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.

“Miserable” Ch. II

22 Jan

When we last left our hero he’d been kidnapped by a crazed fan after his car crashed near her rural property. Her name is Sandra Cullen. His name is “Iron” Kyle Irion. She has expressed a mad desire for Iron Kyle to write another blog entry including author Stephen King, whom she believes to be be a fictional character of Kyle’s creation.

I sit slumped on the bed. Eyes open, but not a glimmer of life left in them. I appear as I always have, but with a certain spark removed. I resemble a statue of my former self. Bloodrayne has just ran through its final round of credits.

The deep, rhythmic sound of footsteps approaches the bedroom door. Sandra appears.

“Are you rethinking my proposition?” She asks, lifting the remote and toggling to the “Play Movie” option on the home screen.

“YES!” My body jerks forward against the leather straps holding me to the bed. “YES, I’ll do whatever you want–just don’t make me watch that movie again!”

“Good.” She picks up the laptop, sets it on the TV tray and brings it to me. She then straps my hands to the tray’s sides. My WordPress account is still up. I go to my Twitter. (@localpolice I’ve been kidnapped. Sucks. Send help?)

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll get started right away, but Sandra, can I ask you a personal favor? I mean I’d only ask this of someone who really understands my needs as a writer.”

“Oh!” she exults “I’d love to help! What can I do?”

“I could really use some…well, some writing juice.”

She looks at me, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry, I don’t…”

“Whiskey. Bring me some whiskey.”

“Well, all right–if you think that’ll help.”

“That’s right. It would really get this blog churning–get this blog burning–get this blog…something else. Let’s get me drunk!” I start to do the cabbage patch, but once Sandra starts to mirror me, I gag and have to stop.

“I’ll go get it right away!” She leaves, locks the door, and in a moment, I see the car pulling out down the snowy driveway and into the street.

“Here’s my chance!” I yell. I try my hardest to do a mild victory dance, but dancing while being strapped down is difficult. That’s why that paraplegic guy got kicked out of *N Sync so fast. I look around for a way to take advantage of my privacy, but quickly find none. “Well now what do I do?” I ask.

“If only you could go get a knife from the other room. There’s one in the kitchen. You could hide it under your bed so when Sandra comes to check on you you can stab her or something,” Aquaman says. [Editor’s Note: Wait, where the hell did Aquaman come from? You can’t just insert characters like that.] [Kyle’s Note: Oh yea?] [Editor’s Note: God. Please don’t make this a thing.]

Out of nowhere, Stephen King appears. [Editor’s Note: Are you serious?] He’s wearing a big red cape that has says “$tephen King.” He’s totally awesome. [Editor’s Note: You really just don’t care anymore, do you?]

“Hello, Kyle.” Stephen says.

“Hey, Stevie. You wanna help me out? Could you pop these straps off?”

Stephen looks at me, smiles, then does something creepy that I can’t quite remember. I then climb on his back and he carries me away to my home.

As Stephen flies away, I wave goodbye from the ground, a single tear running down my cheek.

“I’ll miss you Stephen!” I yell from the ground.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll be back on Christmas d–” Just at that moment, Stephen runs into a low-flying bird. He says a bad word and departs forever.

I’ll never forget my friend Stephen King–and how badly I butchered his classic story of Misery.

“Miserable.” Chapter I

20 Jan

December 24, 2009

I drive my car to my friend, Wesley’s, house. I’m going a bit slower because of the ice. As I make a turn, though, I hit a particularly treacherous patch of ice and veer off the road. My car flips sideways up the road, then onto its back, then up a tree, then back down a tree, then into a river, then out of a river, then to a giant car shaped towel, then into a rock wall. I’m knocked unconscious.

I wake up being drug by a large, matronly-looking human, wrapped from head to toe in layers of winter clothing. It’s like that time my laundry got so dirty that it gained sentience and drug me to the laundromat to put it out of its misery. Concussed and nearing delirium, I close my eyes and fall to nothing once again.

