Unfunny Paper About Humor

I just transferred schools this semester.  The school I am at right now doesn’t really care about the hours of mind-numbing English class I sat through before I transferred. I have to take THEIR English class so because it’s “different.”  But I know their poorly kept secret, they want my monies.  This means that as a senior I am stuck in good ole’ English 101.  In my mind English 101 is a pathetic excuse of an English class.  English 101 is for eighteen year-old girls that learned to spell by texting things like “U R a QTPie.”

Thankfully, I mastered the art of proper sentence endings about 12 years ago, and I always spell out “you” when I text, so I wasn’t worried.

As it turns out, my English professor is ridiculously intelligent (she also looks like Helena Bonham Carter, making her more intimidating/awesome) which throws me into defense mode to prove my that I have even an ounce of smarts.

Teachers very quickly manage to see past my “big and knowledgeable” 5’5” of unbridled mediocrity.

Our first paper came and went, and I did relatively well. 

**Writing Tip**If you want an A in your writing class, join a cult. Then leave it.  I’m serious.  It makes for good writing material.

Then it came time for paper number two.

“Please write a three page paper about an abstract topic.”

“Okay,” I thought.  “Abstract. Depression, love, passive aggressive people, zombies apocalypse.”

I finally landed on humor after throwing around several zombie-related ideas.  Humor is something that I know. We have our modern comedians on TV and online. Tina Fey is funny.  Allie Brosh is funny.  The classics. Carol Burnette, Charlie Chaplin, Groucho Marks.  I got this.

After several hours of work, I had three pages of Star Wars references, 30 Rock quotes, a Beethoven music joke, and a paragraph about why puns are the lowest form of humor.  I managed to avoid talking about farting.  This thing was golden, man.

I passed my 3 pages of my unrivaled perfection down the row of students, hoping that out of the corner of her eye, my teacher would catch the words “Sith Lord” and bow down to me right on the spot.  This didn’t happen, but I still had a chance.  We had to meet the next day for a quick, five minute conference to go over our rough draft.  I knew that my paper wouldn’t have any problems, but I thought I’d give her the opportunity to present me with my “best at all of English” crown.

You can’t tell from the picture, but she’s definitely kneeling.

So the next day I walked into the classroom totally inflated by my own awesomeness.  I sat down in my spinny-chair with a cocky grin on my face.

“Alright Whitney,” she began.

In my mind, this is how all crown presentation ceremonies began.  Things were off to a good start.

And then...

Reactions:

1. Awkward Toothy Smile/Lack of Comprehension

 1. Taking it in

  3. Watching My Crown Get Stabbed

 And so ended any humor-related aspirations that I may have had.

-Whitney

FUN THINGS ABOUT BABYSITTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Fun surprises!!!!!!!!!

Fun facts about the people you are working for!!!!!!!!!!!

...to be continued!!!!!!!!!

And Now for Something a Little Inappropriate

Whitney and Ryan went to the store because Ryan got paid, and Whitney mooches off of Ryan because Ryan is the one who makes the money.  All of the Hostess desserts were on sale, so we had to decide which one we wanted.  The conversation went like so:

Ryan: Whaddya think?

Whitney:  Ho Hos are the best.

Ryan: You mean prostitution snacks?

Whitney:  Ho Hos aren’t prostitution snacks.

Ryan: Well then what is?

Whitney:  Cigarettes and a barbecue sauce packet.

**INVENTION**

So, good people, I now present you with Prostitute Snacks... “Because if you’re a prostitute, this will probably sound good to you.”

-Whitney

Mrs. Potts was a Pregnant Tea Kettle

Tonight Ryan and I watched Beauty and the Beast.  When it ended he kinda squinted his eyes and said, “waaaait a minute...” 

And so it began.

Here’s the deal: when prince/beast was turned into the beast by the pissed-off, hot enchantress lady disguised as a creepy old lady, he had to have been 10 years old.  This is explained by narrator guy who says that the last petal of the rose that appears to have had a fight with some nuclear waste would fall on the prince’s 21st birthday. Then we learn that 10 years had already passed before we meet Belle.  When the spell breaks and prince/beast turns back into prince, he is 20 and not 10.  Okay, I think we got the basics out of the way.  Here’s the problem:  Chip was about three years old when the spell was broken. Think about this...prince/beast was put under the spell at age ten, but he was 20 when the spell broke.  Here is the epic conclusion:

Mrs. Pots must have had Chip while she was a teapot!

This is her shocked that I know her crazy secret:

That’s right you teapot skank.

Now for my question.

It is obvious from the picture that Mrs. Potts could not have carried Chip on her teapot stomach because her fat chin is in the way.  So...where did Chip come from?

