humans are funny

Category: hmmm

  • If you were a Mayan, I would thank you. But not on Facebook.

    Do unwanted hairs have abandonment issues?

    Why did Charlie Brown go bald at such a young age?

    Where are these millions of people who watch Two and a Half Men? I’ve never met one.

    When are people going to get over that 2nd amendment thing? Is it better that you feel safer or is it better that more people are actually safer?

    Do we really want to be in relationships or has society made us think we want to be in relationships?

    Why do people feel the need to instruct me on their voicemails? I know how it works.

    Are there some people out there who don’t understand that someone calls you back after you leave a message?

    Are those the people who watch Two and a Half Men?

    Why did Yankee Doodle call a feather ‘macaroni?’

    What is Jesus’s middle name? Henry? Hollace? Holyfield?

    How the hell do you say Siobhan?

    What is marjoram? Is it just like oregano or not? Do I really have to buy both?

    What does it feel like to get your head cut off? It can’t really hurt, right?

    Will doing “what you love” really pay off one day? It will, right? Especially if it’s blogging, right? Right?

    Why are there so many bad smells on airplanes?

    Why is it that every time I smell something bad, I automatically assume it’s my breath?

    Why does that dog who says “roll that beautiful bean footage” crack me up every time? A dog talking about beans is not funny. Right? Maybe a little funny, right?

    Why are people always so grateful for their birthday wishes on Facebook? It’s not like those people remembered anything. They saw it right there when they opened up Facebook like they would have done anyway. But go ahead and feel loved if you want. Sure.

    Why do we thank “God” it’s Friday? He, she or it didn’t invent the calendar. We should thank the Mayans for Friday.

    Why do hairs grow from moles? I think the mole is bad enough, thanks.

    Why do accents disappear when singing?

    Do we really need haircuts every six weeks or do they just say that for repeat business?

    Why is it so hard to find a credible news source?

    Will I ever be able to give up cheese?

    Why is nose picking so taboo if we all do it?

    When are they going to stop making Reality TV?

    When will I stop watching Reality TV?

    Why are you reading these? You should go volunteer or something. Or read more questions here, here, and here.

  • Happy Father’s Day, Mom

    Dear Mom on Fathers’ Day,

    I think it’s only fair that you get a celebratory hug today too. You may have a vagina and you may not possess the other usual characteristics of the stereotypical dad, but in many ways you’ve been a better dad than many.

    You bought me a skateboard and a pogo stick and a Wiffle ball, making sure I got a well-rounded childhood experience. I am not sure if that’s because you were playing a dad role or because you’re a tomboy yourself, but I liked it. Barbie was too pink for me, and she was really only good for planning sexy trysts with Ken. It was better that I got outside and away from that dream house turned porn den.

    You barbecued, spackled, nailed, painted, and grouted. In a traditional family, the dad would have done that stuff. In my family, I learned that a woman can do just about anything with her hands. Now, one of my most cherished possessions is my cordless power drill. Drill, baby, drill (If you’re hanging shelves.). Because of you, I am proud to NOT be one of those girls who needs to “call a boy to help.” Thank. Goodness.

    You told me dirty jokes and taught me that farts are funny. That’s usually a dad’s job, but you did it really well (sometimes too well). When you smirked and divulged the real words to The Man from Nantucket, my junior high popularity soared. Thanks for that. ‘Whose dick was so long he could suck it!’ Hahahaha.

    You taught me all about the male psyche. When I was “dating” in sixth grade, you told me just what those little bastards were thinking. You weren’t a man but you sure knew that Caleb was flirting by calling me stupid. You were so smart. (I kinda wish you would have told me not to go see Ferngully the Last Rainforest with him though. Worst first date ever. [Side note: dating has not changed much since 6th grade].)

    You came to every game or performance or big deal. And you drove me everywhere I needed to go. If there had been a dad around, you guys might have been able to rotate. But, nope. Your presence was for two, and that was enough.

    I don’t think you deserve recognition on Fathers’ Day just because you performed the tasks of a “normal” dad. I think you deserve recognition because you performed every task. All by yourself.  That’s hard. You’ve been the good guy and the bad guy. You’ve planned every birthday party, and you’ve cried enough for two every time we’ve said goodbye at an airport. That should be rewarded.

    Maybe you don’t deserve a tie or a mug because, really, who does? But you deserve recognition and thanks and love.

    Happy Father’s Day, Mommy!

    PS. I respect many of your choices, but why did we take photos in a black hole?

