humans are funny

Author: laurenne

  • My love purse is a penny pincher

    Some people in Venice who see me often may not believe I shower every day. But I do. And today I was sudsing up when, clink, a penny fell out of nowhere. It dropped like soap onto my shower floor.

    This freaked me out. It’s not like there are shelves overhead where I keep my wallet or bowls of coins. It’s a shower.
    Then I remembered what I’d read the other day. I haven’t told anyone this yet, but I have some severe brain swelling, encephalitis, and the mumps. According to WebMD. And when I added some abdominal cramping to my list of symptoms on that site, the internet doctor also diagnosed me as possibly having foreign objects in my vagina.

    Yes, WebMD actually hypothesized that I unknowingly had foreign objects in my vagina.

    I used this as a joke in my stand-up routine on Sunday. I said that I usually know when there’s a foreign object in my vagina. Except that one time I found forty-eight cents and a Tonka truck. People laughed. It was a jolly good time.

    But that was a joke. I was jesting.

    And today this penny came raining down out of nowhere. Or out of somewhere?
    Was it my vagina’s way of telling me that maybe I do have forty-eight cents up there and I should get that checked out? I have to admit, I would have preferred fifty cents in the form of two quarters so I could do one-third load of laundry, but I’ll take whatever coins I can get. I like coins. I especially like coin purses– the ones you squeeze on the sides and they open like a mouth OR VAGINA! Holy shit. My vagina is a coin purse (or meat wallet, if you will). I did a quick shower jig, but no other coins fell. One fucking cent? Is my love purse a penny pincher?

    I stayed in the shower for quite some time shaving my legs (It’s May– time for the semi-annual leg shave.) and pondering my frugal finger hut.  As I ran the razor above my ankle, I noticed a small circle. It looked just like ringworm. I know because I had ringworm once in junior high. I got it because I was on the wrestling team and must have started watching 90210 when I got home from practice instead of immediately showering off the dirty mat juices. I ran through all the places where I could have contracted ringworm this time. I haven’t been wrestling. I haven’t been anywhere particularly seedy lately, although I did roll down a hill the other day.

    I was scared to see what WebMD would have to say about my fungal infection and stingy collection of vaginal coins. But as I toweled off, I realized the raised skin circle was exactly the size of a penny.
    Oh.
    I probably slept with a penny stuck to my leg all night. Abraham Lincoln somehow got into my sweatpants and suctioned himself to my leg.

    This should have made me feel better. It didn’t. I feel even dirtier, ashamed that my cleaning standards would allow a random coin into my sweatpants! Gross. How did that happen? I think I liked it better when I had ringworm and a piggy bank pussy.

  • I would rather stuff myself in a duffle bag and be dragged around by a homeless man for weeks.

    I have to admit I was slightly pissed when I heard the Osama bin laden news. Totally ruined my plan. I wanted to find Osama bin Laden. I was going to wait a few years until he got a little older and frailer. Then I figured I’d use my wit and charm and love of sand and heat to slither my way through the desert looking for clues. Once I found him, I’d tell him a bunch of jokes about how Americans think the Middle East is round and how American women are as loose as burkas. We’d bond over  homemade moonshine and his secret love of The Simpsons. Then he’d tell me all his secrets and I’d totally seduce him and take naked pictures of him and choke him to death during some crazy sex fantasy (something tells me Osama appreciated violent sex). This would have required I add a number to my growing list of sexploits, but I figured I’d be doing it for the love of my country and because I thought a public humiliation must accompany the death. Showing the world an Osama penis seemed like good revenge for 9/11.

    Anyway, whatever. America has squashed my dreams. But I realized yesterday that the main reason I planned such an escapade was not to defend the West from the wrath of the world’s most dangerous terrorist. It was far more selfish than that. Really, I just want my own Wikipedia page.

    I need another cause. I must get to Wikipedia. I’ve already tried to stop Hollywood women from wearing skirts that almost show their labia, but that epidemic is far beyond my reach. I’ve tried to stop breast cancer, but Susan G. Komen sent me an irate email letting me know that she’s on that topic.

