Humor – Page 3 – Shannon Kernaghan

December 8, 2020January 4, 2021

Bah Humbug

Audio version

Coronavirus isn’t the only Grinch to steal Christmas. My brother Timothy, three years older, decided to play Scrooge and deliver the deets on Santa Claus.

Tim chose a quiet moment. We stood together on a street corner in front of our school, waiting for a break in traffic before crossing. With festive glee, Tim updated me on the truth about St. Nick and his Xmas elves.

No need to go “aww” in sympathy because I don’t recall feeling devastated.

Come on, an aging man in a red suit who visits once a year and trades cool gifts for room-temperature milk and a few Dad’s cookies? Even at age six, I sensed some implausibility. Also, I sensed that a lone worker, despite his alleged jolliness, couldn’t possibly slip down a gazillion chimneys during one night of the year.

Anyone that efficient would already be off the North Pole gig and working with Elon Musk at SpaceX.

And after a gazillion glasses of milk with an equal number of sugary cookies, we’d have one lactose-intolerant elder on our hands, complete with hyperglycemia.

As for those tireless flying reindeer, my six-year-old attitude towards anything invisible was generally, “No way, show me!” Due to my cynical roots, I refused to memorize the names of Santa’s reindeer. Donner, Blitzen, Rudolph. That’s all I got.

That cynicism included boycotting the song “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” When forced to sing during our school Christmas extravaganzas, I lip-synced the words. I was a prepubescent forerunner to Mariah Carey and Milli Vanilli.

My early cynicism has company – political correctness is part of this tinsel-draped picture. Retailers shiver, and not from the crisp air or Covid-19 restrictions currently placed on their stores. They’re also nervous to say “Merry Christmas” to consumers like me. Instead, many play it safe and proclaim this phase of candy canes and crèches as the “12 Days of Giving.”

Am I insulting both Christians and abbreviation-phobes alike by writing “Xmas” in my quest for brevity? Suddenly I’m as nervous as my neighborhood retailers.

Regardless of varying beliefs and traditions observed around the globe, I’ve grown to cherish the season. I’m no humbug because I’ll embrace every excuse to make merry with friends and family – when I’m legally allowed to do any embracing. Either way, I plan to reminisce about the year’s adventures and highlights. At least the highlights feel like adventures after a few cups of eggnog. Perhaps it’s the lactose talking.

I plan to cuddle up with my sweetheart to enjoy the movies that represent some of my own festive traditions – A Charlie Brown Christmas, the 1951 version of Christmas Carol and Christmas Vacation with its wacky Griswolds.

Whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, Human Rights Day, Bodhi Day, Yule or Kwanzaa, deck your halls and let the spirit of the season bring peace and generosity to your hearts and chimneys.

Turns out my darling brother has edged lower on the scale of Xmas Grinches – in 2020, Covid-19 takes the humbug fruitcake.

Hey Tim, can we talk for a minute? There’s something I’d like to share with you about the Easter Bunny. You might want something stronger than eggnog.

Audio version song
Soft Feeling
by
Cheel

September 26, 2020September 26, 2020

Welcome to My Hairy Bubble

Audio version

The topic of hair leads the list of everyday challenges for humankind. Is there any other body part so regularly fussed over and featured? Note: while writing, I’ve entered a brain bubble called “denial” to pretend that I’m living in a post-COVID universe where all we have time to complain about is our hair. Plus, the re-opening of hair salons in my neighborhood has bolstered me with enough courage to expand on hair, in all of its timeless (and annoying) glory.

Now, on with my bubble: we have either too much or too little of this exasperating dead protein. And wherever hair grows, it’s never quite the right color or texture or length.

Fashion choices are extensive: you can braid, bleach and back comb; consider a cut, crimp and curl; flip, fluff and feather if ya got it; perm or straighten; and finally, trim and tint ‘til the cows come home. Or, more likely, until you run out of money. Hair care is spendy!

For unwanted hair, you can laser, pluck, shave, sugar, and wax. Hair is constantly in the process of coming or going. Not long enough? Walk into your salon short and severe; walk out long and luxurious with Lady Godiva extensions.

At least there’s gender equality in our suffering. Men deal with eyebrows that join to form a uni-brow, five o’clock shadows that arrive before noon, and backs with enough hair to keep a horse warm through winter. Worse, hair sprouts from ears and nostrils yet gives up the follicle ghost where most needed – on top.

