I wouldn’t donate one of my kidneys to just anyone. Don’t send me a friend request on Facebook, then start schmoozing with me for a few minutes about how we were friends in 9th grade English class, and then slip in a, “Hey, man, I need a kidney.” I didn’t have friends in 9th grade English class. Don’t tweet me a sob story or send me a sad Instagram photo of your dog. Besides, I don’t even like dogs. I didn’t help anyone move when I owned a pickup truck, and this is no different. Continue reading “No one is taking my kidney!”
If you are reading this letter, it means that I’m dead and you are now residing in the home I once occupied. Please get off of your phone and read this.
Before I died, and well before I had become a bitter old man, I decided to sit down and pen a letter to the future homeowner, which I guess is you. Continue reading “A Letter to the Future Homeowner”
The other day, I was perusing a few aisles of a retail clothing store when I caught the eye of a hard working mannequin. Actually, he had no eye. He didn’t even have a head. He was one of those headless mannequins, standing there with his well defined biceps and smoothly severed neck. How he was able to maintain his muscular definition simply by standing there, for all of eternity, and with no brain function to indicate that he must get some physical activity, was truly a mystery to me. Despite him not having eyes, it felt as if he were staring at me, imploring me to spend money on the tight fitting t-shirt he was modeling. Or, he was crying out for help.
Around the corner of the headless John Doe, came another mannequin, this one with a head, but with an empty look in his eyes. I couldn’t help but feel sad for this particular mannequin as he truly seemed to have become resigned to his retail fate.
There were a plethora of mannequins in the store that day. Bosomed female mannequins wearing bathing suits, child mannequins wearing summery tank tops, muscular male mannequins wearing seersucker shorts. There was even a dog mannequin, which was highly strange as this particular store sold no animal products.
These overworked and underpaid mannequins are people too, I thought. It was at that time that I felt compelled to be a voice for these stoic victims of retail abuse.
“Excuse me,” I said to the store employee, Holden. “I want that t-shirt,” as I pointed to the mannequin in the distance.
“We have plenty of different sizes on the shelf over there,” said Holden.
“No, no. I want the one he is wearing.”
Holden seemed puzzled. Perhaps he thought that I had a mannequin fetish and this was just an opportunity for me to see one shirtless. This was not the case. I felt that by literally taking the shirt off this mannequin’s back, it would give him an opportunity to wear something different; to make him feel human, even if just for a moment.
“But sir,” said Holden. “The size shirt he is wearing is a medium. You clearly wear a bigger size.”
“How dare you question the customer in these matters, Holden,” I said angrily. “The customer is always right. Besides, I’m buying this shirt for my petite friend.” I was proud of my last second, instant credibility fib. In truth, I have no petite friends.
“Oh, okay,” he responded. “We have medium sizes on the shelf as well.”
“Holden,” I said condescendingly, while staring at him.
He uncomfortably removed the shirt from mannequin John Doe and then quickly dressed him in different shirt, a buttoned-down jean shirt. Had this mannequin been able to see the events transpiring, I am certain his eyes would’ve expressed gratitude for my sacrifice. Since he was severed at the neck however, I can only speculate.
I paid Holden an exorbitant price for a shirt that was much too small for me to wear, and I left the store with an empty wallet but with a full heart, knowing I did something good for someone. Well, sort of someone.
The other day, an attractive lady approached me in front of my favorite coffee shop. I had never seen her before, so the fact that she seemed to be making a beeline toward me was quite surprising. Women simply don’t behave this way in my presence.
She stopped in front of me and said, “How did you get to be so hot?” Continue reading “The Excessive Sweater”
Sitting in the exit row of a plane is something I take very seriously. As a relatively frequent flyer, I jump at the chance to bear responsibility for the lives of other travelers who are too wimpy to take on this burden themselves. In fact, most of these ingrates on the plane aren’t even aware of the sacrifice I am willing to make for them. They just sit back in their reclined positions, playing Sudoku and drinking Scotch, while I listen to the special instructions afforded to us as exit row specialists, also known as ERSs (a term I coined). Continue reading “Life as an ERS (Exit Row Specialist)”
I glanced down at the clock on my vehicle’s dashboard. It read 4:33 p.m.
“Plenty of time to get from Rockville, Maryland to D.C.,” I told my neighbor in the passenger seat. “The game is at 7.” Continue reading “Driving to a Baseball Game: Grand Jam”
Here, at the fifth precinct, my partner and I investigate the improper use of grammar. We take our jobs seriously. With advanced degrees in both Criminal Justice and English, we seek to rid the world of abuses of the English language. Continue reading “Weapons of Mass Instruction”