I am taken to an old farm house in the middle of a snow-covered forest. I lay, bound, in what looks to have the falsely lived-in look of a guest bedroom. The inside of the house smells of antique furniture and the stiff, musky smell of an aged home.

“What smells like this much poop and this much doily?” I ask, moving my hands from a position far apart, then to one closer together.

“Oh! You’re awake!” A voice calls from down the corridor. A series of approaching footsteps soon follow. Momentarily, a large, moon-faced woman with a build like a refrigerator and the hair of a sixties house wife stands at the door. “Iron Kyle! I’m so glad you’re here!”

I attempt to rise up to make sex to this woman (as is my customary greeting when someone calls me by my internet name), but I’m strapped to the bed by a series of leather straps.

“What is this?!” I yell, struggling against my restraints.

“That’s just to keep you still while you’re healing. You got some pretty nasty injuries, Iron Kyle.” The woman has not moved from the doorway, as if she’s afraid of getting to close. She has a strange look on her face–a smile laced with a kind of bashful fear–she’s star struck.

I once again try to get out of the bed to pour my sex all over this mysterious maiden (as is my customary response when I star-strike someone), but the restraints halt my advance. “…I just need to find a w…I need to free my wiener…” I mumble to myself, surveying the straps.

“Iron Kyle,” the woman says, stepping into the room for the first time, “My name is Sandra Cullen.”

“Are you Edward’s mom?” I turn and wink at the camera. [Editor’s Note: Wait, is this a blog or a screenplay? What camera? Please specify.]

Sandra looks confused. “No, I’m afraid I’ve never been married. Never really been with a man, either.”

I give this woman a strange look. I struggle to get my hands close enough together to do a penetrating motion with my right finger and my left fist, then ask “‘Been with’ like this?”

She blushes. “Iron Kyle, you embarrass me!”

“I embarrass a lot of people,” I say, winking smugly at the camera. [Editor’s Note: Stop it.] A bit of dribble runs down my chin.

She’s walks to a small desk by the room’s only window, her back to me. She begins fiddling with something, then says “Iron Kyle, I have a confession to make. I am your biggest fan. I’ve read all of your blogs four or five times at least, I’ve read all your short stories, I went to see your play performed, and I have on my iPod all the music you ever wrote. Remember all those mornings when you came out to find your car mysteriously washed clean? That was me!”

“That was you?”

“Yea–,” she says, turning bright red and swaying girlishly.

“You know it’s breaking and entering when you smash the window of my garage to do that, right?”

She stands silent.

“I’m actually going to need some contact information for you. Those windows are really expensive and I–”

“SHUT UP!” She yells. “You shut your mouth!” Her demeanor is a mix of anger and severe disappointment. “I’ve heard that you artist/writer types can be egotistical little divas, but I never expected you to be like this!”

“Really? I kind of feel like that’s my most prominent personality trait.”

“I said shut up!” She steps forward and reveals what she’d been fiddling with at the desk: a syringe. She drives the needle into my neck and after a biting moment of pain, I fall asleep.

When I wake up, she’s craned my bed up so I’m in a sitting position. Sandra has also put a tray across my lap, which my hands are strapped to. There is a laptop on the tray, positioned just so my hands can reach the keyboard. My WordPress account is on the homepage.

“I brought you a computer so you could write! You can write more of your blogs!” Sandra says from the foot of my bad. She’s clasping her hands tightly together. She looks like a gigantic child on fair day.

I’m still struggling into the waking world, my words still garbled.

“No, no, Iron Kyle. It’s all forgiven,” she interrupts. “I’m not mad at you anymore. I want you to do me a favor, though.”

“What is it?” I ask. Sandra then steps forward and places a clammy, chubby hand on my arm.

“Well,” she’s now smiling with a nervous and expectant grin. “I’d like you to write a blog for me. I want you to do one with your friend Stephen King in it. I just love his character.”

“Character?” I ask. “Stephen King isn’t a character, Sandra. He’s a real human being.

