My dick is bigger than yours!” Collin exclaimed, folding the tips of his fingers over mine. It looked like the scene in Tarzan when Jane presses her dainty palm against the wild beast-man’s hand. “Your dick is the same size as your middle finger. See, mines bigger than yours, a lot bigger. You have a small dick,” he explained, showing its alleged size with his thumb and index. Since this was a gross overestimate, I remained silent, not sure if I should correct his mistake.
They say Saturday is the Rapture. I, for one, am sure they are right. But if Christ Himself fails to show up, we will pick up His slack (as usual). Sigh. That guy is late for everything.
So if you have not Raptured by 7pm Saturday, you are invited to attend Our Thursday’s blasphemous story reading in Orange County. We are much less discerning than most fundamentalist religions. We will take the scraps of those who were not Saved.
Miracles to be performed: I will turn water into cheap beer. Danielle will feed the entire crowd with only 2 loaves of bread and a can of Chef Boyardee. Brian, who died on Thursday, will be resurrected in the flesh. Dave Glenn will deliver a sermon on top of a mountain of trash. Luke will be beamed in from Chile.
Maybe.
But I can, absolutely, promise parables, stories, and laughs.
The event will be strange, weird, and a demonstration of humanity’s undeniable will to know itself, for better or worse. Bring some extra food and drink.
You can find event details by checking the Our Thursday Facebook page or contacting one of the authors.
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Our-Thursday/152897544751106
If you have been Raptured or are busy Rapturing, please don’t forget about those of us down here who chose not to leave anyone behind. In the bizarre case that I am Raptured against my will, feel free to let yourself in and party in my absence. My record collection is small but smart.
See you Saturday, you hopeless sinner.
1. The girl who disguises complimenting herself as anger.
“Geez! Just got carded for buying a lottery ticket! WTF! I know I look young for my age but this is ridiculous!”
“Hang out with me at my sister’s place in Silver Lake”, Katie insisted over the phone. I wanted to say no, but I really didn’t have anything else to do. Every time I go out with Katie, a major hottie, everyone assumes I’m her boyfriend; or I have to make small talk with some douchey guy trying to pick her up. “Sure” I said, deciding this was better than meeting my guy friends at T.G.I Friday’s and listening to them drone on about their fantasy football draft picks.
Describe how you willingly and voluntarily put yourself into a great deal of pain. The kind of pain that no one would be willing to accept under ordinary circumstances. You may use any medium you see fit. There is no word minimum or maximum.
In another OurThursday first, we are opening up this challenge not just to the authors, but to anyone who is willing to jot something down. That means you!
Please send your submission to [email protected]. I will be posting the submissions on Friday Morning so you will have something to do while you avoid work before the weekend. To get the ball rolling, here is my submission…
====================
Luke’s Response
“Holy Shit! Did you see that?” I panted to the guy next to me as a knee in front of us exploded from the center splattering the two nearest cyclists with long gooey threads of lactic acid.
“One …. less,” was all he could manage in reply to my rhetorical question…
Three kilometers to go
Elbows come easily when every inch of distance between you and the bike in front is worth more than the balls you have squashed deep inside your groin. The trick to a good bike race elbow is to hit low on the forearm causing the most bike wiggle and put your adversary back a few irrecoverable bike lengths.
At 50 km/h, exposing even a third of your body to the surrounding wind pocket you have found yourself in, will instantly cause acute pulmonary explosion. Not a pleasant sight, I’ve seen it. Guys popping off the sides and getting blasted out of memory like that first blind date you should have never taken. The edges of the group cling on for dear life, grasping and clawing at any resemblance of space. As the pace picks up to 53km/h, there are no friends, their are no hiding spots. There is only the sweet smell of exploded lung as you flail your final elbow at the douche bag who clipped your tire as you tumble into obscurity.
Two kilometers to go
Three guys bounce to the opposite side of the road and sprint away.
