Tag Archives: humor

Surprising Archaeological Finding

Yesterday, while in the bog,
I dredged up a bottle of spiked eggnog.
I exclaimed “How strange!” and “Oh my word!
Its remains are perfectly preserved!”

I briefly worried it could be a rig,
It’s not expected on a dig.
But upon inspection, though there was no mold,
Carbon dating confirmed: eighteen hundred years old!

By the gods! I didn’t know what to do,
I found myself questioning all that I knew.
For of course, I have seen my fair share of old beer,
But how could spiked eggnog have ended up here?

It could not have been traded, or won in a war,
Its design is quite modern, of that I am sure,
Bottled in glass with a logo, no less:
This puts our data in a real mess…

Unless…

Before my colleagues notice what I’ve exhumed,
I ensure that the artifact is safely consumed.
I’m certain it’s a finding that wouldn’t be missed,
And I’ll be the only person who’s pissed!

Happy April 1!

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I Resisted, I Got Inspired, I Tweeted

This is a post about how I started tweeting, some poems I have tweeted, and a fun venture you can join me in tweeting about.

I’m not enamored with social media. Don’t get me wrong, I like media—music, poetry, art, storytelling, informative news– and I like being social, so I see nothing inherently problematic about combining the two. But I’m hesitant to jump onto popular social media band wagons for two simple reasons.

First, most social media websites take an inordinately long time to navigate when the person trying to get around them is totally blind. I once tried planting plants in three friends’ farm patches on facebook, and after an hour and a half of technical negotiation, none of which involved down websites or malfunctioning programs, I succeeded. Which leads to the second reason I’m suspicious of engaging in too much social media: even if the sites were accessible, I believe I would get just as obsessed with posting on them as I already am and waste lots of precious time which I could spend on my career or, perhaps more importantly, on socializing with friends over email or in person which won’t result in PDC (i.e. Public Display of Communication.)

I’ve used facebook since my sophomore year in college when it first came out and was a way for students at top American universities to connect with one another and the friend requests you would accept were from people you were already close friends with. You know, back in the day…

Mostly I now use facebook to participate in closed private groups because anything I want to post on there is usually something I ought not associate with my real name: I’m still in the broom closet. Actually I am technically at the moment in my living room, the closet is metaphorical.

But, it’s surprising how often, as a pagan, I have to be exceedingly careful, especially as I have as many friends in the physical world as on the other side, and that’s not considered normal. If only facebook let you have more than one identity! (I’m sure men and women fleeing abusive relationships and double-agent spies would appreciate this as much as closeted pagans and other targeted minorities, facebook! Come on with it then…)

In any case, although twitter does allow, fortunately, sensibly, responsibly, for as many identities as you like, I struggled for a long time with actually getting onto twitter. I kept feeling like I am this old fashioned thirty-something person who likes face to face communication, and more importantly, I’m a person. Whoever heard of a person tweeting? The concept sounded so absurd to me. I mean, if I walked into a room and five or six people were literally standing around tweeting, I’d get concerned, and quickly. Especially if their vocal bird calls were too convincing. Then I would probably sincerely ask them if they were channeling bird spirits—and I don’t mean the kind of spirits birds might consume to get intoxicated.

I decided therefore that I never wanted it to be said of me that I had tweeted. I imagined a list of modern honors and deeds one might recount upon a person’s death: “She was a wonderful person, no one has ever spoken ill of her, she was a loyal friend, she was never rude in the use of her cell phone, and she has tweeted.”

This imagined scenario made me shutter and adamantly think, not of me, please! I felt like tweeting might once and for all situate me in the modern age, an age I often don’t understand and even less often agree with. Not that past ages were any better. But I live now, so I can point out what’s wrong about the present and usually get away with it, and with sympathy.

That all changed when Ali Isaac and Jane Dougherty posted an invitation to tweet love poems based on Irish mythology to coincide with the coming out of their jointly written book, Grá Mo Chroí, , which I encourage everyone to read! It’s a wonderful book. And, what is more, once I read the previously mentioned invitation, my antitweet resolve began breaking down. To my astonishment, I found myself creating a twitter account. Then, to much less astonishment and great fun, I discarded my, albeit never officially stated, vow to refrain from having tweeted, and have tweeted (twittered?) more times than I can count now.