If your head is beyond hope, you can fake it with falls and wigs. There’s also instant hair in a spray can for those shy spots, but better hope your date doesn’t decide to run a few fingers through your locks. Spray-on hair is a serious form of false advertising.

More recently there’s a battalion of ‘manscapers’ across the globe who define ‘tidy’ for women and men alike as no pubic hair. None. Now ‘clean’ I can understand, but tidy?!

“Have you done something with your hair?” is a loaded question. If the word order is altered – “WHAT have you done with your hair?” – the observation becomes more insult than compliment. Those critiques should be reserved for concerned parents and brave partners. True friends will love your hair, no matter how badly you destroy it, even when they’re thinking, “Yikes! What size bowl did you use for that hatchet job?”

Mother Nature and her pixie tricks have created an unfair handbook on hair. Where you want it, hair grows skimpier or not at all, and where you don’t want it, it reappears within days. The true winners are manufacturers who sell hair their add and subtract products along with the advertisers who convince you to buy them.

If anyone knows any good jokes, please send them my way. I’d appreciate a detour from hair screaming for a touch-up, eyebrows aching for an arch, legs longing for a shave, and other parts waiting for an eye-watering wax.

Time to slip on a ball cap so I can enjoy this hairy bubble while it lasts.

And stay back! Everything looks better from a safe distance of six feet.

song
Patent Doll
by
Freedom Trail Studio

November 24, 2019June 20, 2020

You Call This Retail Therapy?

Audio Version

I enjoy a good sale. The best experience is one that melds impulsiveness with rock-bottom prices.

Last week I set out to buy a box of bandages. Instead of going directly from the store’s First Aid aisle to the cashier, I wandered past a section filled with sale items.

The write-up on one of those items read: “Sick and tired of snoring? Relief is right under your nose.” The front of the box pictures a couple in bed. The man is asleep, mouth open, while the woman is wide awake with eyes that stare towards the ceiling. Her expression? “Kill me now.”

Flip the box over. The “after” shot shows the couple sleeping contentedly. His mouth is closed and hers is upturned in a happy smile. She wears glossy lipstick.

I bought it and saved $6. When I finished pawing through instructions and packaging, all that remained was a tiny piece of opaque plastic resembling a clip-on earring.

At bedtime I re-read the instructions: “Once in position, you can move about, lie down to sleep and even take a run.”

Now why would anyone wear this when running? People might pant, but they don’t snore.

More helpful notes: “The nasal dilator tips are to fit comfortably against the septum.” Since the illustration was too tiny to be useful, I looked up the definition of septum: “The dividing wall or membrane between bodily spaces – compare dissepiment.” I did compare and found “See septum.”

I was running out of patience. And night.

Then I applied lipstick. Not really but I should have, as a courtesy to my husband. After all, the contents in my bedside drawer scream anything but sexy. The foam earplugs shout, “Turn down the TV, I’m trying to sleep, dammit!” and my cumbersome mouth guard hollers, “Stop clenching your teeth!”

Did I mention the snoring gadget is for me? My husband also snores but with my earplugs in place, I’m oblivious.

By 4:30 a.m. I yanked off the contraption. The instructions had referred to a dilating action; I only experienced pinching, like the slow strangle of tight socks.

As for the dilator with its claims of no sticky strips, no skin irritation and no side effects, I’ll add my own critique: no work.

If my husband doesn’t like my occasional snorts and snuffles, he can move to the couch. At least I won’t have to bother with any lipstick.

After all of this retail therapy, I may need some actual therapy!

audio version song
“Cancun”
by Topher Mohr and Alex Elena

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September 5, 2018June 18, 2020

A Wooden Leg Does Not a Pirate Make

Audio Version

In 1978 President Jimmy Carter proclaimed the first Sunday in September after Labor Day as National Grandparents’ Day. The idea originated from a woman in West Virginia whose motivation was to persuade grandchildren to listen and learn from the wisdom of their grandparents.

This special day reminds me to appreciate my own family tree. Take my grandfather, a hard-working and good-natured farmer. He had a wooden leg, the result of a war injury. As a farmer, dealing with a missing limb must have been a daily challenge although my mother says she never heard him complain.