You learn a lot about a person in this random situation of life. A man could go now and work his clogged artery clear to catch the breakaway, only to be out of all energy for the final sprint. He is considered a good, hard worker, and the whole world appreciates and needs what he does. But only the few guys around him at the time will ever see this, and will likely forget about it after the next two kilometers as their bodies direct all blood to their oxygen depleted, and partially functioning, brains.
Or you could just stare blankly at everybody and do nothing. You defer the decision to someone else, hoping that your chances will be better in the next fifty seconds. Maybe you have a retarded stare naturally, or maybe you play it dumb, it doesn’t matter… you will be receiving the next available elbow and your chances for a safe arrival have dropped 25% because no one likes you.
Or ideally, you organize the men around you and coordinate a ten second rotation that uses up the equivalent amount of energy in each of these human bags of protein and enertia. People love you and then they hate you when they realize the pace is now 58km/h.
1,000 meters to go
The final turn. The mysterious reason that has compelled me to spend 20 hours a week converting my gonch into a leather knife sharpener shows itself. I presume it is the finish line because the onlookers have pushed and shoved their way so densely around and in front of it, that only a herculian leap could actually get you there. Or maybe slamming head first, ass up, into them at 65km/h will get you through. One or the other.
500 meters to go
The most anxious of the group bursts out of his saddle and the sprint begins. Our once efficient air dagger that we maintained for two hours is thrown to the wayside stabbing a baby cow.
300 meters to go
The narrow country lane is filled edge to edge with cyclists who’s only emotion is maniacal lust for an imaginary line. This lust tastes good … real good, and for this reason the tongues hang out to lap up any maniacal lust that might have fallen off the guy in front.
100 meters to go
65km/h and my heart rate is bubbling past 210 beats per second. I invite you to my Zen world of body over mind. In these conditions, the brain is no match for an inflamed mound of muscle incestualy invigorated by a mix of eight liters of adrenaline and a british pint of lactic acid. Thinking with your muscles is an outrageous experience. You can’t see. The only thing you feel is the sense that you’re about to explode. And your thoughts are binary. On. Off. On. Off.
5 meters to go
The fact that the onlookers have still not moved does not concern me. It will all be over soon. All I can see are two wheels. Mine and the guy’s next to me. Fuck this guy. Who does he think he is?
3 meters to go
He pulls ahead with a lurch of his bike and suddenly the world is awash with failure and heartache. I travelled so far. I trained for so long. I worked so hard. And like a rabid bat, my hopes for redemption flutter away beyond my grasp. I consider taking him out in a spectacular climax to what would otherwise be a boring story.
1 meter to go
I often visualize what life would be like if we lived every minute of every day in the final passionate throws of a bike race sprint. Once you got over the fact that we would all be walking around with our tounges hanging out and wearing spandex, we would realize that our world suddenly became conquerable and was no longer a mystery. It is at this time that life finds new ways to exist. Like the infinitely split atom that will forever keep getting smaller, life can find new existence when pushed hard enough. Like the cold fusion power plant that I am, I chuck, hurl, roll, and muster even more energy and strength to frantically launch my body into an epileptic frenzy. I am moving so fast I appear to be a blur to the wall of onlookers I am about to eradicate. I look to my right and see myself. An exhausted vessel of emerging life, finally climaxing after many an hour of fore play
Epilogue
Standing on a podium, thats pretty cool. Having some fat guy drape a medal around your neck while you lift the flowers and shake your fists to the crowd in anger and love, oh that’s nice. But pushing yourself past a limit of pain that you thought never existed, and likely doesn’t exist anymore, is a gift and pleasure that can not be equalled by most anything on this planet. Bring on the pain.
======================
Brian’s Response
Lying alone in bed the morning after a one-night-stand. . .
“I got something this time. I know it. Syphilis, Chlamydia, Gonorrhea. I just hope it’s not one of the permanent ones like Herpes or . . . no, it’s not that one. It’s definitely not that one. Although, she had a little bit of a “junky” look to her. Fuck me, she’s a heroin addict who has AIDS – and now I have it. I’m stuck with her for the rest of my life.