I’m not sure what the protocol is about posting tweeted things on a blog, but here are a few of my tweeted poems. I’ll create another post with poems by/about my ancient family more directly, as they deserve a space of their own.

***

Together sound
Songbird and foghorn
Take care, come listen
Sirens seaward cry
A soaring and a warning
As day sings itself awake

***

To walk the path
Steeped in mystery
With false starts strewn
Step lightly
One word, yes
Begins your hero’s journey

***

The six encircle me in love
At the center
I, shaped as a star
Enfolded within
Their single light
Resonate with joy

***

Fierce passion Consumed their young souls
Now centuries flown
In the otherworld
They are love
A gentle light
Between them grown

***

Landscape aches
For ancient reverence
Carve a place
A new old way
Weave the pattern
Of what happens
Into being
Come home you say

***

Fretful my night
Until your light fills
This space, glowing
Dissolving my fear
Your silent strength
Guides your lost child home

***

Finally, I love playing around with words and decided to create a hashtag called #absurdwordnerd under which to write ridiculous new definitions of words. Creatively changing the word by adding or subtracting a letter and then redefining it is also totally silly and acceptable. For example:
Indentured servant: a servant with false teeth. #absurdwordnerd

I am doing this just because why not, and because I think the world needs more humor. So come participate whenever inspiration hits you (just ask it to hit nicely.)

Ode to Torque

Oh pivotal inertia’s twin,
Whether the masses find equilibrium or not,
You keep us levered at arm’s length.

Found when the wheel rotates with vertical spin,
Discovered as the current recoils from the coil,
The product of your motion leaves its sine everywhere,
Example given: the closing of a door.

I am accelerated to be an integral part of your work.
You are the alpha and omega,
Your cause gains momentum farther out.

Our lives rotate around the fulcrum point of your profound significance,
Oh force behind the workings of many electrical objects,
We calculate your greatness by the right hand rule, oh torque.

Allegro’s Version of “My Favorite Things”

Allegro, Violet, and me

So, I discovered that after being sick all week I tend to get creative in a weird way. How is this possible, you might ask, aren’t I creatively weird already? No comment on that. But the following occurred yesterday after starting to feel better, and I thank for her posts on her dog Ani for the inspiration.

Allegro’s version of “My Favorite Things” from the Sound of Music

Chasing my tail, skidding after my hedgehog,
Eating my kibble and going on long walks,
Getting fuzzed up and then tugging on rings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Running from mom when she’s trying to catch me,
Time on the couch every time that she lets me
Splashing in water and biting my leash,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Playing at keep away and watching mom find me,
Gnawing on bones to show off to her family,
Winning the island game, to race off with glee
These are a few of my favorite things.

Nibbling the grass that grows by the back gate,
Shredding old tissues while the humans are out late,
Running faster than mom, oh the joy that it brings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

When I’m left alone, and no one’s home,
When I can’t play ’cause mom’s feeling bad,
I sigh and I dream of my favorite things,
And then I fall asleep on my fuzzy mat.

Descriptions (from Allegro’s point of view):
Fuzzed up: Being rubbed, scratched, and pet all over to the song, “fuzz fuzz fuzz, fuzzing him up.” I go wild and crazy with joy and spin in circles and grunt. It’s great!

Running from mom: I don’t think this is the usual human/dog pass time.
She insists on chasing me. Loves it. Makes loud noises that are weirder
than the ones I make. But I love the game and I’ll run at her just to
get her to start a chase. She says it’s not a fair chase because there are too many blocks of concrete to smash into. Well you just don’t run at those! I always win. Yeah!

Ring: That cool round rubbery thing to tug on. It’s great fun, but could the humans stop trying to balance it on my nose? It’s called dignity, people!

Keep away: Making sure my toy is just out of reach so mom can’t throw it without dashing in circles and trying to intercept me. She looks so silly doing this. Actually she looks a bit like I do…haha!