Today, prosthetics are made of lightweight polymer and flexible titanium capable of increasing agility and mobility. None of that innovation was available for my grandfather’s leg: his was a heavy and unwieldy contraption held in place by a bulky harness and shoulder strap. Although it had a knee hinge, the mechanism didn’t always work unless my grandpa gave it a couple of hard thumps. He told my mom that the knocks were to show it who was boss. Grandpa also swore this leg had a mind of its own.

Correction: Mom said he did complain one day when he started to limp and couldn’t put any weight on the prosthetic. Climbing in and out of his tractor produced a stabbing pain at the place his thigh joined with the artificial leg.

Sitting on the side of his bed at night, he told my grandma that he was glad the day was over, that he’d have to see a doctor about his sore leg . . . until he unstrapped the harness. Lodged in the leg’s socket was a ring of keys.

“Hey, I’ve been looking for these all day!” and he started to laugh. His pain was from several jabbing keys! It never occurred to him to take off his prosthesis and check. “Too busy,” he told Grandma, caught up in his laughter.

One of the advantages of a wooden leg, he bragged, was that it would save his life if he ever fell into deep water. His theory was tested while canoeing with a friend. When the boat capsized, the leg floated but it didn’t help my grandfather – he was trapped below the water’s surface while the leg bobbed above! The true lifesaver was his friend who dragged him to shore. Since that day, the leg became known as “Troublemaker.”

Even after Grandpa passed away, the artificial leg continued to cause trouble. My mom was enlisted to bring it home from the hospital. But what was she supposed to do with it? She decided to phone the Salvation Army and the charity agreed to pick it up. An entire week went by.

While waiting, nobody wanted Troublemaker in their bedroom (I was scared of it!) so Mom propped it inside the front hall closet behind our coats. When Grandma phoned to say she was driving in from the country for a visit, Mom called the Salvation Army again and explained the situation.

“Please,” I overheard her imploring conversation, “I don’t want my mother to see his leg, it’ll be too painful for her!” Still no truck.

An hour before my grandma arrived, a driver picked up the leg and my mom could relax.

Her relief was short-lived, however, when days later someone from The War Amps phoned to inquire about the prosthesis. He wasn’t happy to hear that she’d given it away and informed Mom that it had been “on loan” for all those years.

“You want it back?”

“If it’s not returned by the end of the month,” he said, “you’ll be charged its full price.” That leg might have been low-tech and well-used, but it was still expensive.

With a quavering voice, Mom called the Salvation Army and explained that now she needed the leg back. She had to make more inquiry calls the following week and explain the story each time. Finally, a woman answered and said, “Oh, YOU’RE the leg woman. We got it, we found your leg!”

The same driver returned to our door and plopped the limb, now missing its sock and shoe, onto our WELCOME mat.

“Hey lady,” he said. “Tell the owner to make up his mind about his body parts!” and he turned on his heel.

My grandfather would have laughed if he knew about the commotion caused by his wooden leg. “See? he’d say. “I told you Troublemaker had a mind of its own!”

Audio story backing track
“Papa Hammond“
by Urban Pastiche from Sony Sound Series

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August 12, 2018June 18, 2020

Hollywood, Here I DON’T Come!

Audio Version

I know why I’m not a Hollywood celebrity – I don’t have “star drive,” that necessary trait for a person to succeed on the stage or screen. I also lack another key factor: talent.

Sure, I’ve made my lukewarm forays into the world of acting. Years ago, I took a few script reading and improv courses. And while living on the west coast, I did extra work in a dozen series and several movies.

When I read about an audition for a local filmmaker, I blew the dust off my skimpy acting resume. Although no pay was involved, the challenge sounded like fun and I scheduled an appointment to read at a nearby hotel.

After memorizing my lines, I skipped to that audition. But reading lines at your mirror doesn’t compare with doing the scene across from a stranger. When it was my turn to read, the script sounded completely foreign in my ears. I stammered and stumbled.

If bungling my lines wasn’t bad enough, my confidence plummeted when the director suggested I try again. “But this time,” he said, “don’t move around so much, and try to be more . . . quiet.”

“More quiet, okay, sure,” I said, wearing an idiot grin. What really went through my mind was, “What did I just do, flail my arms and shout?” At that surreal point, all I could focus on was remembering my lines and staring at the adorable scriptwriter, the one who read the other character’s lines. In the story, I was supposed to be his mother.

“I WISH I had a son as cute as you,” I thought, and then realized I’d spoken aloud as the group started laughing. Laughing is too strong; make that awkward chuckling. Not only was I a bad actor, I felt like Mrs. Robinson, surrounded by a crew young enough to be my children.

