Tag Archives: humor

fiction

Job Interview

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Interviewer: “Good morning, Jacob. Would you mind starting by telling us a little bit about yourself?”

Interviewee: “Certainly. Good morning, Mr. Aguilar and others participating in the interview process. My name is Jacob Smith. I was born Jacob Rivers in Winslow, Oklahoma to a left-handed prostitute and a heroine addict from the Vietnam era. I grew up poor, but happy. At the age of 14, I was released from the methadone clinic, free from my own addiction. I have a work history that is boring, lengthy, and deeply uninspiring. However, I have been repeatedly told that I show a penchant for soul-crushing repetitive tasks. While I will not ask much of your company while I am here, I take it as a given that you will also not ask much of me. Considering the employees I’ve interacted with so far, yourself included, I do not foresee that being an issue.

My strengths are mostly physical, and my weaknesses are none of your business. My long term goals include working somewhere better than here, and my short term goal is to eat a 5-lbs. bag of M&M’s in a single sitting.”

fiction

Youth Pastor

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“I see you all… You’re looking up at me with my backwards hat, sitting on a backwards chair and you’re thinking: ‘Is this guy really going to be telling me about Jesus?’” said Phil. This was his first day as a youth pastor for the South Lakeland Church, but he had been a youth guide for many years in L.A. before. Certainly, his ample time working with youths would be able to overcome his ever-increasing age gap with them—he was nearly pushing 40. Even so, he still knew how to talk to the teens at their level though, talking about the new hip thing. Phil was ready.

“Well, yes, I will be talking to you a little about Jesus. But Jesus isn’t just some good and caring man from 2,000 years ago.” Phil shook his head, “No, he was much more than that. Some might even call him the first Crypto Bro.” Phil paused here to look around the room, references that teens understand always get their attention. He saw raised eyebrows and curious faces. He had them now.

“Jesus spoke the truth about something of immense value—something people were afraid of because they couldn’t hold it in their hand… They couldn’t understand it. He explained to them about the tremendous ‘return on investment’ when they placed their bets on God. The early investors, a.k.a. his apostles, traveled with him and helped spread the good word. They converted many doubters. And let me tell you—I’m an investor too. And I’m hoping to sell you guys on this no-fail opportunity for limitless growth.” He paused and smiled when he saw slow nods of understanding.

Over the next several minutes, Phil managed to keep this metaphor going longer than anyone would have expected, himself included. Near the end he glanced down at his watch with surprise, better start wrapping things up.

“Even when others renounced their faith because of pressure from the majority, Jesus would be the one who would always ‘HODL.’ He would never sell his faith… And we will never sell ours, Amen?” An enthusiastic chorus of “Amen!” answered Phil back.

He clapped his hands loudly and stood from the chair. “Thank you all for coming this evening, and really think about what kind of investment you want to make. If it were me, I would invest everything I had into this chance of a lifetime. It could be the biggest decision you ever make.”

As the teens were filtering out, he elevated his last announcement to make sure they could hear him, “And make sure you’re here next week for when we talk about Noah’s Ark. You’ll learn what you can achieve when you stay on your grind!” 

After the kids were gone, Phil nodded approvingly to himself, “Still got it.”

fiction

A Writer’s Mind

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There’s a soft knock on the door. The door creaks open. It’s time for my wife to go to work.

She kisses me on the cheek, “Bye, honey,” she says, “I’ll see you tonight.” I put my arm around her waist and pull her closer, press my lips to hers for a brief second and break away with an intentional smacking sound. “Love you,” I say.

“Love you, too” She says as I turn back to my work. Then after a moment she adds, “What are you working on?”

I notice she has glanced at my computer screen. A betrayal! I quickly click to a different tab on my screen. My jaw clenches in an effort to restrain my tongue. What am I working on? Who is she to ask what I’m working on? How am I supposed to know? Now, I guess I have to stop—in the middle of what I’m working on—and answer these asinine questions. I swear this is intolerable. Finally I calmed down enough to speak. “I’m writing,” I mutter through slightly parted teeth.

“Oh, neat! What about?” She asks it with a bubbly ring in her voice. 

This is ridiculous. I will not be interrogated in my own house! I need something non-committal. I can’t tell her what I’m really writing about, because I’m not even sure. And she’ll think I don’t know what I’m doing if I say that. Okay, got it. “I’m just working on some different stories. You know… the usual.” Nice. That should satisfy her sadistic quest to pump information out of me.

“I’d like to read it,” she says, “I’m sure it’s wonderful with how much you’ve been working on it.”