    My new cause is even more important than all those less important things. And that is: End suicide jokes. Lots of hyperboles are in fashion at the moment. There’s the “I just peed a little,” which is popular. I’ve heard Ellen say it. And then there’s the “I just threw up in my mouth,” which I’ve heard everyone say.
    The worst well-worn hyperbole is the suicide joke, which unabashedly appears in conversations about relationships all over the world.
    People think it’s really such a hoot to say, ‘That date was so bad that I wanted to kill myself.’ Or the teenage favorite, ‘I would rather die.’
    There’s also the one with the finger-made gun pointing at the temple, often used in long meetings. And the more updated finger-made gun pointing at the temple plus a mimicked blood squirt from other temple. For some reason, these death jokes are such an integral part of popular culture these days. I know this because my mom uses them. She’s the last person to hear about things, so if she’s doing it, everyone’s doing it. She called me just the other day to tell me about a new crazy song, Who Let the Dogs Out?

    My therapist even did the gun-to-the-temple thing.
    While we were talking about my father’s suicide.
    Swear.
    It’s so popular that people don’t even realize they’re doing it.
    BUT THEY’RE DOING IT!
    Everyone’s doing it.

    But, guys, can you maybe stop? Please?  I highly doubt you really want to off yourself because of a bad date or because you were caught in the snow or because you ran out of olives or because you got your period in your white shorts or even because you crashed your new car. If you really and truly would rather die than study lame pie charts in a meeting or go to Disneyland with your family (although I do understand how trying Disneyland can be), then your life sucks and you should move to a yurt and try to figure everything out.  Really, I think you’re just trying to be creative by using a cliche. It’s not working. It’s not a crazy exaggeration if everyone’s using it!

    One in every sixty-four people has a friend or loved one who’s committed suicide because about one-hundred people kill themselves per day. PER DAY! That’s a lot of people. Tons. And each time you point a fake gun at your head, it’s reminding the ‘survivors’ that someone they love actually did point a gun at their head (or the equivalent) one day. And it wouldn’t be that big of a deal if that joke weren’t so popular, but now I’m reminded of suicide in pretty much every conversation I have with anyone. Today my friend did the fake gun, and when he thought he needed more emphasis, he went back for a slashing-of-the-throat motion. I’m going to start asking people to simply end every conversation with ‘Hey, remember that time your dad killed himself?’ Because that’s what it does. For me and for one in sixty-four people.

    But don’t stop with those jokes just for me and my Wikipedia movement. Do it so you’re not cliche. Although there’s no such thing as a free lunch for bulls in china shops and men who are worth their weight in gold, cliches make you sound just like everyone else. And you don’t want to be like everyone else. You’re an individual. With a life! A life worth keeping as long as it doesn’t entail a horrible date or Disneyland.

    Try these more creative versions instead:
    *It was so bad I wanted to cut off my nipples and sew them to my eyelids.
    *It was so horrible that I wanted to roll around in elephant poo, pull out all my fingernails, and then go to the dentist.
    *I would have rather watched ninety-year-olds in an orgy for seventy-two hours straight while wearing a diaper and standing on the shoulders of the tallest man in the world.

    Don’t be a cliche. Do it for you. Do it for me. Do it for Wikipedia.

  • Exclusive Interview: a Humans are Funny first

    After waiting thirty minutes in the lobby of the Marina del Rey Ritz Carlton, I called God’s cell phone. He had let his spa massage go too long and was rushing to meet me. As he settled in across from me on the crisp leather loveseat, I made note of a tiny hole in the shoulder of his white robe and a few knots in his towel-dried hair that already curled around his shoulders. His skin was tan leather, almost George Hamilton-like but quite that orange. He shot out some emails while he apologized, keeping his Blackberry poised on the table. “Just in case,” he said, mumbling something about the Middle East.