Surprise, surprise, I didn’t get the part. I couldn’t even give away my gratis acting services.

While leaving the hotel, I had a flashback: I was doing extra work at a rundown movie set in Vancouver. After pulling off a shapeless dress three sizes too large from wardrobe, I sighed at the end of a long night. The actors and crew were cranky, the bag lunches were stale, and someone yelled at me during a take when my shoes made scrunching noises on the dirty floor. Plus, I wanted to tell the actor playing an FBI agent to stop mumbling and speak up!

The highlight of the shoot was when a camera fell and knocked a man unconscious. I remember thinking, “This two-bit series will NEVER get off the ground. What a dump.”

That two-bit series? The X-Files, listed as one of the longest-running science fiction series at 12 seasons. Turns out the mumbling agent Mulder was played by David Duchovny and I was in the pilot with him.

The truth is out there: I’m a bad actor. Time to shelve my dreams of a Hollywood star and stick to writing, where I can invent my own characters and flail my arms until the cows come home. Or shout until I’m blue in the face. Pick a cliché and I’ll be there. With bells on.

audio version song is
“Three Kinds of Suns”
by Norma Rockwell

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June 24, 2018June 18, 2020

Confessions of a List-oholic

Audio Version

I envy my husband. He lives a list-free existence. Paul never makes a to-do list and has no plans to start. Me? He calls me a “list junky.”

For appointments and meetings, that info goes straight to my phone calendar, which is the logical use of current technology. But if you open my purse, you’ll find three old-school lists on three scraps of paper held together with a paper clip. The first is titled TODAY, the second TOMORROW and the third MISC. for those tasks in need of future attention, somewhere between this week and the next century.

Lists are like maps, guideposts to chart my daily course. When we leave the house for errands, I know exactly what’s required to make my life manageable. I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, so lists are no replacement for setting goals. (Note to self: add “Set Goals” to MISC. list.)

If I have a dozen tasks on my current list, I take pleasure in crossing off each one as it’s completed. It doesn’t matter if I finish everything, as long as I know what I could be doing if I end up in a mall or various parts of the city.

At the start of each day, I re-write a new TODAY list, bumping unfinished chores onto it and jotting down fresh tasks.

Here’s one benefit to this routine: nothing is forgotten when we travel. “Wow, you remembered my lucky hat!” Paul will say. I’ll smile and shrug, knowing that I owe my organized life to a 99-cent pen and a few pieces of recycled paper.

I’m also a list mentor. I convinced my husband’s friend that life becomes more productive and less stressful with a list. He followed my advice and awoke the next morning to a reminder on his cell’s calendar: PHONE BILL. Then he spent the next hour trying to recall which Bill he was supposed to phone – he works with three!) and why was he supposed to call this Bill? It wasn’t until late afternoon that he remembered: PAY THE PHONE BILL! At least he tried. Hey, good list making takes practice.

Maybe some people should continue to limp along through their list-free worlds, accepting missed appointments and undelivered dry-cleaning. Apparently they’re happy, even if they forget to mail that Welcome New Baby card before the child begins college.

The reason my husband doesn’t need to make lists? “I’m no fool,” he says, “I have YOU to make them for me.” (Note to self: be more spontaneous!)

*Note* Backing track on audio is “Space Coast” by Topher Mohr/Alex Elena

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April 2, 2018June 18, 2020

I’m Not a Patient Patient

Audio Version

I admire my current doctor and her no-nonsense approach to my body when I haul it into her clinic for my annual check. Her quiet inspection is appreciated because any gasps, giggles or “hmms” would make me nervous.

Despite scheduling an appointment weeks in advance, I’m tolerant of the required wait time. As for the magazines, some are outdated and dog-eared.

While taking furtive glances at other long faces who share my delay, I contemplate the person who assigned the phrase “waiting room.” He/she is a genius because never did two words better describe both process and surroundings. This same brain obviously invented the word “patient,” as in who you are and how you must behave while waiting.

My only objection involves the patient gown. Did I say gown? Paper towel is more accurate. In the past, it was tough enough to sit shivering in a shapeless, backless cotton smock. At some point the shift was made to paper, which is not surprising in our budget-crunching society.

“Take everything off and use that to cover up,” the doctor’s assistant said before she closed the door.

