The other day, I sent my wife 7 demands to satisfy my inner bachelor. After searching my inner self for the truths about what would help fulfill me as a man and a husband, I poured my heart and soul into the list, tapping into dreams and hopes I hadn’t admitted until then.
I waited with bated breath for her response once she found my list and at first I was optimistic when I got this response:
🚪 Dude, this story is weird. I need to see something more normal and nice.
Last night I was in the middle of exchanging thoughts with Bill DuBay Jr. on a humor piece I was working up with his advice called “My Wife’s Response to My 10 Demands Is Finally In” when I heard rock and roll music coming from the other side of the fictional veil.
For those of you not yet up to speed, the fictional veil is like a curtain between the so-called real world and my world (the fictional world). …
For many writers, self doubt is a constant companion. Being naturally-sensitive folks, we’re particularly vulnerable to all the innocent and well-meaning comments from nonwriters who say things like
“Oh you’re a writer? But what do you do for an actual living?”
My own grandmother used to whisper tales of terror to my dad about her old school pal Sam Clemens, who showed such promise as a boy but let his filthy-mouthed sarcastic wit lead to a life as a hobo stream boat pilot flinging out nonsensical words for meager pennies.
She told him of monsters lurking in the darkness like…
Well, I was a bit butt hurt to learn that my good friend wrote a whole essay about his bromance with his neighbor but didn’t mention his good old fictional friend Dirty Harry Wizard, so I immediately messaged him and started razzing him about the weird stuff he and his bromance talk about — I mean who talks about Ben Franklin’s virtues?
So that got us to talking in depth about…
There was an old mother who lived in a shoe,
Having hundreds of kids was what she decided to do,
She had lots of toddlers,
Thank God for Mr. Rogers,
Because in disciplining her kids the fair woman had no clue.
She gave in to their every desire and whim,
Their toy chests filled to the very brim,
The word “no” sounded so foreign and abnormal,
Those kids never heard it from their figure maternal.
Needless to say that these kids never lifted a finger, They grew worse and worse as they got bigger and bigger, If they stayed in…
When I’m at the supermarket, whether it’s alone or with my lovely wife, I like to dance a little. My wife DOES NOT like me dancing a little in the store, or anywhere in public for that matter.
Unlike me, who was raised by a gaggle of fictional goblins deep in the wilderness on the other side of fictional veil, my wife was raised to avoid embarrassing herself in public.
So, my hopes of dancing with her in the supermarket like Vincent and Mia at Jack Rabbit Slim’s are less likely to end up like this —