“Relax. Chill. It’s just sex. People have it all the time. Look at Joey from Friends – he fucked tons of chicks. You’re 27, this is what you’re supposed to be doing. You got laid last night! Be happy!”
“You’re right . . . you’re totally right . . . fuck yea, I got laid. What am I trippin for? I love my life. She’d tell me if she had something.”
“Exactly.”
“But . . . what if she didn’t know?
“Don’t start, dude.”
“I’m not “starting”. Im just saying – sometimes people can have it without even knowing. Remember the article we read last time? About how some people experience no symptoms at all? Or the symptoms are so minor they go undetected. What if she’s one of those? . . . I’m just gonna check something real quick.”
“I swear to God, if you go on Google – I’m out. Seriously. Kiss the voice of reason good-bye. Remember the article we read on STRESS? And how it can lead to more serious health issues than the ones you’re worried about? How you can manifest very real illnesses from stressing over nonexistent ones?” Is that what you want? I don’t think you’re liver and lungs can handle another six months of paranoia.”
“I’m not going on Google. . . ”
“Good. Go grab some lunch or something.”
“Dear God, I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but if . . ”
“Ohhhh Myyy Goddd!! Are you serious dude? You’re a fucking Atheist! Really? You’re soo scared about it that you’re gonna pray to a God you don’t even believe in? You’re a fucking idiot.”
” . . if you can hear me, I’d like to make a promise. If you get me out of this, I swear I won’t go past 2nd base anymore – until marriage. I’ll get married, be faithful, and raise a big happy family that goes to church every Sunday. . . and I’ll give 10 . . 20 . . . 30 percent of my paycheck to the Church . . . or to the AIDS foundation? Whichever you prefer. We can work that out. Maybe a split.”
“I knew you couldn’t fucking handle this. I warned you last night that you’d regret it in the morning. It takes six months for a conclusive HIV test. It’s been about 14 hours. Have fun waiting.”
=====================
Random Dude’s Response
My body fills with pain every time you ask one of these retarded Challenge Blogs and I want to yank out my own scrotum and serve it to you just to show that the pain I endure from that procedure pails in comparison to the pain of Challenge Blogs.
[poll id=”5″]
The OurThursday authors love the readers. I mean we really love you and some of us are even prepared to take that to the next level. But recently, in a heated fit of commenting passion, we realized that sometimes if you really want to show your love for someone, you got to make them so angry that new veins will permanently remain on their forehead and small rips will appear in their clothes as their body bulges in maniacal hatred.
In 400 words or less, irritate, piss off, molest, disturb, and/or ruin the day of the reader. Audio, video, images, signal flares, are all permitted. No reusing angry villager material like Wheelchair Bicycle or Cat Abortion.
Everyone
———————————————————–
As some of you may know, Stanford University recently offered me, a self-proclaimed expert, a position to teach a new course called “Economics of Life” (which I turned down because I didn’t want live there–I’d get so bored I’d end up buying a piano or something). So instead, I would like to offer a five-point crash course on how to live your life, since nine out of ten people reading this probably suck at life. YES, YOU.
If this blog has pissed you off in any way, it’s because of you, not me, and you really are sucking at life. Sorry I had to be the one to make you realize this.
———————————————————–
Ginger Snap
Gingers: a particular breed with a distinct hair type unlike yours and mine (unless, of course, you are a ginger). Ginger hair is complex and can be strange to the touch. You never know what’s going on under that Ginger noggin (or stereotypically, under one’s trousers), so tread carefully.
I know a decent Ginger when I see one, but unfortunately as a minority, Gingers get a bad rap. However, like in any other small group, a strong Ginger will find his/her way to work through diversity and perhaps one day become a president.
Gingers- don’t knock ’em til you try ’em. You never know, you might not go back!
Words with Friends challenge- see if you can make a new word using the letters in “GINGER” …if so, reread with whatever kind word(s) you find. If not, I’m guessing you’re a blonde.
