The Confabulator Cafe

Tag: humor

  • The Fastest Thing

    I remember a joke of when I was younger. With younger, I mean really young. I don’t remember how old but like, maybe 10? It was definitely in elementary school, that I remember. We used to think we were so cool, my friends and I, telling dirty, “adult” jokes. The premise was simple, a school with kids, just like us, and the teacher asks a question. What is the fastest thing in the universe? Weird question to ask a bunch of eight to ten year olds, when you think about it, but jokes have little logic I guess.

    Frank had always been an asshole. He is the kind of smug and wise cracking co-worker that loves to dish it out but takes it terribly when someone goes after him. He is the kind of opportunistic boot licker that always agrees with the boss even when everyone thinks they’re wrong. Frank has been known to cut people off in meetings, but even worse, to steal ideas from others and take full credit for them. He is also bad at taking blame, even when his actions are directly tied to a poor performing project. Worse, he is the office’s resident prankster. And not a good one. God, Frank is such an asshole.

    I knew a lot of jokes growing up, the dirtier the better. My friends and I were a bit of a misfit group, humor was the only thing that glued us together. And it was definitively that kind of low-brow humor that we shared, the Adam Sandler in his forties type of humor. There was this classic three act set-up I loved when I was a little kid. The set-up is: authority figure (usually a teacher) asks a question. Act 1 – the teacher’s pet answers the question with what could be the right answer. Act 2 – another smart kid answers with a more creative, equally likely to be right answer. Act 3 – Pepe answers the question. I don’t know why, but the name of the third kid was always Pepe, or “Pepito” as we used to call him. Sometimes the answer itself was the punchline, other times it required an explanation. Either way, Pepe would give an unrelated, clearly wrong, and so despicably crude answer that people would burst out laughing out of sheer shock. We used to think we were such bad asses, all the way back in grade school.

    I always got along well with everyone at work. I am a bit of an introvert and kind of shy, so it’s not like everyone’s best friend, but I get along just fine. I am most comfortable at happy hours, tie undone and a cold beer in my hand. Not too many beers though, I was never much of a party person. I enjoy the casual conversations, telling blue jokes and such. The people I work with are, for the most part, the same. Casual, good-mannered people, most of them a bit older than me, with mortgages and young kids. My future selves I suppose. I even liked Frank at the beginning, but we are just too different of people. He is the outgoing one, the I-can-do-this-my-first-try kind of guy, the go-hard-in-the-paint kind of guy. I am a bit more of the, I-like-me-a-quiet-night kind of guy. I think I fit better in the company in general too, but I am not sure. I always found that to be a bit weird. (more…)

  • Tales of a Genre Orphan

    Okay, here’s the thing about genre: I don’t know where I fit.

    The first novel I ever wrote . . . (well, let’s be honest, it was the first novel I tried to write) was a terrible science fiction story about a civil war between the Earth and the moon. It was amazingly awful and it clocked in at just over 50,000 words.

    I’d written it for a class and my professor gave me a kind and much understated critique:  “It needs work.”

    Boy did it ever. I think there was only a single scene in the entire novel where she’d penned “This is good.” Everything else was a blood bath of editing marks and suggestions.

    Still, though, I was undeterred. I had the overconfidence of youth and I was sure that my genius would eventually be recognized. (Did I mention that during the writing of that novel I had decided that dialogue was overrated and that the reader would spend most of their time in the characters’ minds and the majority of my novel would be told through story action? I don’t think I can accurately describe what a train wreck this was.)

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  • Let Me Play and I’m a Happy Man

    I’m not usually a guy who engages in literary exercises. If I’m writing, I want the words I produce to count toward something.

    Now I understand there is value in learning, and no word written in pursuit of craft is ever wasted. I get that. But I also know myself well enough to realize that I get impatient when words on the page aren’t leading me toward completing a work in progress.

    It’s not a great trait, but we all work with what we’ve got. (I also don’t like to read books about writing, though I love to buy them and have a bookcase full, but that is a blog post for another day.)

    So after laying this groundwork, you’ll understand why I was less than enthusiastic when October rolled around and one of our assignments was to interview a character for our upcoming NaNoWriMo novel. I admit that I had an advantage over some of the other Café contributors because I’d planned to use the month of November to complete a novel I was already writing. But that didn’t stop me from doing a whole lot of internal bitching about the task.

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  • Pigtails & Bows (Flash Fiction)

    Look, I’m not a bad guy. I’m not the first hot shot to come through these halls. Bernard isn’t the first dude who ever got roughed up because he had a D&D book in his bag. It’s just the rules, you know?

    I actually like Bernard, in an indistinct sort of way. I don’t know him. He’s shaped sort of like a green bean — skinny and curved into a protective hunch — but you can tell he’s pissed off and passionate behind the eyes. No one else in our school has perfected the cold disdain he has when he talks, and he just talks himself right into my fist week after week. I wish he would quit it already.

    Bernard can’t throw a punch. He tries — man, you can tell he really wants to hurt me back — but his form is all wrong and he has shitty follow-through. Sometimes, I just want to stop mid-fight and give him some instructions. I almost did once, but I really didn’t want to embarrass the dude anymore.

    So I play it up. I hit the ground harder then necessary, ham my way through a couple hits. Whatever. He gets bloodied by the end of the fight and I get to crow around like I own his ass. My teammates jeer and shout like we’re gladiators or something.

    You gotta understand, Bernard has been Carson’s target of choice for as long as I’ve lived here, ever since my parents bought a house on the hill when I was in fourth grade. I have no idea what the story is — it’s one of those old cliches that goes something like we were kids and when we hit middle school — but because I’m the Big Guy On Campus, it’s my job to do the actual dirty work, while Carson yells encouragingly from a safe distance. (more…)

  • Rituals: They’re Not Just for Cults Anymore

    As a writer, you need a ritual.  I’d recommend staying away from anything poor-hygiene related, and most states tend to frown on animal sacrifice, but whatever oddball habit you need to cultivate to get your mind right, latch onto it, and repeat it over and over and over again.

    When it comes to your writing routine, you need to be as superstitious as a major league baseball player on a hitting streak.  Think back to a time when you went on a particularly productive writing binge.  Your fingers flew across the keys, your characters were equal parts witty, insightful, and funny, and the voice of self-doubt that so often whispers in our ear was silent for a change.

    It was a good day.  Now go and recreate that experience.

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