I tried drawing a bunch of “baby bumps” on Mrs. Potts, but let’s face it...there is no possible place for her to carry a tea cup.  I would show you my drawing but it looked more like a cancerous mass than a child.  I quickly came to the conclusion that Mrs. Potts must have carried Chip in her spout.

This is my bizarre thought for the evening.

And how about that magic mirror?  Say anything that you want to see, and you will see it?  That has some serious sinful implications.

-Whitney

MEN.

I am currently single.
While at the moment I don't have a ton of prospects pursuing me, I do have a lot of people trying to set me up with their brothers/sons. It seems that everyone would like me for a sister/daughter in law but no really desires me for a wife at this time. I am ok with this fact…which is why I'm still single.

The other day, however, I did have a guy hit on me at work.
This was odd because when I am at work, usually the only people who talk to me are the ones who want me to do something for them. And I'm not very social at work because I'm always in grumpy-work-mode, counting down the hours till I can leave and hoping that everyone will just leave me alone in the meantime.

But anyways, this guy was named Franco. What kind of a name is that?!?

I decided that "Franco" is a more appropriate name for a gay hairdresser than for my ideal man. My ideal man is a handsome, rugged, crossbow-wielding, bearded lumberjack man. Such a man needs a manlier name….like……….Logan. Yes, Logan would be a good name for him. (**note: I might or might not have just described a hybrid of Hugh Jackman characters. You don't know.)

(1) - dreamy eyes
(2) - nicely trimmed but still scruffy beard
(3) - chest hair
(4) - unbuttoned plaid flannel shirt, exposing chest hair
(5) - axe (crossbow is currently hanging above our fireplace in the cabin Logan singlehandedly built. also, crossbows are hard to draw.)
(6) - muddy boots
Gay hairdresser named Franco:

(1) - faux hawk which probably took like an hour to arrange
(2) - shaven face, as soft and smooth as a baby's butt
(3) - purple shirt ordered online when he was supposed to be working
(4) - shiny shoes

Of course, the real Franco is not gay, obviously. If he was, he wouldn't be hitting on me. And considering the fact that he works with me, he is also not a hairdresser….as far as we know. But on the manliness scale, he was a bit closer to this end of the spectrum then my Ideal Man…
On second thought….

Franco. FRANK. OH.
FRANK O's…??

That sounds like some sort of hot dog cereal. Maybe he is an aspiring exotic cereal inventor.

Ew. Who would want to date THAT guy??? And more importantly, who would want to eat that cereal!?!?!  Oh well. Wait until he finds out that not only do I work with him, but this means that we BOTH work with my MOM. That'll scare him off!  And if that doesn't work, there's always my second tactic…

And of course if THAT doesn't work, I'll sick my lumberjack man on him.

 

--Rachel

All Cats are Drug Addicts

The cats will be angry, which will almost certainly lead to me death, but I’ve finally figured it out and want to warn you: all cats are addicted to drugs. They have managed to keep it secret for thousands of years, but alas, no longer!

Note about cats:  The Egyptians worshipped cats as gods.  The idea of cats being superior to humans must have been bred into them.  They’ve been thinking that they’re gods for way too long now, and we need to stop them.  On the other hand, if when I died I got a jar for each one of my organs, I would think I was a god too.

I’ve been watching my cat for a couple of days now in attempt to catch him accessing his secret stash.  Usually I look over and see something like this:

Yeah...”awwww.”

NO! Shut up. Not “awww.”

It’s a trap.  A 5000 year-old, perfectly developed, cat trap!

So the other day I was making my daily Easy Mac for lunch since I am both poor and much more capable of working the microwave than the stove. I put the macaroni in, and peered around the corner to find Kitteh asleep on the couch.

But he was just like...

“Dang it, you coy idiot,” I thought.

But I knew what he was doing.  That macaroni has to stay in the microwave for 2 minutes and 30 seconds.  Unfortunately, the stupid cat knows that there the is no way that I am going to break eye contact with food.  That gave him 2 minutes and 30 seconds to do this:

***INGEST/SNORT/LICK/SHOOT/OTHER DRUG INJECTION TERMS***

And then he could hide the stash, and go back to his fake sleeping all before my macaroni was done.  By “done” I mean the noodles are soggy enough for me to sprinkle onto them what Kraft suggests is cheese, and it will dissolve with relative ease.  (Unplanned rhyme!) These means I can ingest the processed noodles without encountering any large cheese clumps.  If you do get a cheese clump you have to stab it with your spoon or respective utensil until it disintegrates.  Easy Mac is a true delicacy indeed.

After burning myself once on the bowl as I do everyday, I grabbed the towel hanging on the oven, walked into the living room, to find Kitteh looking at me like this:

And I look back at Kitteh like this:

He knew that I knew his secret!