———————————————————–
2491 Tivoli Ave.
I recognized the address. All of the drivers at Vincenzo’s Pizza knew it. It belonged to the handicapped lady who’s “aid” always answered the door. He’d put an X through the tip column of the receipt and hand over the exact amount in change. It wasn’t that they didn’t give, it’s that they went out of their way to leave you with nothing. “Perhaps she’s foreign and unaware of our implied gratuity. . . maybe the assistant is too scared to tell her.” A co-worker hypothesized. Bullshit. They were both stiffs. It was time they got a sneeze-pizza.
The “extra pepperoni” came out of the oven piping hot, just minutes after the order was placed. I boxed it, bagged it, and walked outside. I placed the steaming box inside my truck bed and opened the cardboard cover. I looked around the empty parking lot as if a drug deal were about to go down. I swashed saliva inside my mouth like it was Listerine before spraying it all over the cheesy surface. A few slices were missed so I churned up some more and hit them with a concentrated load. I clapped off the imaginary dust from my hands and walked back into the restaurant, leaving the pizza out to cool in the chilly night air. If you’re disgusted right now, relax. I didn’t cough up any phlegm or mucus, just a little spit. It’s like cheating on your girlfriend – okay if it’s only a blow job.
When I pulled up to the house forty-five minutes later, I noticed something was off. I had the wrong address. 2473 was foreign handicapped lady’s place. 2491 was further down. I parked out front the correct spot, peering into the brightly lit entryway. The entire family greeted me at the door with warm smiles- Mom, Dad, and their adorable seven-year-old son. They handed me a twenty for the fifteen dollar pizza and told me to keep the change. I thanked them and quickly left. When I got back to the restaurant I noticed the tip and total columns on the receipt were left blank. I added another two dollars.
———————————————————–
Piss them off? Fuck that.
These robotic scavengers of life have sent me to the brink of insanity filled rage and I fear I will never return.
So you’re a teacher and hope to reach that one student … sounds like a 99% failure rate to me.
So you’re a lawyer … you are the reason for the loss of trust in this world and you make money off it. Urchin.
So you’re a politician … you are the undulating mass of uselessness spawning lawyers making you a larger urchin than they are.
So you’re an artist … your shit looks just like that guy I saw down by the pier.
So you move intangible money … I loathe you and most people in the world do as well. You like that feeling big guy? Hmmm?
So you’re a chef … ya me too. You don’t see me begging people to pay me for it.
So you play poker … go whine to someone else about the obvious conspiracy against you … and put some pants on.
So you are in the middle of a giant corporation managing something that you don’t really understand … you fucked up.
So you’re an engineer … that baller salary looks like shite when you are working 70 hours a week effectively putting you at the same pay level as the dude who cuts your lawn.
So you’re a doctor … stop fucking with evolution and let them die. You are single handedly annihilating the human race through your efforts to prolong a single life. Emergency medicine or quit.
So you own a business … how dare you skimp your taxes to negatively affect the people that give you money.
So you’re an accountant … your job is to hide the simplicity in what you do. You are useless.
So you sell real estate … I look at you and see a salivating wolf mask with cocaine eyes and polished teeth.
So you’re an entrepreneur … if you still call yourself that then you’re failing at life and cannot entrepreneur your way into anything. Douche.
I live a gratifying, productive, and genuine life and I have these helpless drones floating around trying to fuck up my chi and you want me to piss them off? Well fuck you Mr. Blog. I have enough “pissed off” in me to piss on all these jokers.
———————————————————–
Abortions should be mandatory across the board for at least a decade.
“Be fruitful and multiply.” I think even God would be startled at how far we’ve taken that directive. It’s like, your mom told you to brush your teeth… but you did stop brushing them at some point right? You took 6-8 hour breaks before brushing them again, yes?
We are facing countless problems on Earth. Adding more people is not the answer.
