humans are funny

Author: laurenne

  • Funny Human of the Week: The Crowd Farter


    Society says you’re really immature if you talk about farts. And comedy says you’re lazy if you talk about farts. I’ve been torn for the last few days because the infamous Crowd Farter has brought to my attention an intense desire to talk about farts. So, let’s all join hands and wear turtlenecks and be mature for a minute. Let’s forget that farts come from our butts and sometimes sound like sirens, and let’s just concentrate on the Crowd Farter himself.

    I felt a call to action when I went to Disneyland on New Year’s Eve. My man friend and I took a delightful jaunt to the happiest place on Earth for an afternoon of casual roller coaster riding and a few hugs from Mickey and friends. We weren’t aware that New Year’s Eve is the busiest day of the entire year.

    Oh.

    When you arrive, they hand you a little paper that explains all the good things about the neighboring park, pretty much begging you to please go there instead. But did we? Nope. As soon as we handed our tickets to the grimacing Disney attendant, we knew we should have heeded the advice of the little paper. It was like walking through peanut butter. People and more people everywhere. And this special eve is one of those occasions that calls the fanatics out. Not one but many grown men dressed as Jack Sparrow pranced as much as grown men dressed as Jack Sparrow* can prance. Hidden among the men with eyeliner, the families wearing Mickey ears and the college kids dressed as princesses lurked several Crowd Farters.

    Crowd Farters are aware of the noise level of crowds. They know there’s movement in a group so they feel safe, finding no need to walk away briskly or defensively joke about smelling it and dealing it. They wouldn’t do this at a business meeting or on a date. But as soon as big numbers ensure their anonymity, they delight in ruining firework displays, church, concerts, the theater, subway rides, elevators, mall food courts, outdoor festivals, ride lines at Disneyland, and worst of all: airplanes. They’re farting professionals.

    And they need to be stopped.

    But can they be? There’s no proof in the pudding, my friends. And I don’t understand that phrase because is there ever proof in pudding? I’m not sure there’s ever even fingerprints on pudding. I’ve contemplated this, and I’m thinking anyone would be hard-pressed to brush for prints on either bread pudding or chocolate pudding. And many crowds don’t even have pudding in them. Therefore, Crowd Farters cannot be identified. We all like to guess the culprit just by the expressions of our fellow crowd members, but there’s never any pudding. You know who you are, Crowd farter. Yes, you do. And I beg you to please… hold off. Do it for humanity. Do it for the pudding.

    I inhaled at least thirty farts on New Year’s Eve, appropriately encapsulating the stinky year that was 2010. It wasn’t the Happiest Place on Earth for me that day. Because it was filled with Crowd Farters but also because I paid $15 for two pretzels and because Mickey was very rude when I poked him with needles.

    You might say that I know so much about the psyche of the Crowd Farter because I’ve been one myself. And to that, my friends, I must guffaw. My farts are like that of this video. In fact, there are so many butterflies flittering around my apartment, I’m actually scared to sleep.

    *Jack Sparrow is from some movie called Pirates of the Carribean. I never saw it, but I guess Johnny Depp wears eyeliner and long black dreads in it. Based on the costumed men at Disneyland, I will never see it.

    *If you’re from a literary journal, hello. No, I did not just spend six hours writing about farts. What gave you that idea? Here, look! A very mature Funny Human: The Ghayter

    *Yes, I do think there is a connection between Crowd Farters and Ed Hardy shirts.

  • What I learned on my Christmas break:


    *Winter is actually great. Since you’re always wearing a coat while out, you never have to change your clothes or even change out of your pajama top. Comfort! And… weird smells.

    *For my entire life, I’ve had a dyslexic ‘YMCA.’ My ‘C’ has been backwards. I’m shocked. I’ve been living a lie for so many years. Thankfully, nobody judges you on these things. Or do they? Maybe that’s the reason they called me Laurenne-with-the-backwards-C-in-the-YMCA-dance in junior high. Totally get it now.

    *There’s nothing like people who knew you when you had braces. Getting together as thirty-year-olds is so much better than getting together as thirteen-year-olds. And not just because there’s alcohol. Since these chicks have woken up at my house with their heads on mice, they know me. There’s nothing better than a post-bar, 2am, trip to Walmart to buy diapers with old pals. It was amazing. And it was not because I got to gloat about not having to buy diapers. I legitimately liked seeing what my friends have to buy for their big families. Ok, yes, I did think about my bare cabinets and the lone parmesan in my fridge, but I did not think I was superior. Swear.

    *It’s really not the best idea to try out your stand-up routine for your family as they sit down to dinner. Yeah. Jokes just aren’t the same when not told to a dark room full of drunks. Especially if they’re jokes about the death of your father who is also the the brother or uncle to most people at the table. That’s just awkward.