We stared at each other like this for a couple seconds as I realized that I should probably fear for my life.  Knowing Kitteh’s secrets could not have positive consequences.  Plus, nothing looks at you like this unless it is planning on killing you.  Without breaking eye contact, I managed to slowly inch back into the kitchen to hide and so that I could concoct a scheme that would get me out of the apartment without being killed my my high cat. I pictured one of three things happening next:

 Kitteh would get distracted by the PlayStation chord for the next few hours and then he was going to come into the kitchen and shiv me.
 Kitteh would go back into a drug-induced coma and sleep for the next 4 days before he would wake up, come into the kitchen, and shiv me.
Kitteh would not sleep or get distracted, and he was going to come straight into the kitchen to shiv me.

I’m not sure how to end this story because none of these three things happened.  I stayed in the kitchen for twenty minutes because not only was I afraid, but I found the kitchen floor to be a pleasant place to eat Easy Mac.

-Whitney

My Job

Over the past ten-ish months I've been taking time off from school and working full time in an office. So. Damn. Boring. And I'm like the youngest person there, and by no means meant to be in a professional environment.

Just the other day, I was sitting in a staff meeting, and my new supervisor informed us that he can be very up front and direct in working with people and can, in doing so, sometimes inadvertently drop mild profanities. He apologized in advance for this and assured us that he was making efforts to break this habit.

While everyone else in the meeting nodded understandingly, I tried in vain to conceal an evil smile as I secretly conjured ways to see if I could provoke this habit.

…..I don't think I'm mature enough to work in such a grown-up setting.

THINGS I HAVE LEARNED FROM MY JOB.
**as a not-yet-grown-up working in a grown-up job, I have observed grown-ups in their natural grown-up habitat….and frankly, they often somehow seem more stupid than not-grown-ups.**

(1) People in offices forget how to walk…or at least, are unable to do so without finding it to be an unbearable hardship.

annoying coworker: Aww your cubicle is so secluded at this end of the room!! You know, you could ask them if you could move closer!! Aren't you lonesome here by yourself???

my brain: Well, not anymore, YOU just showed up. Can I get back to my work now, please???

my mouth: Aw shucks. No it's ok, it's quieter here.

annoying coworker: (long pause) ………but….we have to walk so farrrrr…….and if you were closer it'd be easier to tell you to do stuff for us…………………………

my brain: or you could just get off your lazy butt *grumble*grumble*…..

my mouth: *acquiescent silence*

(2) Women who work together have their own dialect of English, which involves stretching their words out reeeeeeeeallly lonnnnnnnnnngggg and HIIIIIIGH, like a demented dog whistle. A good place to have such conversations is next to the printer, which happens to be located where? Right. By. My. Cubicle.

(3) Office bathrooms ought to be a safe haven where one can get away from one's desk and enjoy a moment of privacy and silence whilst one relieves oneself.

….like this:

….instead, we find:

(4) And, last but not least….

When you're at the bottom of the office food chain, sometimes you have to suck it up and pretend you give a flying foot fungus.

me: So…there's this problem with the system and it's really complicated and technical blah blah blah, but what I mean to say is that this thing you asked me to do is impossible. So no.

higher-ranking soul sucker: Oh yeah. I think I recall accidentally breaking that. You'll have to call IT and nag them to get on it stat because even though I was put on that project a month ago I've been putting it off to play video games and now it CAN'T be late. And I need it in the next fourteen minutes. GO!

my brain: Believe it or not I actually don't get paid to cover your lazy butt and you should've thought this through in the first place you lazy…..

my mouth: I would LOVE to do that. While I'm at it, can I bring you a cup of coffee.

higher-ranking soul sucker: Make it scotch.

Best Friend, Liz

While attending the second of my four colleges due to my inability to commit to anything, I met best friend, Liz.  To me she is known as “Liz Friggin‘ Dupont.”  This is her:

We met because she was eating tuna in the hallway, and it smelled.  I said something along the lines of, “dude, you’re tuna is stinking up this hallway, and do you by chance have an extra tampon?”  We have been friends every since.  Our love for each other is very distinct because it involves nothing kind nor gentle.  She knows though, that when I say, “hey, you...stupid who sucks at everything,”  I am really expressing affection for her dumb, fat face.  Whoever could express their hate in the most creative way would win.  Whenever true compliments arise, it tends to confuse the both of us, so we just stick to what we’re good at doing: malicious bashing.  Life was good.  I would often open my locker to find notes that said things like “Hey Ass, Wanna become a castrati monk with me?” Liz must be really stupid if she didn’t know that I don’t have any testicles to remove to make me sing soprano, but it sounded like fun.  Then Liz Friggin’ Dupont had some terrible news:

Liz: “I’m moving to Missouri to go to school!”