    Humans are Funny: Thanks for giving me this exclusive interview. I know you’re really busy.
    GOD: Don’t mention it. I’ve been reading Humans are Funny for a long time, so I’m more than happy. Plus, I feel bad about your excessive body hair. Was snoozing that day or something.
    HaF: There are several theories about the end of the world, and I wanted to get your take firsthand. I’ve heard things about the rapture, the Mayan calendar, May 21st. Do any of these hold any truth?
    He picks up his Blackberry while we we’re talking    .
    GOD: I’m sorry, what was that? Had to give some orders. Japan’s getting another earthquake. Small one. Figured might as well, right? Everything’s already destroyed.
    God lets out a chuckle and scratches behind his head.
    HF: Ok. Umm… I was asking about the end of the world. The Mayan Calendar?
    GOD: Who are the Mayans again? Oh… Those short, dark people, right? I forgot. Man, that was a long time ago. They were always sacrificing each other for me. Can you believe it? I felt so bad.
    HF: So, is their calendar correct? Are we all going to die on December 21, 2012?
    GOD: What!? They’re saying that? What fuckers. I don’t think that’s true. Let me check my calendar.
    Looks in his blackberry.
    GOD: Nope.
    HF: Oh, well how about May 21? Of this year?
    GOD: Preposterous. You have to stop reading the tabloids. What’s next? A story about how I promise martyrs a harem of virgins after they die?
    God explodes in a bellowing laughter, causing the fancy tea-sippers at the next few tables to turn and give us the eye. He notices.
    GOD: Just killed their firstborns.
    He senses my disturbance.
    GOD: Kidding.
    HF: Can you tell me a little bit about Global Warming? Or climate change? Or whatever it is that’s changing the world and causing so many upsetting natural disasters lately?
    GOD: Why are you guys so worried about everything? Seriously. Relax. This is life. Enjoy it. Eat. Have sex. Quit yer yapping.
    HF: So that’s the message? Quit yer yapping?
    GOD: Ugh. I’m so sick of everyone thinking I’m going to say something profound. You know what? Filicumpup.
    HF: Filicumpup?
    GOD: I don’t know. Just roll with it.
    He checks his Blackberry and chuckles.
    HF: Sir, What do you think about all the suicide bombings performed in your name?
    GOD: Suicide! Ha! Sure makes my job easier.
    HF: Okay. So… is the world going to end soon? That’s really all we want to know.
    GOD: I don’t see it in the calendar. I’ll have to see what Barb had planned. She does my schedule, bless her soul.
    HF: What does it mean when you say ‘bless her soul?’
    GOD: I’ve really got to go. Meeting Mary for coffee.
    HF: The virgin?
    GOD: Pfft.
    God stands to leave, his robe opening slightly to give me a peak of the magic hidden below (about which I don’t feel I should share… but I did see it and don’t think I’ll ever be the same again).
    HF: Ok, so I’m going to spread the word that the world is not going to end on May 21st or December of 2012.
    GOD: Great.
    HF: Before you go, can you please answer a few more questions… Which religion is right? Why do some babies die? Is karma for real? What should I do with my life? How did Jesus do that fish thing? Why the appendix? Who killed JFK? Why adult acne? What if you were a stranger on the bus? How much do you really know about all of us? What’s in the Amazon? Why Antarctica? Cancer? Do our dead relatives watch us masturbate? Are we all just a little bit gay? Aliens? Reincarnation? Why quicksand,  cockroaches, body odor, Tom Arnold, boogers? Why can’t we all just get along? What does it all mean?
    Before I can continue, God’s bellowing laughter encompasses the entire lobby of the Ritz.  Just like in Star Trek, his body fades away, leaving only a trail of swirling dust. Before I can thank him for pre-slicing our oranges or for flowers or for the smell of fresh cut grass, he’s gone. I speak anyway.
    HF: Thanks for carrying me.
    God’s voice looms.
    GOD: What are you talking about?
    HF: The footprints poem? You carried me. Right? You were there in hard times?
    More bellowing laughter. And dirty stares from the Ritz patrons.

  • Do you think the Stegosaurus ordered special meals on planes?

    In my mere thirty years on this planet, I have had lots of boyfriends. LOTS. Like, hundreds. First one: Pat McGovern, 1st grade. We were in different classrooms, but we each took a casual stroll to the bathrooms at the same time. He leaned his three-foot-two body against the pink tiled wall and waited for me to walk by. Then, just at the perfect moment, he told me I looked smashing (It was picture day, so I was slinging the old A game.). This was the first of many cheesy pick-up lines thrown at me from men leaning against walls, and I ate it up like Haagen-Das.