    *We all wear glasses with different lenses. I’m sitting on a plane next to a Marine who’s telling me all about his knot training. It sounds so cool that I’m thinking about becoming a Marine. Then he tells me his salary. Definitely not becoming a Marine. I tell him I can only tie that one knot– the kind for nooses. (I don’t know why that’s the one I know. I just do, okay). He looks at me shocked. He can’t believe this white woman next to him just told him about how she can tie a noose. He’s a southern black guy. Oops. The crazy part is that the word ‘noose’ causes only visions of suicide for me. Same object. Completely different ways of seeing it. Hmmmm… It just got deep up in here.

    *The airlines think we’re dumb. We are dumb. Because we have not yet revolted in response to charging for baggage. Even so, airlines, I’m pretty sure we’ve seen a seat belt before. I know they’re not exaaaactly like the ones in our cars, guys. But, we get it. We get the idea. You can stop showing us now.

    *I don’t get Christmas decorations. Oh, there’s the plushy reindeer who guarded the tissues last year.

    *I hate LA. I did my taxes to find that I’ve spent about a grand in LA traffic violations this year. A THOUSAND DOLLARS. Do you know how many diapers I could buy for my friends at Walmart with that? Not that I would (because I’m selfish and vain and I’d spend it on laser hair removal). $530 just because that “camera” said I blew a light? What does he know? It was self-defense.

    *It doesn’t matter what you say to that guy in the mall. He will always want to polish your nails. My mom and I tried ‘No, thanks’ at first. Then we lied, ‘We already have a nail buffer.’ In response to his unrelenting persistence, we also tried to blurt out ‘vagina’, ‘poodle’ and ‘avian flu.’ And he still wanted to buff a nice sheen on our digits. So… we did what we had to do. And now my mom might have to go to jail. It was self-defense.

  • Survey says… inspiration! Or broccoli.

    It’s 2011. Fuck.

    It’s now time for people to scoff at me and return my checks due to my failure to remember it’s 2011. Not that I write checks that often. Other people do. And those people are usually in front of me at the supermarket.

    Shit. This post isn’t so positive. One of my 2010 2011 resolutions is to think more positively. Wow, that shirt looks great on you.

    There’s a reason for the timely negativity. A reason for my cowering in the corner, very reluctant to welcome in a new year. It’s because 2010 2011 will be one of the biggest years in my professional career. I’ve planned it that way, so that’s how it’s going to be. Shit is going to happen. My vision board agrees.

    That also means that I’m going to have to make all that stuff happen. And that’s creating a lot fear and vulnerability all throughout my little body that is miraculously still pretty little compared to the amount of food I’ve eaten this holiday paired with alcohol in the hope that I’ll forget the fear and vulnerability.

    You, see, I have this dick of an ego, Lawrence, and he likes to chime in and tell me I’m a failure and that it’s stupid to actually try to be a full-time non-advertising writer because I’m just going to fail. But, rejoice! I read a book about dealing with dickface egos, and it said to write out Lawrence’s words with the non-dominant hand and then respond with the dominant hand. And let me tell you, Lawrence has some bad handwriting.

    It did teach me that my biggest fear is failure. And that I’m making failure out to be this horrible demon of a thing that I won’t be able to escape, a red X on my face like that on the faces of the Family Feud contestants who don’t know that the survey said broccoli.

    But then I thought more about it and realized that failing is my own invention.

    Some people think Obama is a failure. Others still really admire him (I swear. We’re out there.). But what’s really the most important is how he sees himself. He can choose to be mad at himself and listen to his jerky ego, or he can be proud of what he’s been able to accomplish and go to bed smiling.

    My point is that fear and failure live only in our own minds. And if we have the power to deem ourselves failures, don’t we also have the power to deem ourselves winners? Let’s choose that option. Let’s all be winners.

    I’m still unclear on the very objective failures like fathers who leave their kids and never call them until they’re in their twenties. That’s a parental failure, right? Well, I guess the kid could think the father failed, but if the father was doing the best he could at the time, he could still think of himself as a winner. See how I turned that around? I should really be a helpful guest on Jerry Springer.

    Is that show still on? If so, I can believe it. I spent a lot of time avoiding Lawrence by watching my mother’s television this holiday season. There are some really crap shows on. Cake Boss? Seriously? See how I’m starting to go all over the place now down here toward the end? My old self could say that this is a total writing failure. But my new self declares this post a winner.

    I’m coming out of hiding and am now prepared for 2010 2011, the best year yet. For real. Because I said so. Let’s enjoy it, fellow winners. Let’s be positive and make things happen. My, that shirt looks really, really good on you.

    UPDATE: I don’t really have a vision board.

    UPDATE #2: Tony Robbins called. He wants his post back.

    UPDATE #3: The guy who made up the joke about things calling and wanting their stuff back called. He said that shit is old.

  • Those hoarders are scary. And mashed potatoes are good.

    I guess I took a holiday hiatus. I wasn’t planning on it, but man is it difficult to get anything done when it’s snowy outside and there’s an electric blanket inside. And heat. And TV. I don’t have these things in my apartment.