My teeth clench so hard I feel my heartbeat in my jaw. I exhale quickly and angrily through my nose. Can I afford a divorce? Psh, trying to read something that is a work in progress? I can’t believe her. That should be a crime! “You should really head to work.” I don’t even look up.
She stands still for a moment, palpably angry. She then leaves and shuts the door without another word. How am I supposed to write now? I’m fuming! I wait for the garage door to close, and then go back to bed for my morning nap.

fiction

The Origin of Crowns

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The origin of the royal headpiece, a crown, came about quite literally from the crown of people’s skulls developing an upward growth that was essentially a jagged, circular protuberance from their heads. People worshiped the individuals with these strange growths, thinking it was a special quality bestowed on them by the God or Gods they believed in. Eventually, these royal crown-havers began decorating their bony crowns with paint and other adornments to be visible at a distance. As generations went by, the crowns receded, so artificial crowns were fashioned for their heirs to wear to signify that they are from the lineage of the true crown.

When a naturally-crowned king married a common woman, his natural crown would be mimicked with jewels and gold and adorn the head of his queen. However, when children were born, they often never grew the anticipated natural crowns, as we know now it is a recessive trait. This is where the custom of royalty marrying royalty came into play during the middle centuries. Doing so allowed for truly royal lineage to continue to be passed, and a greater chance for their offspring to have these natural symbols of supposed supremacy. Of course, copulating within royal families led rapidly to inbreeding, which led to birth defects and genetic illnesses. All of this resulted in the rapid decline in naturally-crowned individuals. The legacy lives on, however, in the monarchs of today who adorn expensive crowns upon their heads, and still believe themselves to be of a chosen lineage.

This belief, of course, is erroneous at best, and seen by many as despicable.

fiction

Beach

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“I’m a fool,” I said to myself, unconsciously clenching my teeth as I gazed around at my fellow beach-goers. I considered myself a fool because I fell in the same trap once again. I decided to go to the beach for a nice relaxing getaway. Only when I pictured it, I was alone on the picturesque shore as the sun descended to join with the horizon and the waves crashed rhythmically on the sand.

Needless to say, that has never once happened when I actually go to the beach. What doesn’t happen is I have to stressfully guard every morsel of food from persistent seagulls, I get seriously burned due to my brave decision not to wear sunscreen, and I become immediately surrounded by young children (seemingly without parents?) who seem to think that the most enjoyable pastime at the beach is to have sand-kicking competitions (in which no one wins, but I very much lose).


Now, I don’t mean to complain—or rather, I do mean to complain, but I also don’t want to come off as a jerk. I would like to point out that I understand it is not reasonable for me to expect an entire coastline to remain uninhabited solely on the off-chance that I would swing by and want some alone time at a popular tourist destination. I’m just saying it’d be nice. Anyway, I’ll fall for it again in a week or so. Eventually, I’ll learn to just enjoy being a fool, but today I didn’t.

fiction

Siete de Mayo

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For those of you who aren’t fluent in Spanish numbers, Siete is 7. And so, Siete de Mayo can also be known as two full days after I partied hard celebrating whatever it is Cinco de Mayo is for (Independence Day in Mexico? I’m not sure). Anyway, we rocked out hard. By we, of course, I mean me, a fifth of Tequila (Fifth for the fifth!), and my disapproving wife who has to work in the morning.

I, thankfully, didn’t have to work yesterday, which was tomorrow back on the Fifth. The reason I didn’t (and still don’t) have to work is because Larry tried to do a donut in the forklift and took out my knee. Couldn’t have been prevented really, but hey, that’s life. And I don’t blame him. In fact, I owe him a ‘thank you’ card for getting me on workers comp. I get a whole two months off and one of those cool knee scooter things! (Google it)

Heck, if I’m being honest, I don’t even remember yesterday existing. I jumped straight from Five to Siete… or something like that. The night of the fifth is kind of a blur as well. But I awoke on the seventh (siete) to find that someone had the gall to deface my knee scooter with crude drawings. There is currently a disagreement about who would have done it (either me or my wife. Sure, I was blind drunk, but that means she had motive because she hates when I drink during the week. And thanks to me being dead to the world on the sixth (Seis in Spanish if you’re keeping with the theme), she also had opportunity). (Sorry about all the parentheticals) 

I’ll keep you updated as the case of the scooter vandal develops. Happy Siete de Mayo!

fiction

Working for the FBI

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You would think that there are a lot of cool jobs out there for FBI agents. There aren’t. You can go undercover, but honestly, it takes up a lot of your life and I just started dating the shoe gal at the bowling alley—and not to sound cocky, but I feel pretty good about it. So, undercover is out. 

You could also be one of the FBI guys in a suit or a windbreaker that shows up to arrest people for federal crimes (You know, like on the TV?). That’s it, just arrest them and then head back to the office. Pretty boring stuff honestly. Mostly paperwork.

Luckily there is also one other job, one that combines my talents and interests all in one. I’m the guy that spies on you while you do stuff you think is private on the internet. And if you do anything really weird, I look into everything you’ve ever done on the internet. Believe me, I’ve seen and heard some bizarre and unspeakable things. You know those people that put a little piece of electrical tape or something over their laptop’s webcam? Yeah, I mostly look for them, they’re the most entertaining. 