Whitney: “You’re an idiot.”

Liz: “No I really am!  I’m going to be a percussion ninja.”

Whitney: “Not if I knock you out and tie you to my tree.”

Liz: “You can’t knock me out because I’m a ninja. Plus, you don’t have a tree.”

Whitney: “Up yours.”

Since I didn’t have a tree at the time and couldn’t manage to obtain one because they are expensive and I had nowhere to plant it, Liz escaped and moved.  We live in Michigan, so when you look at the map, Missouri is pretty dang far away:

If I want to drive to Missouri, I have to pass through some serious crap to get there, and I am just not willing to make this sacrifice.

Liz took off to Missouri to be a percussion ninja, so naturally she got engaged instead:

So yes, Austin proposed and they’re all like “in love” or something and they “want to get married really soon.” This is fine I suppose because then our evil plan is going to begin to take its course.  In the next couple years, once it’s finally hit me that I am neither a decent musician, composer, or conductor, I will be willing to give up and have a couple of these guys:

Liz and I have a plan to have enough of these to start separate armies.  Then our baby/child armies will fight while we drink lemonade....maybe even lemonade with copious amounts of alcohol which we can dub, “grown-up lemonade.”

We probably wouldn’t have the kids using legitimate weapons, but I haven’t discussed this with Liz which means it can’t be ruled out.  I can see her wanting to equip her child with a mace or a cauldron of boiling oil.  We might need to have an ambulance on stand-by for situations such as these:

To which I would probably reply:

And I am going to end this here because I have come to realize that I should never have children which means that none of this will ever happen.

-Whitney

This is me, Rachel.

This is me, Rachel.

I am quite short, but it's not my fault.

I have a Big Brother Chris and a Big Sister Liz (whom you may have already met via Whitney - known as "Best Friend, Liz".) Big Brother Chris lives in lame old Ann Arbor Michigan where he does awesome stuff (but I forget what) and as has been already mentioned, Big Sister Liz lives in Stupid Kansas City, MO. Now Whitney and I like to hang out and do cool stuff so that Big Sister/Best Friend Liz will get jealous and come back home to either (a) join us in doing cool stuff or (b) seek revenge on us for excluding her. Either way, we'll be less lonesome without her.

So I live with my parents. And I work with my mom. Which is cool. Except when it's not and I go crazy from over exposure to parents and my eyes start to twitch and my head swells up and almost explodes.

My Summer

Since I don’t want to start you off with anything too bizarre, I thought I’d give this entry level course into bizarrity by introducing you to Ryan and me.  This is me with and my husband, Ryan:

I’m more of a hippy and Ryan is all like, “your business strategies sucks.  I will fix them!”
Although saying “sucks” would be highly unprofessional, so he would probably say that your business strategies “are lacking.”  He is pretty much gone all days fixing everyone’s business (“bid-ness”), while I desperately try to earn my degree in whatever the money-sucking colleges will give me after imprisoning and devouring the past 4 years and next 2 years of my life.  Someday I’ll have to post my plans on how to defeat the college process and win free diplomas.  It is possible.  It involved fists and chest hair.  Most plans that involve fists and chest hair are for the greater good.

Anyway, this past summer Ryan needed our only car to get to bid-ness.  He bid-nessed; I sat in front of the TV and let my eyes glaze over for the 8 hours he was away.  It was a terrible trade-off.  He would walk in the apartment around 5pm where he would find me laying on the couch in my pajamas in one of those sexy positions that makes you look like you have three chins.  Since I hadn’t spoken to anyone in 18 hours I made a horrible croaking noise and said something like:

He would usually say that he’d done something called “GANT Charts.”  I have no idea what those are, but I’ve become remarkably good at pretending like I know everything about the GANT Chart.  Maybe it’s GANNTT.  Maybe it’s GANNNNTTTTT.  All that matters is that I can make poorly informed BS about it.  So now when he comes home, I can attempt to start a conversation about something other than the Bluth family or Tina Fey.

Whitney: “How was work today?”

Ryan:  “Lots of GANT/GANTT/GANNT Charts.”

Whitney:  “Those are the worst.  You must be hating those.” (What do I know?  He could love GANT charts.  Sometimes BS involves risks.)

Ryan: “Yeah, I’m tired.”

Whitney: (Quoting the Wikipedia page that I had pulled up on my computer five seconds before he walked in) “GANTT charts are a type of bar chart that illustrates a project schedule.  I hope you used terminal elements and summary elements to comprise the work breakdown structure of the project.”

Ryan:  “Uh huh, I’m taking a nap.”

My preparation went unnoticed.

Oh hey, I think it’s GANTT.

This is what happened every single day for four months.

-Whitney