“Cover up with what?” But she was gone and it was just me and my square of paper, neatly folded on the end of the examining table. This wasn’t a gown, this was a large serviette. I was to cover up and maintain a shred of naked dignity. When I tried to arrange myself underneath, I felt like a paper cut-out doll. And if I didn’t stay still, my serviette would slip to the floor.

Although the instruction was to take everything off, I drew the line at socks and glasses. What if the fire alarm suddenly rings? I’ll need socks to keep my feet warm and glasses to see where I’m running. Anyone gripping a flammable paper towel should stay away from direct flames.

And knock on wood that my doctor doesn’t find anything wrong with me. On second thought, don’t bother knocking on wood. During your next doctor’s visit, you’ll be wearing a tree in the form of a paper towel. Gently rub a corner of it for the same superstitious results.

As for those vintage magazines in the waiting room, I have a suggestion: convert them into cover-ups. They’d be thicker than the cover-ups I’ve been given. More importantly, patients will have something to read while they endure that second near-naked wait for the doctor to arrive.

Did you know that Trump won the US election? Good thing I went for a check-up!

audio version song
“Front Porch Blues”
by
Chris Haugen

Tell Your Friends

October 24, 2017June 18, 2020

Stop Confusing Your Pumpkins

Audio version

I can’t understand the rationale behind applying special Halloween make-up and then dunking your head in a tub of communal water, all for the prize of grabbing an apple. I need more incentive.

When I was a kid, apples were not my friend on Halloween. People who handed out chocolate bars? Now those were folks forever etched in my heart. The larger the bar, the more respect they wielded in the neighborhood.

Besides apples shunned by us sugar-loving kids, pumpkins are also given a bad rap on October 31. Sure, they’re respected over Thanksgiving when they sacrifice their lives for our pumpkin pies, but come Halloween we develop short memories. Instead of revering them, we cut, scoop and hack away, defacing pumpkins into leering jack-o’-lanterns. Then, we let them shrivel to unrecognizable pulps before tossing them into a compost bin or the next trash pick-up. Talk about ‘dissing an innocent gourd.

Know who else gets a bad rap? Teenagers. The rumor that floated through school at Halloween was the same every year: “Look out for those AWFUL teenagers! As soon as they spot you walking with a full bag, they’ll steal your candy!”

Sure, teenagers are notorious for egging windows and trimming trees with toilet tissue, but not all of them are evil. During one childhood Halloween, I almost made it home after a fruitful trick-or-treating mission. After saying goodbye to my friends, I looked over my shoulder for those awful teenagers. I was a mere six doors from home when the unthinkable happened: my bag of treats – weighed down by apples – tore and spilled my candy onto the street! Horrified, I ran home crying.

Before I could explain the tear-choked tragedy to my mother, our doorbell rang.

“Gee, that’s a grown-up looking trick-or-treater,” Mom said after peering through the window. She opened the door to one of those awful teenagers. He’d taken off his jacket and gathered my candy. Since he watched me run home, he followed.

My mom whispered that I should give him a reward for his kindness, so I surrendered several of my most-coveted chocolate bars.

From then, I wasn’t frightened by teenagers on Halloween. Instead, I’ve developed a fear of dentists because in addition to collecting candy, I garnered a few cavities that year.

If you’re still brave enough (read: crazy) to bob for apples at your Halloween party, insist on going first. The last contestants in line have a tough time breaking through the oil slick of grease paint on the water’s surface. And don’t invite me unless you plan to bob for something good, like diamonds or a plane ticket to Honolulu. For that I’ll smudge my make-up.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN to teenagers everywhere. I’m thrilled if you’re reading my post. That means you’re not out egging our car.

Audio verison song
“Old Salooner Blues“
by
Midnite North

Tell Your Friends

September 14, 2017June 18, 2020

Catch the Wave!

Audio version

I like ladybugs as much as the next person. Finding one inside your home is said to be a sign of good luck. But I like a few of them, not a virtual infestation. Last fall, several dozen enjoyed free room and board in one of my bedrooms, all of them snoozing in the corners of my ceiling.

I’m not being fair about the free board part since my ladybugs didn’t eat a thing. That’s not to imply there’s nothing snack-worthy because I can fed a small nation with what falls off the kitchen counters.