Mom having to find me: What can I say, I know she’s blind. That’s why I’m here, right? So shhhh don’t tell Guide Dogs: sometimes I run across the courtyard and then stand perfectly still so mom doesn’t know where I am. It’s a great trick, except I can’t understand why she inevitably says “I see you!” and runs right at me. It’s like she can see anyway. Was that in the job discription?

Island game: a totally rigged game in which I run eagerly behind the island counter in the kitchen carrying a toy and mom runs from one side of the counter to the other in order to block me from leaving the kitchen. I try to escape but there aren’t any concrete planters in the apartment so mom is too fast! It’s hard to win and when her spirit friend played with her I was stuck in the kitchen for over five minutes. I started to freak out and they let me win that one I suspect. But sometimes I’ll win fair and square, usually by distracting mom or running through her legs. Okay, okay I admit to going in there on purpose just to start the game. I love it!

Running faster than mom: She can’t really run. She also loves it when I chase her. So I do. Something about equality when it comes to chasing and getting chased. Whatever. It’s not much of a contest but I humor her. She has a great time, so I do, too.

***

Now this is when I make a plea as a person who can’t see attempting to post a picture of my lovely labradorable to forgive me if “disaster” does not actually even begin to cover the description of the damage. Thanks!

The End: Fairy Tales Gone Awry

We’re taking a break from usual content today to bring you a large dose of ridiculousness, humor, and absurdity. As I am currently a very, very stressed out grad student, I happily present to you … in the style of pointedly pure procrastination … a diversion. So laugh, cry, or do whatever else you were planning on doing today and have fun!

You’ve heard all the old fairy tales and stories about superheroes before. But here is what your mother never told you:

In her old age, Bat woman decided to stop taking life so seriously and just wing it.

A much older Superman admitted the joker was right in one respect, and from then on laughed at his mistakes on the fly.

On the day the ex-men and Zoro crossed paths, they traded conversation and ideas. Zoro left convinced of the power of fighting tooth and nail, and the X men began representing themselves with the sign of the Z.

An aged Rapunzel refused to let a bad hair day get her down.

Snow White sat with her grandchildren enraptured at her feet as she told them of her childhood. “It’s not true what they say, that a bad apple ruins the whole bunch,” she concluded. “After all, I learned, didn’t I, that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

An elderly Hansel and Gretel sat at the table having dinner together. At one point Gretel turned to her brother and said, “There’s something I need to tell you. You’re the only living relative I have, and I can’t keep this a secret any longer.” “What is it?” her brother asked encouragingly. “I’ve grown to be more spiritual in my old age. I’m learning to become a witch.” Hansel was quiet for a long time. Finally he said, “hmmm. Well in that case I don’t think I’ll be having any more chicken tonight, thanks.” “Not that kind of witch!” Gretel laughed. “Oh forget it, I must be getting old,” Hansel grumbled irritably, “Could you remind me again which witch is which?”

After Goldie Locks went through two nasty divorces, she had an epiphany. Of course! She said to herself, I should choose my next man in the same way I chose which chair to sit in in the house of the three bears: not too big, not too small, but just right.

Cinderella’s face was ashen as she held the hand of her dying Prince Charming, now in his eighties. “Do you have any last requests of me, dear?” she asked solumnly. “Yes,” he said, his eyes serious and cloudy, “Live the rest of your life to the fullest. Tend the hearth of your heart and don’t let it burn out. And remember, if the shoe fits, wear it.”

After Rumpelstiltskin stomped and fell, unconscious, through the queen’s floor, he landed in her private indoor garden, was mistaken for a garden gnome, dressed in a ridiculous outfit, and taken to kindergarten by a servant’s daughter for show and tell. After that, babies just never had the same appeal: and he always checked before leaving on a nepharious mission that he had the right floor plan…

On her deathbed, Sleeping Beauty admitted that her waking life was not nearly as interesting as the dreams she had from age sixteen until her prince woke her up. “Ah perchance to dream,” she said longingly of the possible life she might have after death, “I wish I never had to kiss it all goodbye in the first place.”