For reference, here are the problems a mandatory abortion law would solve:
We, as a race, are a pregnant 12 year old… with octuplets. We don’t have the education, the funds, or the maturity to handle our situation. We are greedy and irresponsible, and our children are going to pay the price. So instead, let’s take a break, mature a little bit, maybe come up with a 5 year plan, and then go on with creating another few billion lives.
If we could cut the baby-making for even a decade — the tiniest time out in terms of history — imagine how great the world would look.
If your brain can’t fathom the big picture of that utopia, let me offer you a few small scale improvements:
There would be so much extra stuff, we could start giving old shit away. I’ll take this apartment building. You take that one. Fire sale on 1 grade classrooms. No bathroom lines. Want a pineapple? The Dole family has 300,000,000 extra now.
Like Thoreau said, Simplify, Simplify.
Quality, not quantity. Progress, shmogress. We have iPads. We have super computers. We have the internet. We can cruise control for X amount of years until we plug a few leaks. We don’t have to fix everything. Like Bill Hicks said, let’s just solve the whole food/air deal first.
But still, some idiots will convince themselves they are different so they are going to have a baby or four because they’re giving the gift of life… When really they’re only contributing to the starvation and suffocation of billions… stroking their ego with somes trange delusion of eternal life or escape from boredom.
Hence the mandatory part.
I understand that some will find the concept offensive.
Wallace said kneejerk reactions could kill a person.
If only.
[poll id=”4″]
The anti-drug program targeted for kids known as D.A.R.E was purportedly a failure. Bullshit. They always terrified the crap out of me. It wasn’t the stories of people losing their friends and families and living on the streets that scared me. It wasn’t the addictive nature that scared me. It wasn’t even the stories of people over dosing and dying that scared me. It was the bad trips. The stories of guys taking too much LSD and thinking the devil was chasing them, or that there were millions of spiders and bugs crawling all over their skin. Fuck that.
The problem was, I didn’t know all the different street names. I must’ve been day dreaming about Kelly Kapowski or building up my massive Pog collection the moment they went over this. My friend Chris kept talking about “bud”. Chris was the kid all the teachers hated: He dressed like a thug, he listened to gangster rap albums with parental advisory stickers, and he viewed class and homework as “optional.” “It comes from the ground just like tobacco–you said you’ve smoked a cigar before right?” he asked. I busied myself with tightening the trucks on my skateboard before cautiously nodding. “Well, it’s the same shit, you smoke it and it gives you a little buzz for a while . . . no big deal,” he persisted. After twenty more minutes of discussion, I gave in.
First we needed to find the stuff. “There’s nickel-bags, dime-bags, and twenty-sacks” he explained, picking the lock to his parents bedroom where we could potentially get it for free. He returned empty handed after I nervously watched the front door for five minutes. “How much money do you have on you?” he asked. I ripped open my neon green velcro wallet and pulled out the ten dollar bill my parents gave me for washing dishes and picking up dog shit. ” That’s perfect, we can get a dime-bag.” He said, prying the money from my hand.
He popped up his skateboard Marty McFly style and hit the sidewalk. I followed. We stopped at the corner of a residential street facing a park. There were no kids on the playground, just a bunch of long-haired teenagers wearing Jnco jeans with belts dangling past their knees. A couple Mexican guys in collared shirts buttoned only at the top hunched over a portable radio, and towering behind them stood the biggest black guy I’d ever seen. “That’s the guy” Chris said, pointing to the monster from Space Jam smoking a tiny cigar that made his hands look like Shrek’s. “Just tell him you want a dime-bag,” he instructed, handing the ten dollar bill to me. “He’ll know what it means.”
I crossed the road, looking for cars in my peripheral vision but trying not to move my head so I wouldn’t look like a nerd that has to “check both ways before crossing the street”. When I got closer I recognized the Notorious B.I.G song “Hypnotize” playing and–with the black guy not seeing me yet– silently mouthed the lyrics. I meandered around a bit before approaching my target. “Can I have a dime-bag?” I blurted out in my squeaky voice that would often get mistaken as my Mom’s on the phone. He looked down at me standing a safe distance away, then nodded and reached into his shirt pocket, pulling out a little bag. I got closer, handed him the folded up bill from my sweaty hand, snatched the bag and got the fuck out of there.
