Sick day

24 October 2012

I get up early to take The Hippo to the airport. She has a work trip to Las Vegas. I make coffee to counter the fuzziness I feel from the nighttime cold medicine. We walk to the car and the curse of her father finds us: the car will not start. We partake in the electro-magical ritual to revive the vehicle (and bypass the malfunctioning security feature). We finish the ritual and try again. Nothing, like a stubborn Lazarus with the burial shroud stuffed too deep in his ears, unable to hear the command to live again.

Her coworker drives to our apartment and picks up The Hippo to head to the airport.

I wave goodbye. I am wearing a hat, oversize sweater, dress pants and dress shoes. I am drinking coffee from a travel mug. I hold the Japanese import version of Bury The Hatchet by The Cranberries. I take the elevator upstairs and return to the apartment.

I listen to American Football’s self-titled album. I think of my friend, Josh, who always has some unbelievably cool album playing in his car.

I call in sick for work today. (I actually text in, if we’re getting specific.) As a child, I looked forward to sick days, chances to trick the thermometer and watch cartoons all day instead of learning about triangles and Ramona and how to spell onomatopoeia. (Interestingly enough, not spelled like it sounds.) As an adult, calling in sick twists my insides into  a bundle of guilt. So much to be done. Do I have sick day hours accrued? Will I get paid to stay home and take care of myself? What should be a welcome reprieve from responsibility and a chance to conquer my illness becomes a day of worry and regret.

I am convinced Ferris Bueller feels the same way when he tries to take a day off from his cubicle-based office job at this later point in his life.

-JPR

Silly Rabbi, kicks are for Trids

31 August 2011

Good later evening lovers, friends, family and inanimate objects.

I am drinking whiskey, eating Icelandic chocolate and listening to American Football (S/T*) while GF watches television.

Earlier tonight, we called her niece and nephew via phone and spoke with them. They are ages seven and 11 respectively.

During the conversation, all four of us told jokes with punchlines like, “Welcome to Booger King,” “He was making too much racquet,” and “Because the chicken and duck started a business together.”

Most of you who know my sense of humor (humour for our UK readers) know it never developed past a third-grade level. Yes, I learned some new words (like feint and didactic) and started incorporating profanity (like fuck and ass, which shouldn’t even count, so let’s say shit instead), but I generally adore and incorporate as many cheesy, horrible puns and nonsensical, grade school jokes into my daily life as humanly possibly. In fact, my favorite joke of all time involves a troubled child called Bootyitch** and a pastor encouraging a bereaved mother to scratch at will.

My favorite books (besides Island of the Blue Dolphins, the Bible and Born Standing Up [by Steve Martin]) are knock-knock and joke books.

So tonight, I bring you some jokes I will just list at random. Some you may know, some no one may know (even yours truly). Be sure to read them aloud wherever you are for the full effect. [Punchlines are in italics]

1. Why did the puppet get mad at Frankie Avalon?

Because he wanted to marry Annette. 

2. Who is Captain Picard’s least favorite tennis player?

Bjorn the Borg

3. When should you go to the dentist?

At tooth hurty.

4. What is an allergist’s favorite ‘primetime soap opera?

Snot’s Landing

5. [Joke to be determined]

Axl Rows (pronounced ‘rose’ for our UK readers, not rouse)

 

*In case you don’t know, which I didn’t a couple of years ago, people apparently use “S/T” to refer to a self-titled album.

**Not to be confused with the famous Russian playwright, Aleksandr Bootyvitch who wrote such plays as “Vodka on my Plate” and “Waiting for Godot (to Bring Back Vodka)” and other stereotypes you probably assumed this blog was above using. (It is not.)