Something embarrassing happened to me a few weeks ago.
I realized I was wrong.
Being wrong isn’t always embarrassing, but I was so convinced that I’d been right. How certain you are, is proportional to how embarrassed you’ll be, when you find out you’re wrong.
Here’s the situation: I’m a clown. I’m an asshole. I like to say provocative things. I like reactions (or I claim to.)
When I share one of these half-cocked, unpopular opinions, people might think this means I’m attached to them. In actuality, I’m just suspicious of consensus. I’m a master of devil’s advocate arguments. …
A lot of my coworkers told me “Happy New Year” this year. Everyone looked me right in the eye when they said it, and John from Accounting had the balls to ask why I hadn’t responded to his “Happy New Year” text he wrote specially for me and his 200 other contacts.
I’ve never liked the new year. Strangers telling you their resolutions, followed by thirty days of writing the date wrong — what’s not to hate?
That said, now that January’s over, I remembered one thing I love about the new year — everyone’s forgotten about the last-minute excuses…
Your partner asks you for a threesome. You aren’t into it, but their half of the rent is too high to make it a thing. Instead, you’ll go along as a saboteur and teach your partner they never really wanted a threesome in the first place.
Here’s how you’ll pull it off.
Make your partner believe you can’t wait to share their genitals with someone else’s genitals. Your attitude is, Yes indeedy, the idea of crowding up our bed with another person’s stank sounds awesome!
To prove it, you’ll take the lead on the threesome project. The first step? …
I’m standing on Mom’s front porch when someone puts a knife to my back.
“Better watch out,” my oldest brother growls. “I thought since you lived in the big city now, you’d be on your toes. What if I was a mugger? I’d have you!”
He flips his pocketknife away and giggles.
I forgot how he could be. Moving across the country can help you forget. This is the first time I’ve been back in my hometown in West Virginia in three years.
I smell Mom’s baked chicken through the kitchen window and head inside for dinner. My brother blocks…
My parents have been married for over fifty years. Now that I’m about to get married, I want what they have — without the death threats and fistfights.
Mom and Dad could make a fight out of anything from Christmas lights to the TV contrast setting. Luckily, I’m not doomed to repeat their mistakes. This is because when I was twelve, I watched them have a fight about gravy that taught me everything I needed to know about marriage.
The gravy fight started on a Sunday when Dad turned to Mom and said, “This gravy is sour as owl shit!”
Boop. I booped you on your nose. Now you’re it.
The deal is, if you’ve been tagged, you answer some questions I made up at the end of this post. Then you make up your own set of questions and tag your own folks.
(Or you can just go about your day like a grown-up who doesn’t have time for such nonsense. Straighten your tie!)
Here’s the post I was tagged in by the lovely Marilyn Flower and the questions I got asked. These are my answers. Your questions are at the bottom.
“Her dad isn’t really her dad,” Mom told me. “And that’s a secret — don’t you dare say nothing to her.”
At nine years old, I didn’t know what a bomb Mom had just dropped about my best friend. I nodded and went back to my toys.
Our living room doubled as the gossip hub in our small town in Appalachia. If you got divorced, had a child out of wedlock, or died within fifty miles of our house, assume Mom would know by the top of the hour.
She had our whole holler bugged with human antennas. One neighbor…
At fifteen, my mom would’ve locked my vagina in a tiny jar on her nightstand to prevent a boy from getting me pregnant.
Since our medical insurance didn’t sponsor that procedure, Mom settled for never letting me leave the house — except for church.
One morning, I tell her I’ll be home late from school. I have church. I don’t mention I’ll be skipping tonight’s service to have sex for the first time at my boyfriend’s house.
Luckily for Mom, my first time is awful. By the end, I wonder if Jesus has a sense of humor and a taste…
By speed-dating on our phones 24/7, we’ve discovered in record time just how many of us are godawful.
There’s going to be a battle for good and evil, and you need to nail down your date’s role in all this. Imagine waking up to find yourself partnered with the Antichrist. That’d be such a drag — what a diva. If they can’t find their hairdryer, it’s a cosmic emergency.
The other three horsemen are no picnic either, mostly because one of them is Famine.
Below are modern prophecies for the four horsemen of the apocalypse. If you spot a horseman…