Tag Archives: satire

Fortune Cookies

1 Mar

I need money. I need need need money. I need money because whiskey and tight white t-shirts aren’t free.

I have a part time job as a tutor at a local high school, but I still find my bank account lacking every month. To remedy this, I got a second job.

I didn’t want just any job, though. I didn’t want to flip burgers or bag groceries–I wanted to use my unique skill set. I wanted to write.

I got a job writing the fortunes in fortune cookies.

The offices of Quin Tan’s Fortune Cookies is in a small office park in North Dallas. My job interview went very smoothly.

“Can you read English?” the salty Asian gentleman asked me.

“Why yes, it’s one of my f–”

“–Can you use a keyboard?”

“Yes, I can.”

“You have the job. Be here tomorrow at 8 am.”

He begins flipping through some documents on his desk, ignoring me completely. I stand up slowly and, with great care, hand him my resumé along with a twenty-three page writing sample; both he quietly slides off his desk and into an adjacent waste basket. I clear my throat, consider getting my resumé and writing sample out of the trash, then turn away and leave, afraid that digging in another man’s garbage would be some big cultural insult to the interviewer–he was Asian, remember, and for whatever reason, I have a penchant for offending people from the Orient.

On my first day, I pull into the staff parking lot and walk to the building.

“Hello, building!” I yell, waving with child-like excitement. The building didn’t say anything back. It was busy not collapsing.

From the lobby, I’m directed to a small cubicle in a bull-pen of writers. The sound of thousands of keys being pressed sounds like rain on rooftops.

“Here is your station,” the attendant tells me. “When you write ten or fifteen fortunes, e-mail them to the editing department. We’ll let you know if there are any problems.”

Below are my first submissions.

  • Can you handle a gun? If not, try to learn–fast.
  • You are well-liked, but people are starting to think you’re gay. Maybe stop smiling so much.
  • Want a sandwich? Buy a sandwich.
  • A storm’s coming. A terrible storm. Ah, I’m just kidding. Everything’s fine. Go put some shorts on.
  • You should probably start stocking up on canned goods and bottled water.
  • Be wary of foreigners. They love to make fun of you behind the safety of their native tongue.
  • You should probably start saying goodbye to mom.
  • Life will look up for you when you discover the wonders of putting melted cheese on practically every meal.
  • Wine is fine, and liquor is quicker, but heroin is the quickest.
  • Cocaine is cheap and makes you feel like Al Pacino.
  • Hookers are cheap and make you feel like a NBA superstar.
  • You will finish the final season of LOST. SPOILER: It ends with a shot of the writers in a poorly-lit room masturbating to someone reading their work back to them.
  • What do you know about heart failure?

I click “send” on the e-mail and get started on my next batch of fortunes. Before I finish, however, a small scream is heard from the editing department’s small office at the north east end of the bull pen.

“Mr. Irion!” Beatrice Jackson, head of editing, calls as she approaches my desk. She’s not very cute. That’s why it’s hard for me to tolerate all her yelling.

“Yes ma’am?” I ask.

“You can’t advise people to used narcotics. You can’t tell people that their mothers are dying. That LOST fortune is about 300 characters too long, and what kind of fortune is ‘Want a sandwich? Buy a sandwich’?”

“A good fortune. Do you want a sandwich?” I ask.

“Well,” her tone drops for a moment. “I suppose I could–”

“Buy a sandwich.” I say, leaning back in my seat, hands folded across my waste. “Feel better?”

“Hm.” Beatrice seems taken aback. “Well, I guess that one can stay, but you have to cut the others. We need some replacements. Get started, please.”

Here’s my second round.

  • Duck!
  • There’s a man behind you. It’s me.
  • You’ve been working very hard. Reward yourself with another fortune cookie.
  • You’ve forgotten something terribly, terribly important.
  • Grandpa wants me to tell you to stop praying for him. It’s too late. He’s in Hell.
  • Did you turn the oven off?
  • Don’t stress so much this year. You don’t have many more left.
  • Seat belts don’t protect you from driving into a light pole, so don’t even bother with ’em.

