Intelligent Worldy Humor

Mensa (English): The largest and oldest high IQ society in the world. 

Mensa (Spanish): Stupid.

Tea Cups, Pancakes, & Deadly Weaponry

Photo found here: http://www.droold.com/i/236-Crazy-Egg-Pancake-Fryers

The cozy breakfast diner had at least one hungry customer at every table, except for the empty booth in the back corner, which thankfully, is the usual place I look to in hopes I might be sat for quiet solitude and maximum people viewing potential. It was mine.

I had no idea when waking that morning, that while hacking away at my buckwheat pancakes and guzzling down my dangerously caffeinated self-brought English tea, I’d be witness to many people’s personal nightmare.

As my husband sat across from me, relaying behind-the-scenes war stories of working in film and television, I noticed two uniformed police officers enter the dining room and were headed straight to the back of the restaurant. I was no longer listening. They were headed straight for us.

“This is it,” I thought. My time was up—they’d finally found me. I was to be immediately extradited to my far off no-longer-secret originating planet, or they’d been on my trail for years as I continually checked out books from the library on communism, secret societies, and Area 51. Or perhaps they’d been observing my frequent viewings of online documentaries on the effects of LSD, who killed JFK?, and those ultra-fabulous Linda Evangelista make-up tutorials. I knew they’d catch up to me one day—I know too much.

Just short of reaching our table, it was as if the earth simply stopped. The chattering ceased, and only slow motion body movements commenced. A mother grabbed her little girl and held her head in her arms whilst her face exhibited surprise and fear. Heads were turning towards the walls, as if humans in this brief moment were instinctually displaying the calming signals animals give when they fear for their lives.

A matte black pistol appeared and was slowly being raised up above the head of a young man, over the trembling mother and daughter, just behind my husband. The weapon was now in the hands of a police officer. And the room was silent. Time stood still.

Slowly, and quietly, the young previously-armed man left the restaurant with the officers. His friends continued to eat, though they avoided any eye contact with fellow diners. The chatter was resucitated and the feeding frenzy restored. 

Why are they still here? Did that really just happen?

I apologized to my husband for not giving him my full attention, quietly filled him in on what had just occurred just feet away from behind his back, shoved a few too-large chunks of pancakes into my mouth, then in walked the young, previously unarmed man, with his gun in plain sight, tucked into his baggy, sagging pants.

"What happened to the officers?" I thought.

The no-older-than-nineteen now-armed man began to ask others sitting near him, including the woman who feared for her daughter’s life, “Who told on me? Why did you report me? It’s my right! This is for my protection!”

As if they were going to say anything to further anger him.

Great. And I’m now stuck in the back corner. Nowhere to run. 

He returned to his plate and the room settled once again.

Forks irritatingly scraping plates accelerated, and finally, Mr. “Lay off my plate or I’ll shoot” and his small pancake-eating posse left the restaurant.

My husband and I wondered aloud, “Whom was this guy running from? Is this form of ‘protection’ needed when dining in a family restaurant? Is the breakfast burrito that good?”

His right under law or not, my logic stricken brain came to a conclusion: if I didn’t feel safe in a family restaurant and resolved to require a weapon in order to enjoy scrambled eggs out on the town, I'd likely stay home and scramble my own eggs. And if by chance I'd run out of eggs and lost my ability to cook for myself, I'd make use of a holster. And a bad-ass one at that.

*On Death & Disneyland

[Photo credit: Donn Shy (Mum) | Melancholic visit to Disneyland with 
one rebellious little sister and one brilliantly cooperative brother.]

[The night we said our final goodbyes] We looped her favorite home video she had proudly composed and edited which consisted of photographs and video footage from Mother’s Day 2007 when I had taken her, my brother Tony, and sister Kelli to Disneyland. The DVD was a humorous contradiction, as on that day I somehow had the off-kilter, yet self-proclaimed brilliant idea for the entire group to only take melancholically posed photos, only in front of the rides that were closed for refurbishment, or in front of the “Cast Members Only” signs. Basically anything we had no access to, anything that had the potential to create a tinge of disappointment, we would use as a backdrop for Mum’s professional photographic lens.

