Archives For Frivolous Lexical Doodles

Come to Depression

May 19, 2016 — 16 Comments

The following ad was paid for by the Depression Tourism Council.

It’s summer again, and many of you are planning your annual holiday away from work. If you’ve done this before, you know that getaways are exhausting and expensive. You can empty your wallet on an excursion to Hawaii, the Caribbean, or your Mom’s house, but have you considered Depression? It’s the most visited vacation spot that barely anyone talks about.

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Dear Journal,

Friday afternoon, I received news that pushed me to the verge of shitting my pants with joy:

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Print Book vs. E-Book

March 28, 2016 — 4 Comments

Dear Journal,

I recently read an article on the Online Bible of Gratuitous Opinion (or what others call The Huffington Post) about why “print books are better than E-books.” I’ve noticed this subject has been given attention on other heavy-traffic sites such as Mental Floss, Business Insider, and The Washington Post as well, and I wonder to myself every time, “Why should we care?”

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Dear Journal,

I can’t fit into my pants, so I’m dieting again. It’s either that or buying fat clothes, and I can’t afford a new wardrobe.

Now that I have committed to cutting sugar and carbs from my plate and replaced it with a high fiber/water/protein/artificial sweeter diet, you know what that means, right? It’s not safe to fart.

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Dear Journal,

“Welcome to my home. Please don’t judge the uncleanliness as I stopped giving a shit two weeks ago.” That was my verbatim greeting to the young man on my porch, bearing a name tag that introduced him as ‘Tyler.’ He laughed and shook my hand. That wasn’t supposed to be funny.

The moving company sent him to provide an estimate for packing services. When he asked, “Do you mind if I look around in your cabinets and drawers,” I said, “No problem. I already stashed the dildos.” He didn’t laugh. That was supposed to be funny.

As the tour of my home lead into the bedroom, I was embarrassed to discover that I left a scattered pile of waded, used tissues on the floor at my bedside.  As I caught him shooting an awkward glance at the mess, I remember thinking, ‘He probably regrets shaking my hand right now.’

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Of the 13,970 unique visitors to The Reluctant Cat Owner’s Journal in 2015 that generated 26,726 page views (as of December 28, 2015 at 1:30 pm Central), 1,965 found me via search engine (e.g. Google, Yahoo, Bing, etc.). Since my website platform tattles provides me with the search terms you used to find me, I have learned that y’all are some sick mother fuckers. Of course, this shouldn’t be surprising since 2014 brought me degenerates looking for “satans anus banana” and “pepper suppository burn my ass.”

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Facebook Posting While High

November 13, 2015 — 19 Comments

Dear Journal,

We’re all prejudice towards at least one group of people. It may be Mexicans, gays, clowns, cripples, and/or cat-lovers. And, Journal, don’t bat your eyelashes at me and say ‘But I love everybody,’ because it’s bullshit, and you know it. If you’ve made it this far in life without rolling your eyes, huffing an exasperated sigh, and making the general statement, “I can’t stand [foreign customer service representatives/fast food cashiers/Walmart shoppers/Kardashians],” then I’ll stop choosing to be gay. It’s only fair as we’ll both be claiming something that is not true.

Before the outrage commences, please note that there are two categories of prejudice: prejudice against people who can’t change who they are (geriatrics, gays, people of a different race/ethnicity), and people who can (Christians, men with hair buns, bronies). I, in this missive, am addressing the latter. I completely agree that ridiculing and oppressing people who can’t change who they are is as ignorant and futile as demanding cats to stop scratching the arms of my new chair. This is why I reserve all of my discriminatory remarks for the latter type because I believe that, under the assumption that we’re all driven to be liked and appreciated, doing so helps these degenerates strive to be better people. After all, social media has proven that vying for the approval and appreciation of another is the new meaning of life.

I don’t mind announcing my prejudices because they’re not my fault. Like you, I acquired this mentality through family interaction, enduring negative experiences, and surrounding myself with snobbish peers, and no amount of self-righteous Facebook posts are capable of deprogramming a bigoted brain (so please stop; we really don’t care if you got mad watching that video of the fast food employee who doused a seemingly homeless man with a cup of water after luring it to the drive through window with a burger even though this seemingly homeless man could very well have been the richest man in town and just fashionably and hygienically challenged – who’s prejudice now).

My personal prejudices are the result of either arrogance (mommy bloggers, poor people, country music lovers, political pundits, and midgets) or fear (religious zealots, dentists, and midgets). However, today I want to address the latter, specifically dentists. Some people are racist, some are sexist; I’m dentist…ist.

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Clean Jokes

November 2, 2015 — 9 Comments

Dear Journal,

Conversation is hard. This is most applicable when getting to know someone I just met (a stage of companionship where comfortable silence is most awkward and not yet acceptable, trust me).