With help from the Internet, I discovered these cute little Volkswagen-shaped insects are fascinating critters. The North Carolina College of Agriculture states that ladybugs, or Multicolored Asian Ladybeetles, were imported into the United States from Asia in the late 1970s. Since they feed on over 50 species of aphids, they’re a good bug to have around. I only WISH they ate human food. My kitchen floor would be much cleaner.

Ladybeetles – a rather emasculating title for the males – congregate twice a year, in spring and in fall when they gather to find shelter from the cold. In their native Asia, they’re drawn to light-colored limestone, which is why they choose my sunny west-facing room.

I’m no gardener, but I do appreciate the benefits of ladybugs in a vegetable and flower bed. Want to store your ladybugs for the winter and release them into your gardens and window boxes next spring? The N.C. College recommends that you make a bag out of cheesecloth, about the size of a half-gallon milk jug. Toss in some dried grass or wood chips.

After collecting the ladybugs with the edge of a funnel, gently drop them into the cheesecloth bag. Refrigerate, but don’t freeze or you’ll end up with Bugscicles. From now until spring, take them out of the fridge once or twice a month and let them warm up for a few hours. They’re hardy enough to withstand temperature fluctuations in nature although shouldn’t be left out too long as they’ll burn off their fat reserves and die.

When warmed and starting to crawl, mist them with a bit of water. To prevent chilling, make sure they’re dry before returning them to the fridge. I suggest using a monogrammed guest towel for best results.

When spring arrives, let them warm up again. Place the bag of bugs in your recliner and download a move, something like A Bug’s Life or Antz, before releasing them into your garden where they’ll make quick work of aphids and other pests.

For this year’s visit, I’ll launch an Airbnb for them, specifically an Airbug. Guests this quiet and low-maintenance, I want back year after year.

By the way, if you actually follow my recipe for preserving your bugs, I figure you’ve got too much free time. How about coming over and cleaning my kitchen floor!

Audio version song
“Rise and Shine“
by Audibinger

Tell Your Friends

August 24, 2017June 18, 2020

Can You Hear Me Now?

Audio version

Listening is an under-rated art form. There’s a wise saying that people should listen twice as much as they talk, considering they have two ears for every mouth. When I read the report that men listen with only half their brain, my husband’s confidence improved.

“See? Paul said, pointing to an online article. “It’s not my fault, that’s the way I’m hardwired. Now when you call me a half-brain, it won’t be such an insult.”

The man has a point. I’ve been doing a non-clinical study for years and agree with the findings. Take the subject of errands. If I ask Paul to pick up a few groceries, he looks like a proud warrior when he returns with two of the four items I requested.

“Didn’t you buy coffee beans? I told you we were out and now won’t have any for breakfast tomorrow! What’s all this other stuff?” and I rummage through the bag.

“I never heard you say coffee. I got a Rolling Stone and BBQ chips.” Surprise: I don’t need B-B-Q chips, yet I do love my morning coffee.

I never confuse the topic of listening with that of memory. When it comes to memory, Paul has a great set of temporal lobes. He’ll recall something I mentioned at a party in 2006 where I commented on a woman’s pretty purple dress. From one remark, he’ll forever believe I adore purple dresses, and he’ll point out every one we walk past in store windows. Since the seed is firmly rooted, why bother arguing?

I’ve made another discovery through years of unscientific study: what men don’t hear, they invent. While on holidays, Paul led me into a restaurant that specializes in ramen soup. He ordered me a bowl and watched me eat while I commented on the soup’s poor quality and expensive price.

“Yeah, but at least we found a place that serves ramen,” he said. “I know how much you love it.”

“I do? Since when?”

“Since we used to eat it in Vancouver. Remember that noodle place on Robson Street? We’d always sit at the window.” He wasn’t giving up.

“Yeah, I liked the restaurant, but when did I say I loved the soup?” At some mystical juncture, Paul decided that I loved ramen. Case closed. At least he tries, even if he’s correct only half of the time.

Sometimes I wish that I could listen with only half a brain. Think how bearable it would be when the radio plays the same song six times on the hour. Or when the neighbor’s dog barks before I’m ready to get up in the morning. Or when I’m seated next to a screaming baby on a plane. There are countless advantages.

Why do I have to listen at all? Maybe I’ll request a pack of ear plugs on Paul’s next grocery run. At this rate I’ll have a 50/50 chance of getting them.

Audio version song
“Bleecker Street Blues“
by
Chris Haugen

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