Sullen, dejected, sad, fixating on the uninspired tiny pebbles on the ground, and sometimes seemingly screaming in anguish, the result was an incredibly humorous video/slide-show with a cheery theme song. This memory became a great one Mum would cherish so much, she’d later confess to popping it into her DVD player and watching it any time she felt down, which sadly happened to be more often than not.

Excerpt from chapter one | wild horses | Everything’s Hunky Dory: A Memoir

Hi Turd!

I often sign up for things online with a pseudonym. Not because I'm doing anything dodgy, but because I enjoy being addressed as "Turd Ferguson,” and revel at receiving the occasional "Hi Turd!" as a cheery email greeting.

*Excerpt from Chapter Twenty: Hold Your Head Up

(A fourteen-year-old's perspective: finding Mum had become a mistress.)

“How long could a sexual act take?” I'd wondered aloud. It’d been hours. I’d hoped he hadn’t killed her. He was a pretty heavy guy. Rather fat, in fact.

I would often concern myself with the thought of how the buttons remained on Jim’s business shirts. I imagined his stomach to contain the kind of force shared only by a can of tightly packed Pillsbury biscuit dough, so was tempted to cover my face when in front of him for fear they’d pop off and “take an eye out”, as my grandmother would have said. I believe my interest in physics began when I pondered the mystery of how his tiny black belt was able to support his baggy dress pants whilst having two negative factors working against it--a wide, flat rear-end and gigantic protruding belly. Six inches up in back, six inches down in front. Inanimate objects have often brought on deep compassion from me, and his desperately thin belt was no exception (although I was assured the poor thing was well relieved when his mistress was around as it was finally able to take a holiday well deserved).

Excerpt from chapter twenty | hold your head up | EVERYTHING'S HUNKY DORY: A MEMOIR

Dog Psychology

I became so annoyed with my dogs' incessant barking this morning, I decided to beat them to it and began hurling billowing barks at innocent passersby and random delivery trucks. 

You wouldn't believe the look of utter shock on their faces, not to mention the neighbor's.

 

 

 

Hangover Mornings: Part I

My mother didn’t become an early riser until years after I had moved out of the house at eighteen. I recall as a youngin' her more than occasional late night drinking binges would knock her out until late mornings, early afternoons, which would open doors to a curious world of investigation for small children. It also created a sense of total self-reliance in me that I would never be able to shake, which would later annoy the hell out of friends and many a chivalrous fellow attempting to win my affection.

***

One morning, whilst living in beautiful, sunny San Diego, my mother and her sister, Chris (who was staying with us at the time while my father was away on active duty), had enjoyed a few too many Michelob beers the night before, causing them to snooze past the legal breakfast hour, Pacific Standard Time. I, in an effort to get started on a productive day, climbed out of my crib in a charming pink one-piece footsie pajama (of which was filled from the ankle up with unknowingly trapped, yet very hopeful absconding turd balls), then proceeded to take Aunt Chris’ favorite bottled fragrance, Charlie, out of the bathroom cabinet, out the front door, then on to brighten up the neighborhood by “making all da plants smell weal pweddy.”

A helpful, caring neighbor (who apparently wasn’t a fan of Revlon’s most popular scent) used the very tips of his right hand fingers to guide me back to the front door of our home, likely plugging his nose with his left hand in order to protect himself from ingesting the stench of a wandering, perfume-wielding fugitive.

***

My mother learned to keep valuable liquids out of the reach of children, to latch the door chain before going to bed at night, and to cut the feet off of all one-piece footsie pajamas in order to provide liberation for refugee turds and their accompanying odors.

Side Note: I wouldn't suggest ever plugging "pink footsie pajamas" into google's image search.