  • Thx Again

    Thank you to all who commented and left gratitude over here Tuesday.
    I think I’m a glass-half-fuller even though I agree with my friend, Rahul, who says you should never judge a glass half-anything unless you know what’s in it. I also take pleasure in being cynical and my favorite color is black. But as I sat in the hospital Tuesday with my friend who was heading into surgery, we read all of your beautiful pieces of gratitude. I’ve never been so happy in a hospital before. Thanks for that. It was truly an amazing day. I even cried a little, you bastards.

    I have decided to show my gratitude for your gratitude by donating another book to the contest. I bought a signed book for my mom, whose nickname is Mambert. I don’t know why we call her that, but we do. I don’t know why I just said ‘we’ when I don’t have any siblings. (There’s still time, mom– one sister. Pleeeeeease? What do you mean you’re 65? So what. There are fertility pills.) She will never know if I send her book to one of you instead. All you have to do is scratch out ‘Mambert’ and write in your own name. Or, you could change your name to Mambert. Totally up to you. But, just a warning: if you do change your name to Mambert, you won’t be able to get a personalized license plate in Illinois that says ‘Mambert’ because my mom already has it.

    Ok, now that that’s out of the way, let’s pick from this hat.
    (I’m making a drum roll with my lips. FYI.)
    The first winner of the book addressed to you and signed by Leah Dieterich of thx thx thx is:

    Maring. She said:

    Dear mornings i walk out of the house with baby puke on me and smelling of baby pee,
    Thank you for the respect I now have for mothers everywhere and the unity I feel in disheveled appearances.

    And the winner of Mambert’s book (who might soon be named Mambert if she or he is so inclined):

    Travelin’ Chick She said:

    Dear iPhone, Thank you for the many things you do to help me; get to my next appointment, remember my sons Kung Fu lessons, finds a deal on shoes, find a Starbucks, get a flight, call my mom, connect with a long lost friend, read a blog for the first time in bed while I have to pee but can’t get up because its so funny…thank you…and that was all before 7:30 this morning!
    -going pee now

    Hooray! I don’t know either of these people, which is great because I’d already planned to defend our random selection process if my friends had won. Maring and Travelin’ Chick, may you enjoy your beautiful books of thanks. And, Mom (Mambert), sorry about your now lack of book. If I’d have gotten a sister, maybe things would have turned out differently.

  • If you win this book, I won’t be jealous of you either. Swear. Not me. Nope. Don’t get jealous. Not at all.

    My first job out of college was writing TV commercials for Jack in the Box. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, but I pretended I knew exactly what I was doing. I couldn’t admit I didn’t know anything because there was another girl who started around the same time and she seemed to know a lot. She was married and didn’t have any student loans, so I hated her upon finding that out. We were the same age, looked alike and had similar-sounding names (hers: Leah). Yet, she was all put together. Her clothes matched. Her skin was clear. She had a car.

    I had a bicycle from Target, one suitcase, a ball of frizz on my head, a face full of adult acne, and a sneaking suspicion that I did not want to be in advertising. It was not a fine moment for me, and this chick’s surface perfection reflected back to me how big of a mess I was.

    I figured I could prove that I was better than she was if I just made more TV commercials than she did. And so it was born: fierce, catty, female competition, the silent kind popular in sorority houses, the kind that kept me scheming at night and kept her pointing out that I had a string hanging from the stitching on my shirt. Every. Day.
    After a few months on the job, Leah produced her first TV commercial. BEFORE ME. Seething with jealousy, I wrote my ass off. And I tried harder. I finally sold one right after, keeping us neck and neck (they’re here and here if you’re really that bored). Still, we competed in every area. She’d tell me about her perfect husband, and I’d brag about how I figured out all by myself that my cable TV wasn’t working because of a big lint ball stuck in the receiver box. Then she’d remind me that she didn’t have a TV. There we were: Twenty-five-year-old bitches, both vegetarians, defining ourselves by how quickly we could convince people to eat hamburgers.

    Four years after we met, we both found ourselves in phases of uncertainty. Her husband was to take a job in New York, and I had no idea what to do with my life. I decided to travel alone for a year and start this blog. She decided to stay in Los Angeles and began writing thank you notes. She filled up boxes of gratitude and realized that thanking the things she appreciated was a way of staying in the moment and giving her life a constant. She posted them on her blog, thx thx thx. That’s how we actually got to know each other- by secretly reading each other’s blogs. Leah says it was when I started to write about my father that she realized I was a real person and not the shell I would only let her see before. And I learned about how fragile and funny she really is by reading things like these:

    I guess you can say we really met online. And then we started to respect each other. And then we became friends.
    It felt so much better than competing.
    Now her blog has become a book, a book that’s for sale in real bookstores. YES, SHE PUBLISHED A BOOK BEFORE ME. Even though I have been wanting to write a book since the moment I realized I didn’t want to be in advertising (the first day), I am not one bit jealous that my friend has just come out with one. (Swear. For real. Seriously. No, really. Not me.) I’m PROUD! And amazed. And inspired. Because it’s good. Because it’s beautiful. Because it’s vulnerable and funny. Because she’s my friend and I want her to succeed. Six years ago, I would have fake-barfed if I’d heard Leah was going to publish a book and then I would have probably gone home and created a voodoo doll. But here I am telling you to buy it. Our blogs and this book symbolize how much we can grow in short periods of time.