She looks at me, confused, then stomps out of the room. I hear a childish, fitting scream from the hallway. A few seconds of silence follow, and when she enters again, red rings of moisture around her eyes.

“Put Stephen King in another blog.” She seems stolid and cold for a moment, then melts and returns to her false, bubbly self. “I miss him so much! He’s my favorite character!”

“HE ISN’T A CHARACTER!” I yell back. Sandra’s smile disappears and from her apron, she removes a copy of Bloodrayne.

“What uh…what are you going to do with that?” I ask. A pit of nerves opens in my stomach and a flash, somehow both hot and cold, runs over my body.

“We’re going to watch a movie. We’re going to watch a movie until you appreciate all I’ve done for you!” Sandra unplugs the laptop and moves it to a table across the room.

The TV is located at the foot of the bed on small chest of drawers. The DVD player sits atop the set like some foreboding king or seer.

“Don’t put that DVD in there, Sandra,” I say. “Don’t you do it!”

“OHHHHH yea!” She says.

“Why don’t you–” I start, but then she does a few pelvic thrusts, then something with her hands, and my protests are completely derailed. I stutter a few times then just stop talking.

Bloodrayne begins.

To be continued.

(Source Material)

The Whiskey Kyle Letters, Part 2

18 Jan

Following is a series of correspondence between myself and my intoxicated alter-ego, Whiskey Kyle. A previously documented account of this can be found here.


Dear Whiskey Kyle,

How are you? Well, I hope. From your last letters, though, I have reason to believe that my hopes for your continued growth and maturity may not come to fruition. Was I correct when I read that you, while at full force, tried to convince your friend Derek to let you “cut him open and sleep inside him like a big friendly sleeping bag”? That’s a horrible idea, Whiskey Kyle. I’m afraid that you’re getting dangerously close to murder.

Have you murdered someone?

Your friend,



Hey ikkkyLe,

LIshen. Lishen tu me. Youi are not muyh dad. I did kill some;one.



Whiskey Kyle


Whiskey Kyle,

This isn’t a joke, Whiskey Kyle. You can’t kill people, do you understand? You just can’t. It’s illegal and wrong. Being wasted doesn’t mean you are outside the law. It doesn’t make you an endearing free spirit either, in case that’s what you were thinking. It just makes you a criminal. A foul-smelling, bloated, grotesquely intoxicated criminal.

Why do girls keep kissing you?

Your friend,



Dear Fuck Yuo,

Hello, Fukc yOU! Thass your name. I püt a sleeppy hiomeless man in a ;ditch by FUddrucker’s. I made him sle3py bi h;tting him with a board. Why dooes that make thm so sleep? LOL.LIKE SOMUCH BLO0D!!!

Ann another thing. I’m real go0d lookin, so why wou;lldn’t igrls want 2 kisS me?

I am G0()d looking, rite?




Eat some poop,

Whiskey Kyle


Whiskey Kyle,

Okay, Whiskey Kyle. I can’t be serious enough about this next part, and I need you to respond with equal seriousness: Did you really kill a homeless man with a board and leave him in a ditch by Fuddrucker’s? And if you did, did you leave any trace of your identity behind?

Do not go back to the body. Not for now. You and a dead body can most adequately be described as a “severe liability.” Just you knowing that there’s a corpse you can tamper with is a severe liability.

And yes, you’re very good looking, but you’re abrasive, impetuous, and prone to binge eating. Women don’t like these things. They also don’t think it makes you look classy when you take off your hoodie and tie it around your shoulders. It doesn’t give you near the “country club” look that you claim you’re going for. It just makes you look like a douche.

But back to the first thing. Did you kill someone? Don’t joke about this.

Your friend,




Don wurry i took ThaT old bag of bones and dresssed him up as mE–I eeven gave hm our ID to be authenTick. NOw the cops won’t geT us because they’ll tHink thaat the homel3ss man is me and everyb8dy knowws you cn’t kill urself.

Smaarter than u think,

Whiskey Kyle


Whiskey Kyle,

You idiot. You’ve destroyed us.


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