We returned to Chris’s house where he took a pencil out of his Jansport backpack, grabbed an apple from his parents kitchen, then poked two holes in it. One was on top, the other on the side, creating an L shaped tunnel. We skated to the local elementary school where we crouched down in the back corner of a field next to a playground. I handed him the bag and he pulled out the contents. He placed a brownish green plant over the top hole and placed his mouth over the other. He lit the top with a stove lighter and made an exaggerated sucking sound before pulling the apple away and puffing out his cheeks. He exhaled a plume of smoke and coughed. I followed his example, even down to the loud inhaling sound and the puffed out cheeks. I blew out the smoke and handed him back the apple to pack again. I forgot about the coughing part. I fake coughed.
By the time I finished my seven hits (requested by him, just to be sure I “got the effects”) I started to panic. I felt a slow numbing of the senses that would suddenly disappear, leaving me with a similar sensation to the one you get when you wake up from an intense day dream. Before I could bring myself to understanding my state of being, another wave came over and lulled me back into the zombie-like state, and jolted me back to reality. Over and over again this cycle would repeat itself. Every two minutes I’d open my eyes as wide as they could get and look around, trying to remember where I was and what I was doing there.
We got back to his house where I laid down in his bed and closed my eyes, trying to escape the waves. Even in darkness I could feel it. I kept forgetting my thoughts as soon as I’d get them, then remember them, then forget, then remember. At this point I would’ve chosen the hallucination of a devil chasing me over the pounding waves of memory loss. At least I’d know what the fuck was going on. The devil is chasing me, I need to run. It’s simple, its clear, it’s focused.
“That’s just what weed does man. Try and relax” Chris said, attempting to calm me down. “Weed!” I exclaimed, popping up out of the bed. “You mean I smoked weed! Weed, like the shit those gangster guys smoke in that movie Friday! Weed, like the stuff Snoop Dogg and and Dr Dre. smoke!? Oh god . . . oh shit . . . oh fuck.” He laughed and went into the kitchen to find food. “I thought you knew it was marijuana.” He shouted from across the room. Everything went black for a split second. I almost passed out. I put the palm of my hand on to my forehead and lifted up the skin around my eyebrows to open my eyelids even wider. My thoughts raced. “Weed was bad enough, but marijuana! Marijuana was the shit they talked about in D.A.R.E. This was D.A.R.E. shit! I’m on drugs! I’m on fucking drugs! Holy shit I’m on drugs. How did I not know bud and weed and marijuana were all the same thing?” I felt about as stupid as the kid in The Sandlot when he found out the Sultan of Swat and the Great Bambino and Babe Ruth were all the same guy.
I poured myself a tall glass of water from the kitchen sink, struggling to focus on the simple task. I made the treacherous walk back to his room and shut the door, worried his parents might come home at any minute. Nightfall approached. I peeked through the blinds every time I heard the sound of a car engine in the distance. I gulped down my water and put the empty glass on his dresser, too scared to return to the kitchen. I started giving myself mental tasks to stay alert. I’d take an object in the room and deeply study it. “This is a book shelf. It stores books. Any kind of books: text books, comic books, coloring books. You have one too, in your room. Yours is white and blue and you got it from Ikea. This one is wooden and old and it has circular shaped stains on the top from people not using coasters. Yours has a bunch of Goosebumps books. One was about a kid that turned into a bee and on the cover was a bee kid. It was a good book.”
Chris returned with a home made quesadilla and offered a piece. I begged him to get me more water from the kitchen, explaining that I couldn’t make the distant journey back. “This quesadilla is the bomb dude, you gotta try it.” he mumbled, ignoring my request. I shut him out and moved my thoughts from the bookshelf onto the phone. He headed for the door.
“Chris! Where are you going? Are you going back to the kitchen? Can you pllleeeasse get me a glass of water. I can’t go back out there.”