The aging ex-wife of Bluebeard wanted to take the car to get groceries.
“You look fretful my dear,” her loving second husband observed, “Is there anything I can do?” “My keys!” his wife cried in distress, “I can’t remember where I put them. I had them in my hand just a minute ago. I can’t leave without them.”

The little match girl was actually taken into the warm house before freezing to death. Much much later, at ninety-five, she died from heart failure and exhaustion. “Her body was just burned out,” the doctor told her grieving family.

Ariel the mermaid, now no longer little in any respect, turned to her loving husband and asked, “Remember our wedding day when I finally found my voice and you said you would love me for all time?” “Ah dear, I do,” her husband replied. After a thoughtful pause he added, “You were so beautiful that day. The whole event went swimmingly.”

Spider Man was called back from the waiting room at the doctor’s office. “I’m sorry to tell you this,” the doctor said soothingly, “But we’ve confirmed a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s. You will slowly lose your memory until your grasp on reality is hanging by a thread.” “Oh, that’s all? Well if that’s the case I can handle it,” Spider Man replied with confidence.

Dorothy passionately espoused that there was no place like home. Then she got married, adopted a rescued dog, a stray cat, and two rabbits … and had three children…

The ugly duckling learned he was a swan. After that, he started making money treating psychological patients—until he was exposed as a quack.

Beauty was talking with a friend after her husband’s funeral. “How are you doing?” asked the concerned friend. “Terribly,” Beauty confessed. “They served roast beast at the funeral reception.”

“Where do babies come from?” a grandchild innocently asked Mother Goose. “I don’t know,” the old goose answered honestly, “But I’ll take a gander and find out.”

A not so little, aging Red Riding Hood was asleep in her bed. Suddenly the door swung open and an irritatingly gregarious youthful grandchild bounced into the room. “Grandma! Grandma! I’ve come to visit!!!” the little girl screamed. “Arrrrrrrrrrggggg.!” Came the reply from the bed, as Red Riding Hood opened her mouth, revealing fang-like dentures. “Grandma, what big teeth you have!” the little girl cried. “The better to eat you with my dear,” her grandma snarled, her dentured mouth contorting into an eerie grimice. With a shreak the frightened grandchild ran out of the house and back into the woods. Yawning, her grandmother promptly fell back asleep. Peace restored, she thought smugly, as she drifted off.

The Stories We Tell _ Inspired by Dr. Seuss’ “The Places You’ll Go”

The stories we tell,
The things that we see,
That we think explain
How things came to be,

When we know quite well
They’re not what they seem.
But this point can wait,
We say, sensibly.

For what would we do
Without stories to tell
Of the sun and the moon
How the sky knows them well?

Or how me and you
Run and dance, hope and cry,
Did our hopes and fears
Put the sun in the sky?

Or do we know worlds
Upon worlds of great truth?
Can we see beyond words?
Exactly what can we do?

What claims that we’re claiming
Can claim to have proof?
Yes, how can we prove
The nature of truth?

You’re off on your way
To learn laws and the like
F equals m*a,
Don’t go faster than light.

The principles work,
Though the stories, they change;
The quarks are the quirks,
Quarks are quirky and strange.

And it doesn’t stop there–
No, the stories go farther,
Here chromosomes pair,
There cells become daughters.

They divide and divide—
Are you satisfied yet?
Your brain cells divide
So you won’t forget–

The stories we tell,
The things that we see,
That we think explain
How things came to be.

But, between you and me,
They’re just stories, that’s all
Just our way of saying
This world’s beautiful,

And acknowledging worlds
That our words can’t contain.
When our stories start shifting,
The world will remain.

And some other teller
Of stories will tell
A story of us,
And tell it quite well.

And their story just might
Be better than ours
At explaining the seasons,
Motions, and mountains,

Living, and dying,
This great world and lying
Outside it the universe,
Galaxies, stars,

And why we must tell
These stories with care
To the people we cherish,
Whose planet we share.

Ode With a Twist _ April Fools!