I once again click “send” and wait for my Pulitzer. I’m really loving this job. I turn to the guy behind me, striking up a loose, light-hearted conversation. A few moments later, I hear the voice of Beatrice in the distance.

“NO!” she screams. “No, no, no!” All of a sudden, she’s back at my desk. It’s kind of like how Davy Jones magically teleports onto the Black Pearl to mess with Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean.

“Have you ever seen Pirates of the Caribbean?” I ask Beatrice.

“What? No–yes. That doesn’t matter. Kyle, you can’t write like this. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re fired.

“What?! I gave you gold!”

“You gave me trash.”

“Fine, but I have one more fortune for you, lady.” I type one more fortune on my computer and send it to editing. “I’m out.”

I gather my things, put on my coat and walk out. I make a brief stop in the break room to get my lunch, then I pass through the building’s exit and go home.

Beatrice returns to the editing station and is greeted by my final fortune:

  • I poured an entire jar of mayonnaise out in the break room refrigerator.

I Visit Stephen King Again

18 Feb

“Editor!” I yell, throwing my coat onto the secretary’s desk. “Editor, I need you!” I begin to spin around, my arms outstretched. “Editor!” I scream again. “I’m a hurricane of anger and I need you to come be my low pr–” Just at that moment, the door at the rear of the small office flies open. Editor races through it.

“He needs me to be his  low pressure system,” Editor says under his breath. He brings his arms in tightly across his chest and begins to spin in the opposite direction as me. “Here I come! I’m a low pressure system of calm. Here we go.” We start to collide, my fists pounding Editor at shoulder-level. Editor cringes slightly at the first, heavy blows, but as I slow down, we break into a warm, subdued embrace.

“I’m a cool autumnal breeze,” I whisper in Editor’s ear.

“I’m a leaf breaking from my mother tree and returning to the Earth,” he whispers back in mine.

“I’m completely erect,” I whisper back. Editor pushes off, grabs me by the arms, and briskly moves me back.

“What can I help you with, Kyle?”

“Editor, we need to talk business,” I say.

“By all means. Let’s go to my office.”

We go to Editor’s office, and I sit in the padded chair in front of his desk. “Editor,” I say, “I need to talk to Stephen King and I need to do it now.”

Editor seems none surprised. He simply opens his small, leather-bound datebook and points to a date close to the front cover. “Here. King is doing some press for his new book, Under the Dome. I could probably get you in later today if you’re ready.”

“Ready?! I was born!”

Editor sits quietly. The room is completely silent. “You were born what?”

“I was born! Let’s do the interview.”

“I don’t think you finished the expression, but I just don’t think you care anymore,” Editor sighs. He then closes the datebook and slides it next to a pile of papers on his desk. “I know you and Stephen have a fairly close relationship,” he says, “but I feel like you aren’t really as ready as you may think you are, and that maybe you and I should go over some questions for you to ask Stephen in your interview.”

“Ah, come on!” I yell, waving my hand at him. “Who needs questions when you’ve got born?!”

Editor furrows his brow and tilts his head slightly. “Are you all right?”

“Am I all right?! Why do you ask?”

“You’re talking weird. And for the last three or four minutes you’ve been just pointing at different things in my office with no real rhyme or reason.”

“I’m feeling good. I just had a mix up this morning.”

“Mix up?”

“I tried to get loaded on a bottle of Dayquil thinking it was Nyquil, realized my mistake, then drank the Nyquil too. When’re we getting started?” I reach out and throw Editor’s pencil cup against the wall, scream my mother’s name, and leave the room.

By the time I reach Stephen’s home, I’m bubbling over with excitement. When I say bubbling over I mean I threw up a little bit and hid it under the cabbie’s seat.

“I love Stephen King!” I tell the cabbie.

“What smells like Ted Danson’s balls back there?” he asks me.