    Days later we were kissing under the slide at recess. That was my dating heyday, when relationships were easy. First: attraction. Then: coloring. Then: birthday parties, moms getting friendly on field trips, maybe some conversation about how the Stegosaurus was a vegetarian. And then: onto the next.

    Now it goes more like: attraction, fun times and laughter, imagining future together that is bright and perfect, time passes, perfect future slightly mired by his pot smoking and video games, six months pass, finally decide that future together indeed looks horrible, snoring no longer deemed ‘cute,’ ‘break’ requested, awkward friend period, mutual disgust. And repeat. And repeat again. And repeat again until you have had so many relationships that the index card holder you got as a teenager to record all your relationships won’t close anymore. (Yes, I record them all. Big fan of data entry.)

    And what happens to all those men busting out of your relationship box? They’re all still out there. And they’ve moved on. And they have wives and kids and they are much much happier without your constant requests for compromise or time alone to write your blog. (Yes, I’m using the universal ‘you,’ but this is obviously all about my friend.).

    There’s always been some selfish part of me that has wished those exes wouldn’t move on. I have caught myself hoping they would freeze in Ex-land, waiting for me just in case I’d made an awful mistake by ending things. In the past, I’ve heard about an ex getting married or having four kids, and I’ve cringed and perhaps had a snifter of wine, thinking WHAT IF THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ME? I could have a house and kids by now. I could be ‘settled’ into a comfortable life right now. WHAT WAS I THINKING? WHAT IF I MADE A MISTAAAAAKE?

    Interesting to note that the act of settling down has the word ‘settle’ in it.

    I recently had my astrological chart read, and the kind astrologer told me I need to “grow up and throw out my idealism.” She also told me I need to dress in a more mature fashion. She acted like it’s not cool to wear stained sweats all the time.

    I get that there isn’t a man out there who is perfect. I GET IT, okay. You guys, seriously. I get it. You can stop reminding me. Mom. I get it. Many people encourage me to settle, and that’s very thoughtful of them. But it’s not like I’m going around saying, “Oh, lord, that guy eats oatmeal with his left hand. The horror! Get him out of here AT ONCE.” It’s more about how he wears his jeans or what brand of knives he uses. No! Not that either. Seriously, it all comes down to his credit score. No, not that either. What’s going on is that I’m learning valuable lessons from each fine lad about what I want in a relationship and how I want to show up in a relationship. Each experience is making me better for the final taker. Based on my box of index cards, I have learned a lot. I am a relationship pro. I could write a relationship book. On index cards.

    The other day I saw (by accident… I swear) a picture of my 2006 live-in boyfriend. We had been on the road to Serious Town not that long ago, and now he’s smiling in a Facebook photo with his mom (who I loved), his wife, and his new baby boy. This time, instead of feeling that well-known anxiety, all I felt was relief. Lots of relief. The relief of one millions sighs, so happy that it wasn’t me in that picture. I learned A LOT in that relationship (mainly that I don’t want my partner to talk on the phone during the entirety of my grandmother’s funeral), and I’m confident that it’s not supposed to be me in that picture.

    So, there’s a moral here… wait for it… It is that people come into our lives to teach us something. People come and people go and people make a difference. And it’s okay that they’re not in our lives anymore. It feels weird to be imagining a future together one year and then well-wishing a few years later, but that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. And I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

    Just think how lucky some fella is going to be when we finally do have a relationship. He’ll get to be with someone who has already learned all her relationship lessons and knows everything.

  • Let’s all move to Denmark. And never change our pants.

    I wear the same clothes almost every day. I have a few shirts and three pairs of Forever XXI jeans I got for $9.50 each (Sorry, child laborers. But not that sorry.). I am happy to sport this minimalist wardrobe because this frugal life choice has led me to revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge.

    Last week, I cashed in this revenge. It was loud. It was triumphant. It was FREEDOM. It was this:

    A zero balance on the big fat student loan that once hovered over me like a cloud full of lead. This very vocal cloud has told me I couldn’t/shouldn’t travel. It’s reminded me I am actually poorer than all the homeless people who ask me for coins. It’s wrapped me in spending guilt and and laughed every time I thought I had amassed any savings.

    And now it’s gone. Poof.

