A Smorgasbord of Irritation and Oddities

I really don't know what is or isn't funny—as if these blogs aren't comparatively indicative of that. This became very apparent on Sunday while in a dark theater; no, not a porn theater. The trailer for Hamlet 2 rolled. I smiled and chuckled throughout, thinking, Hmmm, looks absurd. I'd check out a matinee. When it ended, I was set to whisper to two friends, "What an ingenious premise. I'll illegally download it a week after it hits theaters." I didn't. Before I could, I heard a gentleman behind me gruffly mutter, "Looks stupid." Then I heard one friend say, "Looks dumb," which the other seconded. Not wanting to be seen as too nonconformist, I reverted to embracing the sound of silence.

Some of this prose, this logorrhea, this bluster isn't high comedy, illuminating, or even entertaining. The well of material is dry at this time, so yours truly is a rudderless writer. That said, I'll detail a few recent occurrences that I found amusing.

A. Thursday, May 8. 10:00 p.m. I was showering. A boom box on the floor played a CD I'd just burned. What song? Oingo Boingo's "Weird Science." My cell phone rang. Dandy thoughts of intoxication, tomfoolery, strolling the stroll, unhealthily fearing pickpockets like a paranoiac, fibbing the fib(s), and tan women in sundresses danced in my head. (I call any tomato, an "offensive" term that I use with love and affection, in a sundress "Sunny D" and am so looking forward to drinking in an orange grove's worth of Sunny D this summer.)

I shut off the water, flicked droplets off my hands, yanked back the curtain, and answered the call. I was more brusque than usual as I shivered and hummed and spun like a top. The night was a go. Hooray. Ended the call. Water on. New song: Oingo Boingo's "Dead Man's Party"—yes, I burned consecutive Oingo Boingo songs on a CD. What's my major malfunction? Who answers a somewhat meaningless call while showering? It wasn't a hospital calling with the results of a biopsy. It wasn't a mandatory phone interview for a job. It could've waited. What's five or ten minutes between future alcoholics? Nothing. Ugh. Taking this call may've been life's low point, you know, thus far. Of course, it'll soon be topped, er, bottomed. But that night, it was, "Gents, bottoms up!"

B. May 10. 7:30 p.m. Random thought: Clay Aiken is creepy. He looks like a mannequin or a post-op tranny.

C. May 11. 10:30 p.m. Hy-Vee on North 27th Street. Hy-Vee closes one of the electronic doors at ten, and two petitioners had set up shop at the only working entrance/exit. I wanted to elude them, but a collision was unavoidable. I growled and wheeled my cart out the doors. They bombarded me with "Will you sign this petition about electing candidates this November who are the most qualified and the best trained?" I begrudgingly said yes and filled out my information.

Small talk ensued. A shopper left Hy-Vee. The petitioners tried to cajole her. She said, "I'm not registered." That struck me as rude and odd. Was she lying to evade signing? If so, well done. Artful. People are shady like that. I asked, "What's the percentage of registered to unregistered voters?" A petitioner said, "Oh, probably sixty to forty." Wow. Whoa. Hold on. Timeout. Either Lincoln has a superabundance of fabricators, okay, stinking compassionless liars, or a superabundance of unregistered voters. I don't know what the true statistics are, but neither reality is at all comforting. Then the other petitioner said, "A lot of felons too."

Felons? What the flip?

I asked, "Are you serious?"

He nodded intently and said something like, "Yes. You wouldn't believe the number of people who said, 'Sorry, I can't. I have a felony on my record.' It's kind of startling."

My brain was mush by now. Oatmeal. After some forgettable jokes between us, I wished them a good night and left.

Well, I won't be squeezing fruit like there's no tomorrow in that supermarket anymore. Who knows how many ex-cons are carrying shivs in the cereal aisle while shopping for Frosted Cheerios?

D. May 11. 4:00 p.m. Relaxing outside The Mill, eating uncut, plain bagels that were supposed to be French toast-flavored. Overweight couple after overweight couple tramped up and down 8th Street, blocking the sun, waddling like crabs, and holding hands. Each planet—and that's what these walking soda and vending machines are, planets—needs to remain in its respective orbit. Why is Saturn palming one of Jupiter's moons?

I'm not much of a romantic. Chivalry is under the sod. PDA? Strictly for the birds. I understand literal handwringing but not literal handholding. What does it prove? Does it shout your love to the world? I'm lost. Adrian Monk these touchy-feely folks aren't. I'm naturally dismissive, so it seems that holding hands is a sign of insecurity. Oh, I'll hold your hand in mine. We'll lightly swing our arms to prove that, yeah, we're together. I'm with you. Hey, everybody, I'm with this person! That'll show 'em. Balderdash. Picture me hawking a loogie.

There should be a weight limit on couples desirous of holding hands. How about 300 bills? Is a two-chin max too mean? If you've been responsible for a solar eclipse in your day, you should hold a Slim-Fast shake and not the sweaty, fleshy paw of your indubitably obese enabler.