“Ted Danson’s balls,” I say, calmly pointing to Ted Danson’s exposed scrotum. Ted Danson and I were sharing a cab. He raises his hand to the cabbie sheepishly. He then tucks his balls back into his pants and quietly apologizes to both of us.

I give the fare to the cabbie and step out to King’s estate. It is exactly as I remember it from the last time I was here. I breathe in the crisp Maine air. “Honey, I’m home!” I yell, pushing the gate open. I skip all the way to the front door.

When I press the button on the right side of the door frame, I’m greeted by the refreshing, rustic sound of an old-time door bell. “How delightful.” I say. The door opens. In it stands Stephen King.

“Stephen!” I say opening my arms for a hug. He reaches out and slaps me flatly across the face. My head jerks back from the force of the blow. Lightly touching my cheek, I look up at Stephen with tears in my eyes.

“Hey there, boy!” Stephen exclaims, taking a step forward and hugging me tight. His mixture of violence and affection fills me with both anger, confusion, and deep, devoted love. He’s just eccentric, I think. He’s just an artist.

He leads me down the entry corridor and into his living room, where two chairs sit facing one another. One is large, pecan-colored, and leather. Its arms are heavily padded and it has a very nice worn-in look. The other is a fairly standard recliner with a cloth, paisley covering. Before I’m able to sit down in the cloth chair, Stephen reaches out and grabs my arm.

“No, no, no. Allow me.” He lights a match and sets the chair ablaze. “Please,” he says, gesturing toward the burning chair while settling into its leather counterpart, “Please sit. Sit in the hot seat!” He laughs wildly, the pitch ascending to a tittering shrillness.

“Stephen, I’m interviewing you. Shouldn’t you be in the hot seat?” I ask, smiling nervously, gripping my pad with white-knuckle desperation.

“I suppose you’re right,” Stephen says, epiphany dawning in his eyes. He leaps onto the chair and is almost immediately on fire.

“Oh God.” I say. Quickly, I run to a pitcher full of water. Stephen is fidgeting and flailing about like a man in the midst of a seizure.


“Oh yea,” I say, leaning slightly to the left to get a different vantage point. “Oh…Hey, do you want me to put you out?”

“NO! NO! THAT’S WHAT MY BATS ARE FOR. BATS!” Stephen calls out. From the chimney, several hundred bats flood the room. They douse Stephen King in guano. When the bats leave, America’s most prolific lord of ghouls and bumps-in-the-night sits, one leg crossed over the other, hands clasped and resting on one knee, his head tilted slightly. His face is held in a position of aloof coolness and his entire body–head to toe–is covered in bat shit. “So what’s your first question?” he asks.

He MIGHT be That Into You. I Really Can’t Tell.

13 Feb

Hello and welcome to romance. Welcome to love. It’s almost Valentine’s Day and most likely, if you don’t already have a special someone to buy things for or eat food with, you’re desperately clamoring for one–searching through your phone’s address book, trying to find a contact that would be easy enough to go out with you at a moment’s notice, but not so easy that, after you make reservations with your restaurant, you’d have to make reservations with your doctor.

In the spirit of love and all that, I decided to write my own self-help book on relationships. Here’s the pitch for the cover:

I thought I would take out a few notable passages in order to not only help you with your relationship woes, but to also plug the shit out of my book.


So the other day me and my boyfriend were on the couch and we were watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. It was a really emotional episode, so we were both starting to get a case of the sniffles. It was the first time I’d ever seen my boyfriend cry. He told me that I was the only person he felt safe crying in front of.

Here’s my question: Is my boyfriend gay?

Thanks for your help,



You’re a horrible person. Be single forever.

Happy to help,


Boom. Problem solved. See? Sometimes, certain people need to be single forever so as to not sully our gene pool. This woman is painfully intolerant. Do you want your child to go to school with the child of someone as ethically short-sighted as this? No. This woman is unfit for breeding. Once she comes to grips with this, she’ll never have to worry about dating again. You could be one of those people that don’t have to worry anymore! You! Right there! So take refuge in the fact that your solitude and your heart-breaking loneliness are harbingers of great joy and progress to the rest of us. Don’t try to call us about it, though. We’re all busy having sex.