    Dear Laurenne & Leah, Thanks for not being catty bitches anymore.

    Dear Cats, Thanks for letting us use your name to describe something negative.

    Leah also thinks humans are funny, and she wants to give away one of her books here. If you write a thank you down below (to anything or anyone), we will put your name in a hat (Really a hat. We’re not just saying hat and then planning on using a bowl.). And we will draw one name and that winner shall receive a copy of thx thx thx in the mail. We’re doing a raffle because we don’t want to judge the entries. That’s how far we’ve come. We don’t even judge anyone anymore. Except ourselves. And that guy over there. What a douchebag.

    Ok, your turn:

  • I might as well just reference ‘The Martian Chronicles,’ another book I read in junior high that I didn’t understand because I didn’t know it was a book of short stories and therefore couldn’t figure out why the same characters weren’t in every chapter.

    Last week I revealed my hopeless case of hopeful romanticism, flanked by the hope that a Spaniard who knows nothing about me would show up at my door in some spontaneous gesture of romance. I now see clearly that there are two slight problems with my pathetic idealism:

    Number One:  My hope-filled hopeless fantasies always involve people who don’t know much about each other. The moment they ask questions, the romance surely dies.
    Number Two: I’m so consumed in fantasy that I don’t realize what’s right in front of me.

    There’s beautiful romance right here already!  There was a Taboo Tales show last month. Before it started, someone placed a metal robot on the stage. I didn’t notice the little guy because I was hosting the show, trying to be funny, and praying that nothing would go awry. It wasn’t until afterward that I saw he was the robot logo of this here blog, meticulously carved out of metal!

    WHAT!?
    The card read, “I honor your contribution to humanity.”
    WHAT!?
    I had no idea what that meant because I haven’t volunteered in a while, and I always mean to text my donations into the Red Cross because it’s easy and only ten bucks, but I never really get around to it.
    The robot maker explained that he liked what I wrote here on Humans are Funny, thought that making people laugh was a fine method of helping humanity, carved this little guy out of metal, AND THEN drove an hour to see the Taboo Tales show and present him to me in person.
    WHAT!?
    How romantic! How meaningful! And what a relief– I do not need to feel guilty about that volunteer trip to Haiti I never took.

    This little robot man could be the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received (besides a Richard Marx CD in sixth grade and the recordings of my cheerleading competitions my mom just had transferred onto DVD. To future husband: sorry). My heart is jumping with glee. Not because I’m getting presents but because something I wrote affected someone else. That means more than anything.

    Today a friend asked me why I blog, which is to say, “Why do you continue to spend hours per week cranking out essays about your intimate life details for an audience that’s honestly not that large?”
    I didn’t go into the fact that my goal in life is to really make people feel something. “I just want to make people feel.” Sounds creepy. I’m keeping that one to myself.
    Instead, I told her about all the people I’ve met through blogging. When people come here to read what you’re writing, it’s because they get you. A blog creates a whole community of people who share a similar take on life. It makes for some truly beautiful presents friendships!

    Remember Wuthering Heights? I don’t remember much of that book except that it was snowy and everyone seemed bored and lonely. I just wish they could have each had blogs back then. (Wuthering Heights? Really? What a horrible reference. My insistence on staying in and writing is hindering my pop-culture references. I’ve seen one movie this year. Help!)

    Thank you guys for reading and for commenting and for being funny and for coming back and for understanding me when I sometimes don’t. I can’t imagine my life without my blog. It sounds so ridiculous: “OMG, I would, like, die without my blog because it, like, totally helps me feel.”
    But it’s true. All true.
    LOVE YOU.

    Note #1: Why didn’t my teacher mention The Martian Chronicles were short stories?

    Note #2: Rahul from Your Beard is Good sent me a box of paper towels once, which was very meaningful. I swear. And we met RIGHT HERE! If you start a blog, you too can get paper towels in the mail.

    Note #3: How cool is that robot?