    This is freedom. This is Shawshank Redemption (without the old guy who kills himself.) And it feels magical. It was worth wearing the same shirt for three days in a row even though it kind of smelled like cheese. It was worth forgoing big spending and tiny pleasures. Because I am no longer indebted to “the man,” who is really a bunch of banks who can’t even be trusted with their own money. Banks may be bad at investing, but they sure are good at mailing out reminders and balance statements.

    It’s been almost ten years since that fateful trip to my grad school’s financial office where the “school employee” who was really a salesman convinced me to take out the loan for the LARGEST AMOUNT POSSIBLE.

    “It’s the smartest idea,” he said. “You’ll just save everything you don’t use and then you’ll have a big chunk of money after you graduate so you can open your own business.”

    Before I could question, he said,“You’ll be hard pressed to get a business loan after you graduate, so taking out THE MOST money now is really the best bet.”

    I didn’t even know if I wanted to start my own business, but this fucker was good. His face was slightly smashed in, so when he grinned and told me about his kids, I had to trust him.

    I signed paper after paper.
    And, just like that, I owed fifty grand.
    FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS.
    To pay for a school that didn’t get me a degree but a certificate.
    A certificate.

    I don’t readily admit that to anyone, but in my financial rage, there you have it. I don’t really have a Master’s degree even though I spent FIFTY GRAND and two years at a ‘grad’ school studying creative advertising. A certificate sounds so cheap. IT WASN’T CHEAP! It cost 50 grand. Did I mention it cost FIFTY GRAND? And all I got was a piece of pink paper that I couldn’t even use to get ‘recent grad’ discounts because it looked fake.

    You can’t tell a twenty-two year old to take out the maximum and save it. Especially if her particular scholastic program sends her to Miami, New York, San Francisco, London, and Sao Paulo. Of course I spent the whole damn fifty grand. And visited ten times the countries they sent me to. I bet I could have done it on much less. I could have learned to be frugal then. BUT I HAD FIFTY GRAND IN THE BANK. An all-inclusive trip to the Dominican Republic? Well… I am in Miami, so I guess I should. A new slutty outfit to wear when I get there? You can’t go to the Dominican Republic without a slutty outfit. A two-week jaunt to Spain? I mean… I have the money in my account…

    Yeah.
    It was fun.
    No regrets.

    But suddenly I graduated and had a job that paid me nothing and I owed $600 a month.
    Shit. Shit. Shit.

    Then I had to wear the same shirt every day out of necessity. I couldn’t afford a car. I felt pinned to life by my loans. And glued to advertising. I didn’t like this new career, but I couldn’t quit because I had to pay up. Yes, I got to travel, but now I was paying for it in my cubicle prison.

    STUCK. Stuck. Stuck.

    Pissed at the man.
    Pissed at America for allowing debt to be the American way.

    Students in Denmark get a government stipend to go to college. They PAY the STUDENTS to go to college. Doesn’t that make more sense? Doesn’t it seem stupid to make it HARD to get smarter? Maybe our global power wouldn’t be slipping away from us if higher education was easily attainable in the U.S.? In China, it costs between $500 – $1000 for higher education. My tuition was $28,000 plus living expenses, which ended up being FIFTY GRAND (not sure if you heard). According to this fascinating article here, some colleges argue that they can’t lower their prices for fear of seeming less prestigious. That’s disgusting. That’s like me saying I’ll stay single if I wear the same thing every day. (Oh.)

    Blasphemous.

    And just rude.

    Loans are just rude.

    So, I decided to get back at the banks and my school and that salesman. And I made it this year’s goal to be cheap with myself and pay off those fucking loans as early as possible. They weren’t getting 5% interest from me for thirty years. Hells to the no.

    Last week, seven years after I graduated, I clicked ‘submit’ and paid off the last of the fifty grand. With all that interest, I have no idea how much I actually paid over the years. I’m too scared to calculate, but it’s surely more than fifty grand. Dammit! They got me a little, but in the end: I WIN! It feels so good I could buy a shirt!

    I encourage all to get back at those interest-sucking banks and expensive educations. Go to school in Denmark. Forgo the new boots once in a while and send in a little extra per month to your loans. Do it. Get revenge! And if you don’t have any loans, fuck you.