This book isn’t just for women, though. There are a few chapters directed toward men.

Men are simple creatures. Women, you’ll find that all it takes to get into a man’s heart is to care for him, stand by him–love him. Men love love and most men love loving women. Some men love loving other men. There are also some men who love God’s more romantic animals–like horses, goats, and dogs in people-clothes.

No matter what men love, though, understanding that love is a constant source of confusion. You want to know why your boyfriend forgot your anniversary? Because he has spent the previous 364 days trying to figure out a mathematical quantity for how much he loves you (it’s in the bazillions of gallounces).

In light of this confusion, I’ve created a number of sports analogues to help your man make sense of the love he has for you.

When to know how to ask a girl out. When to know when to give a girl some space. All of these are tricky, tricky issues. I’m here for you, though.

When trying to figure when it’s right to move in or back off of a girl, imagine Peyton Manning.

Imagine him.

All you need is poise. Don’t rush the throw. I know you’re going to feel the defense moving in on you, rushers crowding in. You want to get the ball out of your hands–you feel like you need to make a play–but beware, brave warrior. If you let go of the ball too fast, you could throw an interception or an incompletion. If you wait too long, afraid to make a move, you could get sacked.

So, don’t throw it too fast or too slow. Read the defense, take your time, but don’t be afraid to act when the time comes–like when you both bump into each other in line for beer or when she glances at you after you sneeze.

When you’re in a relationship, resist all temptation to tell your partner he/she/it is “the one.” Doing this before you’re actually married (or absolutely positive you’re going to get married) is like predicting a no-hitter at the bottom of the fifth. It’s bad luck, it’s not necessary, and it just makes it so when/if the relationship/pitcher fails, everybody’s a hell of a lot madder at you.

Too much celebration after sex, much like after a touch down, is at times off-putting and, in the least, ill-advised. Get past the goal line, hand the ball to the ref, and walk back to the side-line like scoring touchdowns (and hot chicks) is just another day in the office for you.

Oh, and one more thing: it’s always safe to steal second. Just go ahead and do it.

With that, I bring my brief tutorial on love to an end–any more, and I’ve have to ask you to pay me. I hope your Valentine’s Day, whether spent in romance or with friends or in bitter self-loathing, is fun, safe, and fortuitous.

Good luck, space man.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Valentine’s Day

10 Feb

February 11, 2010. Denton, Texas. 3:58 pm. Wesley sits on the couch, using his laptop. I sit at the dining-area table a few feet to Wesley’s left.

“What’s Valentine’s Day?” I ask my friend, Wes.

What’s Valentine’s Day?” he responds, looking up from his laptop.

“Yea. What’s Valentine’s Day?”

“What’s Valentine’s Day.” He looks at me, his face emotionless as slate.

“Yea. What’s Valentine’s Day?”

“You don’t know what Valentine’s Day is?”

“What is it?” I ask.


“‘No’ what?”

“I’m not doing this anymore.” Wes’s eyes shift back to his laptop screen.

“What’s Valentine’s Day?!” I hit the table with my fist for emphasis.

“Shut up,” Wes says, raising his hand to me. “Shut up. That isn’t a real question and you know it. That’s a question that’s just meant to be silly and I don’t want to be silly with you.”

“What is it, though?” I ask, my lip shaking, my eyes red with coming tears.

Wes closes his laptop and looks up at me. “I’m getting worried about how needy you’ve become.”

I perk up. “Valentine sounds kind of like venison,” I say.

“Yes. Yes, it does.”

“Is there a Venison’s Day?”

“No–at least I don’t th–”

“I love meat,” I say, pressing my hands together and smiling with childlike exuberance.

“I know. You wrote that on my birthday card last year.”

“I can’t wait for Venison’s Day.”

Wesley sighs and massages the bridge of his nose as a man does when he has a head ache. “That day doesn’t exist, Kyle.”