“Do you need some Visine? Just use this and you’ll be cool.”
“I don’t need Visine I need a glass of water and I need to stay here, I need to stay here and drink a glass of water. Here.”
I moved from the phone to the lamp. He sighed, reluctantly grabbing the empty glass and returning with a full one after what felt like hours. I chugged it down and moved to the closet. Bored with the useless organism that was his friend, Chris went into the living room to watch TV. The living room – as in the first room his parents would walk through once they entered the house. I made sure his door was shut and went back to my studies, quickly running out of objects.
I remained trapped inside for an hour until the waves started to subside and my game grew boring. I no longer struggled to concentrate. I stopped forgetting where I was. I was in Chris’s room, sitting on his bed, starring at his wall. Suddenly I felt stupid. I walked down the dimly lit hall that once looked so dark and ominous. I stood in the living room next to the front door, something inconceivable just hours ago. “I gotta go.” I said, grabbing my board and heading for the door, relieved his parents never returned. I skated home, went straight to my room, and concentrated deeply on my bed, and it’s pillows, and it’s big heavy blanket that shuts out all the light when you pull it over your face.
Like a traumatized rape victim, I avoided any and all drugs throughout high school and most of college. After building up a reputation amongst my friends as the-guy-who-never-smokes-pot, I finally caved in to their relentless nagging and tried it again, nine years later. At first I panicked. The waves returned and I was trapped inside Chris’s room again. Then, suddenly, my worries inexplicably disappeared. The only side effect now was uncontrollable laughter. After a few more attempts (some good, some like the first time) I learned to control my anxieties and enjoy the experience. I finally conquered the drug that haunted me for nearly a decade. I no longer feared the boogie man known as Bud, or Pot, or Weed, or Grass, or Herb, or whatever you fucking call the shit.
p.s. I just got my medical marijuana card. 420 bitches.
I’ve decided to jump back into the world of online dating. I joined Match.com in hopes of finding the perfect : fun loving, adventurous, down to earth, easy going, outgoing, passionate about music, loves to go out but also enjoys staying in, sassy and smart, new-to-this-whole-online-dating-thing-and-still-thinks-it-weird-but-thought-she’d-give-it-a-try girl. I chose Match.com over some of the free alternatives like Plenty of Fish because I appreciate the commitment it takes to give out your credit card information and spend 25 bucks a month to find love.
1. The Donated Art Supplies
I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t need the two and a half sticks of compressed charcoal you found while cleaning out your grandma’s closet after she passed away. For $8, I can go down to Michaels and buy all the charcoal I need without worrying about the ghost of Beatrice haunting me in my life drawing class.
CHALLENGE
“Thursday Threat” -where we pit author versus author (or in this case author vs. author vs. author) in a challenging game of mesmerizing malarky and wit flavored mumbo jumbo. An author will select a prompt, write a 300 word or barely less response to that prompt (or in this case NOT write one but challenge the others to use their active-word vocabulary to write one), and then send this bundle to a challenger(s). The challenger(s) will then be expected to reply or live in shame and sudden cultural abandonment. Winner is decided by the sudden fan fare we expect them to receive.
I, Danielle Burner, am not participating because I want to challenge these men on a technique I already utilize. This is meant to hopefully enhance their story telling.
The Prompt
Write (don’t draw it) a true story from Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Holiday past without using the words “was” “have” and “were”. May the best writer, with a keen sense of active words, win.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good fight.
——————-THE AUTHOR’S RESPONSES———————-
DAVE’S RESPONSE
I am happy. Santa had come. A Nintendo, calculator watch, and remote control car top the list that will go down as the greatest day of my life. For someone who’s already lived 2,531 days, this is huge for me.
The most underrated Christmas gifts, however, are the stocking goodies. While I believe in Santa, for some reason I’ve always known my mom stuffs the stockings. One gift I’m fascinated with is a red slimer jelly monster–the kind that stick to walls. This particular monster resembles an octopus and has extra stringy legs, too skinny for a squid but too thick for an insect, which expand to create an eight-inch diameter if completely stretched.
