HELLarious

-
A laugh from hell woke me up at four o’clock this morning. It emanated, or so it seemed, from the same semi-distant place where I often hear the laughing woman.* But this new laugh, the laugh from hell, it was definitely male in nature, if not in origin. Call it incontinent, this laugh. This laugher laughed so hard it must have hurt. What sort of bloody sod laughs harder than is nearly humanly possible at four in the morning, and again thirty minutes later, and once more at five o’clock? You’d have thought the cackles were forced out of him the same way a small child squeezes a rubber ducky to death. I tell you, this laugh, it was a laugh of agony. The way you’d puke and shit out some serious food poisoning — like lose ten pounds overnight to the toilet kind of food poisoning — that’s how hard this loon laughed. Mayhap he could not sob. Say some psychological or biological impairment stifled his tears. So, instead, he laughed — laughed at it all and all of a sudden. It certainly seemed he’d been prevented somehow, for years, for decades, mayhap from birth, from laughing. ASIDE #1: How might we coax a baby into giggling their way out of the womb? Imagine the positive, lifelong effects of such good cheer, straight from the get-go. END ASIDE #1. But as for this incontinent, predawn laugher, you’d have thought he’d been tickled very nearly to death — that is, until early this morning, when, after decades of either self-imposed restraint or extrinsic suppression, the stitches that bound his lips together (whether metaphoric or authentic) at long last came loose.† ASIDE #2: An African princess I once kissed and fondled insisted that tickling was a form of torture. She also attested to the efficacy of toothpaste on acne. That is, as a cure. I say nix to both tickling and toothpaste claims. But, in sooth, I never noticed a zit. END ASIDE #2.‡ (12/26/2000) 

*[09/05/2021: Any previous or subsequent mention of “the laughing woman” has yet to be discovered.] 

†[09/05/2021: Any subsequent mention of the “incontinent” laugher has yet to be discovered.] 

‡[09/05/2021: Regal as she was, her royal claim was not independently verified.]

Popular posts from this blog

Peekaboo?

-
Last night, over the phone, Cindi told me that her Coke was looking at her.    I didn’t ask how an aluminum can might’ve sprouted an eyeball. Instead, like any protective beau, I threatened it. “Quit looking at my girlfriend!” I shouted. “She’s waaaay outta your league! And besides, you don’t exist to… to ogle your consumer! You have one job: Contain!”   The can offered neither appeal nor apology.    So, through clenched teeth, I issued this warning: “Keep it up, buster, and I’ll crush you flat under my shoe!”    In sooth,   I said none of that.   What I actually said was,   “What?”   Cindi told me to “never mind.” But I pressed her and, finally, she disclosed what I thought I heard her say. Was the eyeball, I asked, giving her an inquisitive look? The famed " evil " or " stink " eye, perhaps? Might it be a look of surprise? Or fear? No, she told me. It was merely looking at her, with no particular look.  “Ah. Well. Good !” I said. “Gives me something to jot down
Read more

Potted

-
Where I live, there’s this plant. It’s inside the house. It looks more like a small tree than your garden-variety house plant. But instead of a tree, I’m calling it a plant. Because it’s potted. And it doesn’t really have branches. So it’s more of a tree-wannabe. It “looks” out the window all day long at all the tall trees out there. And it’s envious. Or is it grateful? Whichever, this much is clear: The flora on the flip side of that window has yard-cred. And we all want cred of some kind, don’t we? ‘Cause if we’re not cred, we’re crud.  But this tree-wannabe’s always been right there, where it is, all of my life. Right there, in that pot, in that room. “The library,” Pop calls it. It’s got two shelves of books, so I guess it qualifies. Said tree-wannabe hasn’t gotten any taller; hasn’t gotten any shorter, either. Nobody ever mentions it. Pop walks into the “library” only when he’s looking for a stamp or a paperclip. He’s a paper reader. Newspapers and magazines. Books are too much of
Read more

Use The Hole

-
Nearly everywhere coffee is served in this country you’ll find what we, at Chicago Coffee Cadre #7, call a “mixing station.” I.e., a stand where a patron finds plasticware, wooden stirring rods, a variety of sweetener packets, and creamer carafes. Additionally, our mixing stations (we have two) each feature a hole, six inches in diameter. Said hole exists as the opening above a hidden receptacle. Said receptacle awaits the rubbish that results from the addition of whatever you put into your coffee.  [If this is, indeed, you, have you ever considered just how many white / brown / pink / green / yellow / powder blue paper packets of sweetener you’ve ripped open and discarded in your lifetime? What if you had to keep all of those packets with you for the rest of your days? How on Earth would you ever get by if all idiotic “single-use” things—like sweetener packets and mixing rods—were outlawed?]  Most patrons of CCC #7 understand and appreciate the function of the hole in our respective
Read more