year’s Advent Calendar.

Happy Holidays!

If you enjoy this story, there are many others like it in my book Comedy of Doom. Thanks for reading.

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Adult Santa Claus

I originally wrote this piece for the very awesome New Standards holiday show. Many thanks to John, Chan, and Steve.

I have a new holiday tradition. Right around Thanksgiving, I turn to my beautiful wife and say, “Honey, I hate Christmas.” She patiently listens as I go on the exact same rant that I do every year.

“I don’t want to hate Christmas. I used to love Christmas. I used to get a break from school. I used to look forward to opening presents. I normally got Star Wars action figures, but one year my mother hurt her back, got high on pain meds, and gave me three different individually wrapped flashlights.

I didn’t even care.

I just went to my room, turned off all the lights, and pretended the flashlight was a lightsaber. I danced around in the dark waving a flashlight like an idiot. That’s what Christmas used to be–a warm comforting light in the middle of the dark winter. It used to feel magical. Now it’s just more stuff I have to do.”

This year instead of just complaining to my wife, I’ve decided to make Christmas magical again. In order to do that, I’ve invented a new myth.

The myth of Adult Santa Claus.

I don’t mean Adult Santa Claus like a special holiday movie you would order in a hotel room.

No, Adult Santa is like your cool uncle who also happens to be a life coach. He has the magical ability to visit every stressed out adult in the world on one night. He doesn’t have a sleigh guided by reindeer and he doesn’t enter through a chimney. He drives a 1997 Ford Taurus with a missing muffler and he comes in the front door like a normal person.

Adult Santa has many names. In Germany he’s known as Dave Kringle. Some know him as Saint Chad, the patron saint of whatever, man. In Belgium, they just call him Low-Stress Pete.

Adult Santa doesn’t say, “Ho Ho Ho!” He says, “Ho Ho Ohhh—I’m tired. Whooo! My back is killing me. Ahhhhhhh! Son of a—!” And he just goes on like that for a while.

His face doesn’t appear on Coke cans, but you might see him on a package of Nicorette or a bottle of Xanax. Because Adult Santa is just here to help.

He logs onto your facebook account and deletes that horrible post you wrote about your mother-in-law while you were hiding in the bathroom during dinner. He finishes that stupid PowerPoint Presentation you have to give on December 27th. He leaves a big bottle of Trader Joe’s wine under your pillow. He knows Trader Joe’s wine isn’t fancy, but you like it, so who cares? Adult Santa doesn’t judge.

Maybe he just sits on the end of the bed and rubs your feet. It should be creepy that an old dude named Dave sneaks into your house and rubs your feet, but it’s not.

It’s magical.

He will even hang out with you. Adult Santa will stay up late and watch that episode of Downton Abbey you’ve had on the DVR for two weeks. He agrees with you that the best part of Project Runway is Tim Gunn. He’ll bring you an Xbox and play co-op Call of Duty all night. He is really good with a grenade launcher.

Adult Santa won’t force you to sing Christmas Carols. But if you want to, he’s got a couple of carols he likes to sing. He calls them Realistic Christmas Carols. His favorites include “Silent Night, Passive-Aggressive Night,” “I’m Beginning To Bitch A Lot About Christmas,” and “All I Want For Christmas Is Two F’ing Minutes To Myself.” Adult Santa likes to say that by title alone his favorite Christmas Carol is “Sweet Child O’ Mine” by Guns N’ Roses.

Unless you don’t like that kind of sarcasm, then Adult Santa just keeps it to himself. Because he’s not here to fight, he just wants you to be happy.

Adult Santa knows Christmas doesn’t actually suck.

It’s just really, really hard to be an adult.

So this year, I am going to recapture the magic of Christmas. On December 24th, I’m going to stay up late at night and wait for Adult Santa. I’ll set out some whiskey and a wedge of brie. I’ll sit in a dark room illuminated only by the glow of the Christmas tree. I’ll sip some of that whiskey as I listen for the low rumble of his rusted out Ford Taurus. I will feel warm and safe.

In that moment, I will get the true gift of Christmas. A gift that all adults deserve. Just a few precious minutes of peace on Earth.

Thank you and merry realistic Christmas to one and all.

This story is now available in audio format as part of my comedy album A VERY HOLIDAY THING. The album and the blog post were made possible by funding from Patreon. Thanks, patrons!

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