When starting a conversation with a stranger who has potential, I can either dig for common ground with general and boring questions or do what I normally do, talk about myself. My friends say the latter is narcissistic. I call it Game Showing because contestants are obligated to share their life story with the host. It’s part of the program format.

If I ever experience a situation where I’m uncomfortable talking about myself (something I can’t imagine), jokes are a great way to break the ice. Unfortunately, with my type of humor, I have to be cautious. Sharing my favorite joke in mixed company (“What’s so great about fucking twenty eight year olds? There are twenty of them.”) won’t always go over so well. I may laugh at the recipient’s appalled reaction but then notice her covering the ears of her 7-year-old daughter I didn’t realize was there. And before I get a chance to follow up with “Last night in bed, my boyfriend called me a pedophile. I told him, ‘That’s an awfully big word for a 6-year-old,'” the Chucky Cheese manager demands that I “leave before I call the police” because a few parents at a nearby table complained.

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Dear Journal,

For me, memorizing lines is more difficult than pushing a suppository into a cat.

The older I get, the more challenging it is to make those specific strings of words stick into my head. In high school, I played Adam in The Diary of Adam and Eve. With only three characters and pages upon pages of monologues, I had no problem reciting each paragraph of dialog while maintaining character. Today, though, I’m in a production of Carrie: The Musical with the responsibility of maybe a dozen or so lines, and I sometimes stammer through them with the fluidity of a drunk pageant toddler (composed but all over the fucking place).

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Now I Understand Road Rage

September 16, 2015 — 13 Comments

Dear Journal,

Despite being unaffiliated with all religions, I expect to become known as Patron Saint of Inhumanly Patient Vehicle Pilots upon my passing. When someone cuts me off in traffic, I don’t react with a rapid-fire flipping of birds and senseless screaming because they have places to be, too. When someone at the head of a red light doesn’t immediately accelerate on green, I don’t feel it necessary to beat my steering wheel until the air bag deploys. Last week, however, I encountered a driver that caused me to drain most of my car’s horn juice.

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Dear Journal,

I’m in a bad mood right now, and it’s Instagram’s fault.

Journal, if you’re looking for a picture repository of attractive, shirtless men, I can’t think of a better place on the internet than the ‘gram. The site is overflowing with selfie-worshipers who give praise to their own bodies, yet we overlooked their ridiculous-looking smolder to respond in one or more of the following ways:

  1. Drool
  2. Bitter Jealousy
  3. Vigorous Chicken Choking
  4. All of the Above

NOTE: Experiencing a combination of 2 and 3 will require psychiatric intervention.

Unfortunately, some of these Adonises (Adonisi?) swim so deep in their own narcissism, they fail to remember to keep their attention whore mouths shut and just stand there and look pretty. How am I supposed to rub one out when they accompany text with their pictures like:

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I’m a Winner

August 27, 2015 — 18 Comments

Writing for the internet is generally a thankless job, right up there with party clown and/or teacher. People will drop by and use you for a laugh, yet very few will ever remember you after they close their internet window even if the article goes viral (to my gay audience, being viral on the internet is a good thing). For example, have you ever read Missing Missy? You probably have. It is one of the funniest posts I have ever read. Yet how many of you know it was written by New York Times bestselling writer David Thorne?

Yeah.

That’s what I thought.

This is why bloggers are drawn to community awards. In case you didn’t know, a community award is an award that one blogger gives to another. We do this because giving each other praise for our work is probably the only accolades many of us will ever receive. It’s kind of pathetic, but why snub your nose at a turd sandwich if you are starving?

This is why I am finally caving and accepting two awards that were granted to me at one time or another.

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While You’re Away

July 27, 2015 — 25 Comments

Relationships are work. It can either be a full-time job you and your partner dread every Monday morning, or it can be a job you both love. Because I love Partner more than I hate having five cats, I enjoy making him laugh and smile. After all, he deserves it for tolerating someone like me for over nine years.

Last year, Partner made the mistake of leaving me home alone with the cats while he visited his parents for the week. So as to keep him informed about how the handicats and I were to take over the home (while deliberately excluding the able-bodied heathens), I made him a little book to read while on his journey.

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I Have Cheated On You

July 22, 2015 — 9 Comments

July 25, 2015

Dear Journal,

You’re not going to like it, but this morning…I was with another blog.

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July 13, 2015

Dear Journal,

When seeing a children’s movie during matinee hours, I am asking for trouble. A sagacious adult will anticipate a stockpile of obstreperous, sugar-packed dependents crawling over the seats and walls of the auditorium like chattering, hyperactive insects. Complaining to an usher about boisterous youngsters, however, is like complaining to a farmer about his bleating goat. It’s just what kids do, and you’ll look like an idiot for protesting it. My only options are to either deal with it, see it late at night, or go see Insidious 3.

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