But don’t think you can just call up the FBI and tell them you want to do this (You can’t, I tried). The job was much harder to get than that. I had to prove that I knew a lot about computers (I don’t), or that I’m really good at stalking people (I am!). Importantly, I needed references— so I put down a crush I had in high school, Bonnie Raitt (Not that one), and a guy who works at AT&T who made me pretty mad. They know how much info I can dig up on someone when they become the sole target of my affection or ire. Based on their testimonials, I was given the job immediately.

The fun part is you kind of just get to choose who you look into. Most people in my position look into criminals and suspected criminals. I guess that’s what I’m supposed to do too, but no one really checks up on us. I spend a lot of time looking up family members and neighbors (spoiler alert: everyone you know is weird as hell—or everyone I know at least). 

Anyway, when I got started, they sat me in a dark room with ten computer screens and told me to let them know if I found anything. That was months ago. Well brother, just yesterday I hit the doggone jackpot. Let me tell you about K.J. Hanson:

Finding him was pretty easy. First, I looked for a list of people who Googled their own names recently. He was top of the list (4 times, just today!) The funny thing is, there is no reason to ever search this guy. He has a couple of inactive social media accounts and a half-assed WordPress site with like a handful of posts. I almost had to look away when he was nine pages deep in Google, it was just getting sad.

At one point, I thought he must’ve been onto me. He took off the tape over the camera and started sitting up really straight and making faces of deep introspection as he scrolled through a scientific article that he clearly wasn’t reading. (Does he do this every day just in case someone is spying on him?)

Later on in the day, after he had forgotten to put the tape back over the camera, he began doing karate moves in his living room. He was pretending to fight a lot of attackers. When I say karate moves, I’m not talking about an actual trained martial artist like Jackie Chan or that other guy. No, he looked more like the embarrassing choreography from the old Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movies. You know, before they had CGI and it was just out-of-shape dudes in heavy rubber turtle costumes doing half-hearted punches and kicks.

I wrote up a whole report on this guy for my supervisor. At first, I was worried that I would get in trouble for using so much of my time roasting some nobody for an official FBI memo, but they loved it! I owe them a report on K.J. every week now. Can’t wait to see what he gets up to tomorrow!

fiction

Confessions of an American Senator

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Truth be told—I wanted to be an actor. But no matter how many acting classes my parents paid for, I kept getting told the same thing: Not believable.

Sometimes I feel bad about the stances I take on certain issues, but if you want your soundbite to be on the news, you can’t just agree with everyone else or say something rational—you need shock and awe!

I often wonder if people realize how little power I actually have to do things, or how little effort I put into doing the things that I can do.

I use most of my salary to pay different media sources to say good things about me and make my life seem down-to-earth, instead of joyously extravagant. Image is everything.

Pro tip for you future senators: you don’t need to do great things if you can pay someone to say you already did great things.

fiction

Is Exercise Killing Us All?

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Yes. Yes it is. Exercise is morally reprehensible. When you exercise, you consume a drastically increased amount of oxygen (the thing we all need) and expel tons of carbon dioxide (the bad stuff). Exercise contributes to global warming and is killing the planet (thanks fitness jerks). They’re basically poisoning the earth during their wind sprints and burpees (I hope that single-digit body fat percentage and rock-hard abs are worth it, you tool!).

Despite the above paragraph, I don’t think all people who exercise are bad, far from it. Well, not far from it. I actually pity them in a way, and not just for their assumed physical insecurities and probable lack of self worth. I pity them because one day they will understand how many lives they’ve ruined with their ignorance. I don’t envy anyone on that day.

Please keep an eye out for my next article: Why Writers are Actually Hotter than Athletes

fiction

The Personal Trainer

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“Listen, Jessica, I know having Lupus can be hard, but you got to stay on your grind, you know?” said her personal trainer Chaz, half shouting over the thumping techno music. “Gains don’t come cheap, you’ve got to recommit yourself every. Single. Day. Can you do that for me?”

“I… I don’t know.” Jessica says between sobs, still clutching her phone in her shaking hand from the now ended conversation with her doctor. “I’m just going to call my husband real quick, okay? He’s going crazy waiting to find out the diagnosis.”

With a deep sigh, Chaz reaches out a buff arm and places it on her shoulder. “You already answered your phone in between sets—don’t you think that’s enough of a break for one day? And I mean, it’s not like your condition is going to change between now and the end of your workout, right?”

“No,” she says before sniffing quickly, making an unpleasant snotty sound. “I guess not.” The relentless music nearly drowning her out completely.

“Good! That’s the spirit! Now let’s get you back in that squat rack. Remember—Ass to grass!”