Ode(ious) To the jackhammer

 

You noise polluting, chaos creating, scum of all human invention
I hurl all manner of insult in your general direction:

You dimwitted droning drill
You senseless skewer

You gravel grinder
You asphalt hole digger

You headache hasslre
You incessant, irritating, irascible instrument

May you be abducted into the pit of infamy
May you rot in a warehouse

May you whine neglected
Abandoned and lonely in a junkyard

May your operators always get promoted until you are merely a thing of the past
May your glory days of sidewalk sundering not last

May you be superseded by a superior machine
Whose efficient demeanor spews less smog and sound into the world

Whose placid quiescence shames you into permanent obsolescence
And resounds doom for all reproduction of your kind
May your specs never come again to a homo sapiens’ mind

May your obnoxious noxious cacophony now cease
And leave these poor unsuspecting denizens of apartment complex and business office in blissful peace.

May you dwell where no citizen sets foot
And may your motor go kaput.

Oh noisome noisy nuisance,
Oh abominable apparatus tunneling tirelessly through terrain
Oh contemptuous invader of contemplative space

May you be driven very, very far away
And be remembered as the odious mistake among technologies today

Ridiculous Animal Totems Deserve Ridiculous Responses Martha Beck,

Martha Beck, http://marthabeck.com/, author of the book “Expecting Adam, A True Story of Birth, Rebirth and Everyday Magic,” is a life and relationships coach, new age practitioner, and mother of a wonderful boy with Down Syndrome.  Today she posted a hillarius newsletter entry on “marginalized and disrespected” animal totems. 

 

Many people think they have an animal spirit guide, such as the bear, wolf, tiger, snake, deer, even hedgehog or badger.  But have you ever begun a shamanic journey to find your one true totem animal and discovered (perhaps to your horror?) that it was

 

… 

 

the roundish flat worm? 

 

That’s right, Martha Beck’s disenfranchised totem of the day is the round flat worm and I found it ridiculous and funny enough, as much hopefully as she surely intended it to be, to blog it and add a few grubby tidbits of my own.  I’ve put her words in quotes and added my ramblings wherever I found it most inappropriate.  (Please note this is taken from Martha’s newsletter and I am unable to find a direct link to the quotes I cite here.  You can sign up for her newsletter on her website.)

 

 

 

“Lame Animal Totem: The Roundish Flatworm”

 

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“The roundish flatworm is the hypothetical earliest animal ever to have developed bilateral symmetry. Its proper name, “urbilaterian,” is just its way of trying to sound important. Roundish flatworms are profoundly unevolved. They carry the energy of unintentional rudeness, deep insensitivity, and naïve indifference to suffering.”

 

Really? Or are they just part of the biological evolution of the planet minus anthropomorphic negative connotations?  Methinks thou dost protest too much!  Can you site sources? Please?  Did Darwin ever speak of the deeply insensitive flat worm?

 

“If the roundish flatworm is your totem, then like your animal, you probably focus most of your time sucking food through muscular mouth parts located directly over your stomach. This is why no one ever asks you out for coffee, or any other activity that might offer you a chance to develop social skills. No worries—you wouldn’t care anyway.”

 

Come on, quit making fun of how I look.  Just because I look terrifying and have a mouth on my stomach does not mean I lack a conscience.  Weird anatomy doesn’t make one immoral.  Go back to first grade and relearn the bit about we’re all unique and special even if we all don’t look the same, we all want love and acceptance.  I just wanna be loved… nobody likes me guess I’ll go eat worms…oh wait that won’t work. 🙂  Show some tolerance for the stomach-mouth people!  We demand respect, just like our round worm counterparts!

 

“When the roundish flatworm convulses its way across your path, consider it an invitation to offer only primitive reactions to people around you. Ignore all thought-provoking ideas. Be sexist and politically incorrect. Laugh when people trip. If anyone complains, say, “Hey, I’m bilaterally symmetrical! What more do you want?” The roundish flatworm has been using this line for millions of years, and so far, it’s worked just fine.”

