by Vanessa Machir
Your parents having sex. They’re trying a new position. No one is enjoying it, but at a recent couples mindfulness retreat they made a commitment to “love boldly.”
A jaundiced maniac attempting to run a large association of territories through social media. He types with his anger boner.
A dog walking on its hind legs. It’s wearing socks and Crocs.
A sentient potato sack defacing an official map with a Mr. Sketch licorice-scented marker. It declares its handiwork “evidence.”
Your new coworker, Todd, karaokeing the Righteous Brothers’ “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling” with his eyes closed. It’s the first song of the night, and everyone is sober.
That racist guy at the country club whose personal golf cart keeps getting teepeed by the caddies. It takes him 4 and a half hours to play 9 holes, and he smells like old milk.
An old photo of your ex-husband that you haven’t got around to burning yet. It’s his 8th grade portrait. He talked his parents into paying for the “laser” background and was sporting a rattail.
Someone sitting on a whoopee cushion. However, the whoopee cushion refuses to emit anything but cartoon rage sounds. Somehow, they’re all misspelled?
Your new coworker, Todd, karaokeing Bell Biv DeVoe’s “Poison” while attempting the original choreography. It’s the last song of the night, and no one is sober.
A clump of fake hair that has come loose from someone’s head and got caught in the wind. It’s fighting, fighting against the currents — but eventually it will end up entangled with a used condom in a gutter.