“Eh…” I squint at him and give a wry smile. “I don’t know…”

“I hate it when you do that.”

“When I do what?”

“When you do that ‘eh…I don’t know…’ thing when you’re wrong, then just change the subject.”

“Did you watch Lost on Tuesday?”

“And there it is.”

“Did you, though?”

“I watched it with you.”

“Do you think they’ll have a Valentine’s Day special?”

“Please, please, stop.”

Training Day.

5 Feb

Did you know that I work? I have a job. I have a job I go to in the daytime. It’s physically demanding, emotionally straining, and–I’m kidding. It’s really easy. I could cut both my legs off and still perform this job like its nobody’s business.

Bet five.

No matter how easy I may think this job is, though, there is still a certain level of formal training that’s required of me.

Before I begin, let me say this–I’ve had a lot of training days. These things usually revolve around terribly-produced VHS films from 1997, telling me about the joys of working for ____ and the exciting opportunities awaiting me at _____.

When I was training with Wal-Mart, I had a woman who told us that–no joke–we then had two birthdays: the day we were born, and then the day we were born into the Wal-Mart family. I would describe my reaction as “horrified disbelief.”

A little over a week ago, I went to a training session for my new job as a tutor for kids who aspire to attend college after graduating high school.

Slightly hung over and running on about three hours of sleep (My birthday was the day prior, and to celebrate, I helped a friend dig his/her/it-was-definitely-a-her car out of a muddy ditch at 4am. Happy birthday, Kyle.), I stumble into the training room. I am at least five to ten minutes late. I look like either a homeless person. Lacking time for proper cleaning after getting my friend’s car out of the ditch, there are still traces of mud and silt on my palms. On top of that, my shirt has a hole in it and my hair looks like this:

This...but like on my head.

I lumber quietly to my seat at the circular table as my boss begins speaking.

“Today, we’re going to really focus on what makes this program so special and how–”

I fall asleep, and my head hits the table with a deep thud, halting my boss in his tracks.

“Oh Jesus!” I yelp, jerking myself upright.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Irion?” Mr. Cook, my boss, asks.

Rubbing the spot of impact on my head, and little dazed, I respond. “Good. I’m good.”

Our first activity of the day is to go around in a circle and say one success and one failure from the year.

My friend Will speaks first. “Okay, for my success, I’d say helping a few of the students get all A’s, and for my failure, I’d say me not being tough enough on the kids.”

The group then turns to Lauren, the next in line. “My success is helping Taylor work through some hard math problems she had and my failure is…I guess whenever we couldn’t find an answer to Javier’s chemistry problem.”

Now, it’s my turn. “I would say, as far as success and failure go, that Ray Leeden is a success and Loren Stills is a failure.”

What follows is a silence so sudden it’s as if the room itself is gasping. Then a girl across the table actually does gasp, as if the girl across the table is gasping–because she is. She is gasping. [Editor’s Note: Are you even trying anymore?] There’s a gasp from the other side of the table.

I turn to Mort, who’s sitting next to me. It’s his turn now.

“It’s your turn, now,” I say. I wait a few seconds, then look around the table with a look of “What’s up with this guy?” plastered across my face. I then ask them, “What’s up with this guy?” jerking my thumb in Mort’s direction. Mort simply reaches up and, without saying a word, grabs my thumb and lowers my hand to the table.

“Mr. Irion,” Mr. Cook says in a slightly hushed tone. “We don’t talk about the students that way. They aren’t ‘successes’ or f–”

Mr. Cook goes on to explain how the kids shouldn’t by typified as “successes” or “failures,” because by doing so we run the risk of pigeon-holing them mentally–the result being that we don’t try as hard to push them, because to us, they already are what they are. At the end of his speech, I nod quietly, turn to Mort and tell him it’s his turn now. Mort just shakes his head “No,” and we move on.

Next, we outline our goals for the next few months. Here’s what I wrote:

A few hours in, I start to really grind. I’m constantly fighting the seductive temptation to sleep.