Because I am convinced that the best humor is in observing people’s reactions to the mysterious or unusual, I shall use this monster to scare my sister, an innocent young chap of four years. I slink upstairs while she doesn’t see me and strategically smack Slimer onto her wall, carefully sticking all six legs at max distance. Her walls are completely white, not a single poster. The monster stands out like a shark in a swimming pool. It is my toy and even I am scared of it, and I’m like four years older than her.
I wait.
My sister finally bounces up the stairs, glowing in the wake of her fourth Christmas. I slither around in my room, waiting for her to find my surprise. The moment she walks in she stops. Because she is stupid, she doesn’t run and tell mommy. Curious, she begins talking to herself, “Wus that?” I creep up and curl my head around her door. She inches her way closer, still murmuring to herself, “Wus that?”
Once she reaches the one-foot mark, she begins to reach out to the monster, at which point I make a disturbing noise. It sounds like a blend between an oink and loogie-hock. My sister jumps and begins bawling like a baby.
I retreat back to my room just before she flees to tell papa. “Dave put a monster in my room!” I hear her wail downstairs. I lay in bed and laugh. Then my dad stomps into my room and spanks the crap out of me. Whatever, at least I have Nintendo.
BRIAN’S RESPONSE
I wore a sparkling silver long sleeve shirt with a matching hood and grey spandex tights. I waited anxiously backstage for my cue. In the annual church Christmas play, I always managed to get the lead part. Not because I possessed any acting chops, but because I could memorize the shit out of my lines. At church camp, they gave everyone bare necklaces and handed out beads for us to decorate them with for various accomplishments. Kids would get them for hitting bullseye’s in archery, or winning water balloon tosses, or participating in nature hikes. I received most of mine for reciting bible verses.
I practiced my introduction song quietly, trying not to think about what just happened. Having your friends burst into uncontrollable laughter after seeing you in costume is not something you want to dwell on, especially moments before going on. Just a few days ago, I had on white spandex-like pants and knee high socks. No one seemed to find that funny. Put a baseball mitt in your hand and all is forgiven.
“Peter Pan wore tights.” One of the older girls told me after I nervously stepped out of the dressing room and faced the snickering.
“Oh gee, none of these seem right, what ever are we going to do?” a future thespian voiced from the stage. The lights dimmed and sharp beams of color zipped around the room, making the audience feel like they entered a giant game of laser tag. I jumped into the spotlight and belted out my opening line.
“Greetings earthlings! I am G.T. the Christmas martian! I’m here to help you find the perfect Christmas card!”
LUKE’S RESPONSE
I saw the signal and began bellowing “HO HO HO” and waving my lantern from side to side. I winced at the ornately covered pillow as it scratched and pulled my stomach hair and forced me to sweat despite the two feet of snow on the ground coming over the top of my green gardening boots. I entered the house leaving a trail of mud on the fine carpet. I wondered if the white tampon cotton still obscured my dark eyebrows as sweat poured over my brow. I gestured to my aunt to wipe the liquid clear before it hit the lipstick rosiness of my cheeks. I took my throne and requested/demanded my whisky and cookies as the little elf boy wearily approached to take his seat on my knee. While merrily chastising the adults for keeping the heater so high and contributing to the global warming destroying my house, I tugged on the see through red pants that could not repel my acidic body juices. The little elf boy got right close to my face and stared deep into my eyes assessing if indeed I could be the magical gift giving man. I glared back and pointed to the other side of the room to make him look away as I lifted my beard to swig from the crystal glass of Glen Livet. He turned back to find me holding a santa helper hat that I offered him and as fast as the wily Rudolph himself, the suspicious set of eyes disappeared. In their place appeared the beacons of joy atop a face that would power any quantum powered present delivering sled for the rest of eternity. The elf and I brought a holiday cheer to the room that night that will be as timeless as my annual circumnavigation.
[poll id=”1″]