    I have done nothing this holiday (besides watch that scary show about hoarders and several other shows about home decor and eat mashed potatoes). I am still wearing my pajamas at noon, and I haven’t yet washed my hair. Remember sleeping in? I did it. Remember soups and grilled cheeses? I ate them. Remember not having plans or a to-do list? I pretended I didn’t.

    This is awesome. And comfortable. And amazing. Maybe I should just buy the house I spoke of [here], work at the local deli, earn a pension, and come home nightly to a heated cozy house. Why spend so much time trying to ‘make it’? Bla. Over it. Back to pajamas. For now.

    I’m keeping my electric blanket status until January 3rd. Then back to making it because I might as well try for a little longer. See ya then. In the meantime, here’s a picture of the figgy pudding we made only because it’s in that one holiday song. It tastes like spiced orangey carrot cake, but its brick-like weight explains why it has not been a popular Christmas dish since the 19th century.

    Happy New Year!

  • Home is where the drive-thru cigarettes are. Next to the funeral parlor.

    It’s that time. The time for boarding planes and bearing the snow in order to make my way home.

    Home.
    Home is sometimes in a backpack. Sometimes in my head. Sometimes in California. But always in Addison, Illinois. It’s the place where I learned the beginnings of everything. As a teenager, I couldn’t imagine why anyone would ever choose to settle there. But now I see Addison as much more than an insignificant suburb just west of Chicago. It’s my mold, my cookie cutter, my frame. My parents taught me, but my house and my town sculpted me. If I had grown up anywhere else, I can’t imagine what I’d be like. Classier, maybe. More well-read. But I definitely wouldn’t know as much about Greeks and Italians. I wouldn’t know the ins and outs of a tanning bed. And I surely wouldn’t know that it is possible to buy cigarettes from a drive-thru. Whoever I am now was planted and watered in Addison, just like the tree my mom put in our back yard the day I was born. Or maybe the day after, since I don’t quite imagine her zipping home after birthing to plant a tree.

    Addison is my roots, and so is my childhood home on Yale Avenue (or Street– we never figured out which). For years I hated that house. It was never good enough even though it was totally good enough. But now that I’ve discovered my love for it, it’s too late. My mom has decided to sell it, and this will be the last Christmas I ever spend at home.

    I just gasped when I wrote that.

    My house has always been there. And now it won’t be there.
    It’s not that I won’t have a home, but I really won’t have a home.

    There’s something about a childhood town though that makes it forever home. The faces of the houses. The way you can ride to yours with your eyes closed in the back of the car and know when you’ve turned onto your street by the curve of the drive and the shadows of the trees on your eyelids. The way each corner or alley reminds you of junior high bus stops or bike rides or games of kick-the-can. The way you know each house by its family’s last name even if they haven’t lived there in years. This town and this location are not just home. They’re a lifetime. They’re childhood. They’re me. My adolescence is stuffed into each sidewalk crack and garage hiding spot. But soon a sign in the front yard will offer it up to a new family who will paint over all my memories with their own.

    I don’t like this feeling. It’s abandonment. It’s fear. It’s sudden. Something that’s always been there will never be there again. I can always come back to the town, but I’ll have nowhere to stay. I don’t want to let it go. But some things and some dreams and some people have to go away. It’s time for a new era and new memories and for me to finally be a grown up. Fuck. I don’t want to be a grown up.

    I’ll have to make a list for the new family. I should tell them of all the treasure I’ve dropped down the heating vents and to make sure to water my tree in the backyard and how you can sneak out onto the roof at night and really feel silence and how you can hear the house creak when you’re sad as if it feels your pain and if you sit in the upstairs closet where my dad’s leather coat hangs, it smells just like him. My house knows. You can see its scars and its character if you peel back all the layers of wall paper. Orange flowers in the seventies, black stripes in the eighties (sorry about that– my idea), shiny blue in the nineties. Hey, house, remember when you had shaggy carpet and I would hide in the corner with the scissors and give you a haircut? Remember the baby birds that were born in Grandpa’s construction hat in your garage? Remember when Grandma chased me around your backyard with a paddle until she was laughing too hard to continue? Remember when I rode my tricycle down your stairs and broke my collarbone? Remember when I took baths with an umbrella and turned on the shower? You knew I was a genius then, didn’t you?

    Too many memories. Thirty years full.
    Am I crying because those memories are gone or am I crying because there’s nobody left who can share them with me? Just my fleeting house, my beautiful creaking house.

    I know memories are more powerful than siding and windows. I know I don’t need my house to delight in the deliciousness of my past. But it’s too much of me to shed without a fight– so hard to let go. Letting go. Maybe that should be my lesson for the new year. I can learn to let go.

    I can let go.
    Or I can buy the house.

    I’ll think about it.

    Home. The place where I told my mom both that I never wanted to live without her and that I hated her.
    Also the scene of my first kiss and several crazy parties– sorry, Mom.