Go ahead, Kyle. Sleep is natural. Everyone needs it, Sleep calls.

Stop it, Sleep! Stop it! You know very well that I can’t go to sleep right now.

Oh? But I don’t. I see a jacket you could easily roll up into a ball and–

Are you serious? If you say “Sleep on the floor,” I’m going to wait until midnight tonight, then drink three Monsters and start chasing stray dogs until 6am. We’ll see how good you feel then.

No! No! Don’t! Can you imagine how tired you’d be after chasing all those dogs, though?

I…I suppose I’d be very tired.

Stray dogs are very fast.

Stray dogs are very fast. And they always know the best hiding spots.

They have to be fast–because the world doesn’t slow down for vagabonds.

No…no it…doesn’t… I fall forward and my head smacks the table again.

“Salt and pepper!” I yell and sit back up, holding my head. “Damn it.”

“Kyle, seriously,” Mr. Cook says.

“Bruise City!” I say, pointing to my forehead, which will soon be renamed Bruise City. I start to eye the coat that Sleep showed me. I then allow my vision to drift to a shady spot under a table on the far side of the room. “Mr. Cook, may I ask a question?”

“Go ahead,” he says, completely exasperated.

“Will there be a nap time today? Because I am very tired and I–”

“–Get out.” Mr. Cook interjects.

“Get out?”

“Get out. Get out of here.”

“Am I fired?”

“Get out.”

“Okay, so I’m not fired. I’m not fired, right?” I gather my things and begin to make my way to the door. Mr. Cook is standing at the head of the table with a clipboard holding our agenda for the day.

“Please leave, Mr. Irion.”

A little concerned now, “Okay, well, I’m just going to reach my arms out here–” I open my arms to hug Mr. Cook “–and I’m just going to let ’em fall where they fall, and if they land in a place that makes us best friends then that’s just fantastic–and we don’t fire best fr–”

“Oh my god, Kyle, get the hell out of here before I call campus security.”

“Okay, okay. I’m out.” I grab some pens off the table and turn to address everyone before I walk out. “These are my birthday presents, understand? These are my birthday presents from all of you since you didn’t get me anything else.” Will looks like he’s about to say something, but Mrs. Rodriguez holds her hand to him to gesture silence. “Goodbye, everyone,” I say. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to say your successes and failures today, Mort.”

Mort stares at me blankly then then puts a few pens in his right hip pocket.

I really hope I can make the football team.

Lessons on Love

2 Feb

Love is a tricky, fickle, vaporous bitch. It’s also one of the most fantastic and wondrous pieces the human experience has to offer; for this reason, people spend copious amounts of time and money in search of it.

I’ve been in love a few times, and I’ve been loved a few times. I’ve even loved myself a few times (Court case pending). I have experience. I have the knowledge. I have the advice. I’m going to break down some of the things I think about love and relationships for you in hopes that you can learn and grow as a human thing through use of my brain words. Heeding or ignoring the following can be the difference-maker in whether you spend Valentine’s Day lovingly running your hand through your lovers’ vagina or sitting in your room watching re-runs of LOST, occasionally looking into the mirror to see if you can furrow your brow like Sawyer.

You can't.

1. You cannot love someone into loving you.

How many of us have, after spending a butt-ton of dollars on a gift, or singing a song (most likely not very well), or writing a beautiful letter to someone we care about, have had to stand baffled and dismayed as our love was once again dismissed? Probably most of us. If you’re reading this blog (MAXIM’S #1 Blog for the Widowed and Alone!), you’ve probably fruitlessly poured your heart out to someone at some point in your life.

Think about it this way. If a one-eyed Rosie O’ Donnell with twice the abrasiveness, half the humor, and three times the weight attempted to win your love, was there anything she could do to make you love her? No. No. Don’t even try to be funny. There’s nothing she could do. You want to know why? Because kind deeds and beautiful words are meaningless unless they come from someone we have mutual sentiments for. Without those sentiments they’re just deeds.