 

Goes to work and gives it a try: You good for nothing *****************! Oh wait did I make you mad?  But I am bilaterally symmetrical.  Man why didn’t that work on my boss.  Now I got fired. Waaaaaaaahhhhh.

 

“Periodically in this newsletter and on my FB page, I’ll be sharing the animal totems you wish you knew more about: the marginalized, the disrespected, nay I say, the lame.  You’ll learn the illuminating messages they hold for you. You’re welcome. ~Martha.”

 

Lame?  That’s totally politically incorrect.  Are you sure you’re not projecting?  Maybe you’re bilaterally symmetrical too.  Wait, you mean I might not be alone?  Yesssss!  Can we be friends?  I won’t care that you also eat through your stomach and will constantly treat me with insensitivity and primitive political incorrectness.  We can act like we’re the ooze on our shoes together!  Please?  Let’s be friends.  I don’t have any friends. Can’t I just worm my way into your life?  Whine, whine… well, in a wormy sort of way.

 

And I couldn’t resist a little make believe vignette.  What precisely would go through your mind if you learned your totem was the roundish flat worm?  Here’s one possibility.

 

Dear Universe,

I had a dream last night in which I was given the roundish flat worm totem.  A woman in a long black dress and funny hat, which immediately belied her authority, appeared holding the primitive, rude, and belligerent creature.   Actually, the worm was  too lame to be belligerent:  rather it was noncommittal and sluggish if you ask me.   Anyway, the woman announced that from now on I would identify with the flat worm.  She said this in some foreign language I’d never heard– perhaps Swedish, unless you’re Swedish, in which case the language was probably Turkish.  The pronouncement gave me a creepy crawly — or should I say squidgy– feeling.  Anyway it made me squirm.  I then had a replay of my whole life as if on a movie screen and realized in horror that no one has ever asked me out to coffee or on a date, and I was suddenly ashamed of the way I eat.  I thought everyone ate through their stomach.  Am I the only one? Really, really? No don’t tell me that, don’t, just… don’t!  But wait, if I really had a flat worm totem, I wouldn’t care.  I was so disgusted with myself that I ran to the shrink… I lied, I squidged over to the shrink on my belly.  Wait, that also isn’t how other people get around? Noooooooooo!  Don’t erase my slime trail…er I mean don’t burst my bubble.  Come on, how would you feel if your only merit was being bilaterally symmetrical?  All I could think was… I couldn’t think.  And then I got stepped on.  I’m so glad it was just a dream, but what if this says something about my personality?  I’d better go eat breakfast and take an empathy test, just to be on the safe side.

 

My Postmodernist Poem

I Never Thought I’d Write A Postmodernist Poem

 

this is nothing to capture Being in a scribble
a shadow penned by an author inside someone’s narrative lyric
we’re all Protagorian says the culture rendering it true

adog scurrying on the spray of the Atlantic Ocean
once spoke my name
or maybe he was marking the territory
through which everything goes

then according to Tuesday’s results from the random essay generator
We must become a narrative futility (line 1)
or conclude that “consciousness has intrinsic meaning” (line 3)
that’s relativity, neodialectically speaking all the way down

the world is flat
its north pole rests on a turtle
and even religious revelation is a valid form of evidence-gathering
a whole generation searching through honeycomb for beeswax

 

*Protagoras, an early Greek philosopher, was possibly one of the first proponents of relativism.  He wrote: “Man is the measure of all things.”

 

*Dialectic: The art or practice of arriving at the truth by the exchange of logical arguments.  So obviously, neodialectic is a deconstructionist critique of this practice.  Well, at least for me.

 

 

*About the Random Postmodernist Essay Generator:  The Postmodernism Generator was written by Andrew C. Bulhak using the Dada Engine, a system for generating random text from recursive grammars, and modified very slightly by Josh Larios.

From: http://www.elsewhere.org/pomo/.

 

*N.B. This poem has not been approved by the FDA.  There are no studies to date that show that reading this poem will  prevent, treat, or cure any disease, including postmodernism.  Read at your Perill or with extreme enjoyment: reactions will also be randomly generated with 50% probability for each.