That is to say, unless you make an all Pearl Jam and Andrea Bocelli mix CD and deliver it in a puppy’s collar on the third anniversary of your first date. Then you better damn get a kiss on the cheek or a gentle tug or something. If you don’t get that, the person’s a loon. Get out of there.

2. Don’t confuse physical attraction for emotional attraction.

This happens all the time–a couple starts dating, there’s all this excitement and newness, and they jump right into the physical stuff–just to make it all oh-so-perfect. Well, the problem with that is that when you get down to business so soon, the physical attraction can act as a temporary (keyword: temporary) space-filler for the emotional gaps that may exist between you and your significant other. Here’s an anecdote from my life:

I hadn’t been seeing this girl for very long, probably about twenty or so minutes. It was fantastic. Our conversation was electric. The passion between us was almost palpable. Every moment was to be a memory.

“Hey,” I whispered into her ear, my hand gently stroking her own. Fire was in the air when we touched.

“Hey,” she whispered back. I really wished she had something more original instead of just taking what I said, but her ass was fantastic, so I forgave her immediately.

“Would you like to,” I lift my hand to her cheek and gently run my knuckles against its soft surface, “Would you like to bang?”

We banged.

After coitus, she lay in my arms, like a fallen angel with a now kind of ugly hair-do and nasally voice that I can’t handle for more than a few sentences at a time. Because I care so much for her, I feign going to sleep so that she doesn’t have to hear me grind my teeth as her weedeater-like voice tells me for the third time how visionary and life-changing Lady Gaga’s music is.

I wake up early that morning, look at her, and she looks at me.

“Hey, I gotta go,” she says. “My dog needs a ride to work.”

“Wait, what?” I ask as she gets to her feet.

“My friend. I have to take my friend to the groomer,” she says, getting dressed and gathering her things.

“You’re not making any sense,” I say. “What’s happening here? Are you breaking up with me?”

In the next moment, my world was turned upside down–upside down for roughly three or four minutes–however long it took me to turn on Today and laugh at Al Roker’s amusing weather-related puns.

“Listen, you’re really great, but I have to go. This has been really nice–but I don’t think it can’t go any further. Goodbye”

I didn’t hear the last part. I had found a plastic indian in my sheets and was making him run along the headboard of my bed. “All right,” I say absently. “Take care.” I make the sound of a tiny battle cry and the indian jumps to my pillow.

She leaves, the door shuts and I never see her again

So there you have it. This blog–this blog is your ticket to romantic bliss. Congratulations. Now go make me some grand-babies.

A Date. A Big, Fat, Stinkin’ Date.

27 Jan

Sometimes I go on dates. These things–these dates–are at the same time fantastic, wonderizing, fantastiful, and grandiosious. [Editor’s Note: Those last three words don’t exist. I even checked the “IronKyle’s Fancy Words” dictionary you gave me when I came on last March.] [Kyle’s Note: Did you check the back?] [Editor’s Note: The back? I thought dictionaries were in alphabetical order.] [Kyle’s Note: Oh. Hm. Well, add those three. To the back.]

This past weekend, or maybe the weekend before that, I can’t remember [peyote], I went on a date. I went on a date with a woman.

This woman.

That’s where I picked her up from. That’s not her house, though. The location in that image there is what I call my “proving grounds.” She’s standing next to the sex room. You see, I’m trying to breed champions. You think I’m going to breed a champion with some chick I meet up with at a Starbucks? You think I’m going to breed a champion with some woman that needs to be picked up in the palatial, soft surroundings of a home? You think wrong.

The probing [Editor’s Redaction] proving grounds are located off an industrial road in Denton, Texas. I tell my date that my car is on the fritz, and that I need her to come pick me up. She comes to pick me up, hat in hand (I also tell her to bring her favorite hat.), and begins the arduous process of finding what would resemble a front door. I then jump out of the shadows, scare her, steal her hat (to show her that nothing is forever) and run away to hide. I’m wearing a disguise (glasses) and I’m moving very fast, so she thinks she’s just been robbed by a stranger. She’s lost, afraid, confused, and hopefully, violently vengeful.

I leave a gun behind with a single round left in the chamber. I then make a mannequin of myself sleeping on a bench. If the woman approaches the mannequin and shoots it, we go on our date. If the woman uses the gun as a threatening object to get her hat back, we go on a slightly less romantic date. If she uses the gun to take her own life, we go to the quarry, where she rests forever.

I never get to see the results of Annemarie’s test, though, as she saw a cat in some trash, forgot all about her hat, and spent an hour or so chasing the stray around the and singing to herself.

Eventually, the cat runs into a gutter, she gives up, and we get in the car to begin discussing our plans for the evening.

Avatar?” I ask, smiling one of my most potently charming smiles–my Dennis Quaid smile.

So potent.

“Why do you look like a fifty year old man right now?” Annemarie asks, edging herself to the far end of her seat.

“Because I’m fifty,” I say, not at all thinking before I speak.


“Let’s go see Avatar,” I say.

The movie theater’s parking lot resembles a used car dealership. The place is packed–absolutely packed.

“This place is packed,” Annemarie says.

“Absolutely packed,” I say, winking. Annemarie gives me a look that promises thousands of hand jobs to come. “Thousands of them,” I say, just above a whisper–still looking deeply into Annemarie’s eyes. She reaches into her purse.

“I have mace,” she says.

We buy our tickets. Our tickets are cheap-ish.

“I’ve been waiting forever to see this movie!” Annemarie says, jubilant.

We walk into the theater and find our seats. As packed as the theater was, it wasn’t too hard to find two seats for me and my yellow-haired she-devil.

The movie goes well. With a 165 minute run time, I had plenty of time to inch my hand from my lap, to the armrest, to her knee, to her thigh, to her boob, then back to my lap to start the whole thing over again. Each boob-cycle takes approximately 45 minutes.

For dinner, we went to a local Chinese or Japanese or Korean or Vietnamese place called “Mr. Chopsticks.” The food there is good, the atmosphere enjoyable, but it can get a little expensive for my taste (There is no dollar menu). So, here, I employ another stage of testing for my date–charity. When the bill comes, I look it over, set it down and reach into my pocket for my wallet. As I’m taking it out, I fumble it and drop my wallet on the ground.

“Oh, crap,” I say. I lift it up, dust it off and then open and close it, inspecting it. I start to look increasingly frustrated, then put it down on the table. “It’s broken. The damn thing is broken. I’m going to have to get a new one!” I sigh loudly and lean back in my seat, exasperated.

“You can’t j–” Annemarie says, reaching across the table for my wallet. I quickly snatch the wallet and shove it into my pocket.

“AH! It’s just so broken.” I shrug my shoulders and make an “I don’t know” gesture. “Do you mind just paying this once? It’d really help me out. I have to buy a new wallet.”

“Uh, yea, I guess,” Annemarie says. Good. Good.

She pays. She pays well.

The drive home is filled with witty conversation by me. I’m very witty. Annemarie does a fantastic job of sitting quietly and laughing at the appropriate times. She’s so good at that. We reach her house and I walk her to her door. There’s that momentary pause when we’re both trying to decide if a kiss is in order. I decide that one is. She decides that I smell like soy sauce and nervousness. I lean in and she ducks to her left, skillfully.

She laughs and raises her hands in a karate-like defense pose. “Quick reflexes.” I love a woman with quick reflexes. I’m so excited. I want to see the reflexes in action again. I just can’t wait. I draw my hand back and bring it forward with terrible speed. She’s nowhere near fast enough to duck it and a punch her square in the head. She falls over limply and lands in a bush.

“Crap.” I say. “Crap crap crap.” I shake my head, looking down at her unconscious frame lying in the shrubs. “Your reflexes are crap, Annemarie.” I pick her up, put her in a sitting position, kiss two of my fingers and lay them to rest on her forehead. “Goodbye, you beautiful bitch,” I say. Then I get in my car and go home to blog about my experience.

The End.

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