The Sting

Excuse My Tummy!

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Minor irritation at work yesterday: this girl who recently came back from training abroad saw me on the hallway.

Girl: (in a loud voice, bouncing off marble) What happened??!! You got pregnant? Why?!!
Me: (sanely, but temper on the rise) It’s a long story… Me thinks: One I really have no compulsion to share with you.
Girl: My gosh, your tummy is so big already!!!
Me: Yeah.

Elevator opens, I get on and I rush to press the close button before my temper gets the better of me. Acid, bile, and slime on you all! Harrummmph.

Some people have no tact whatsoever, much less modulation. It gets my goat, sure it does. Why? One, she and I are not close. Two, I am sick and tired of having to explain why I’m pregnant. Technically, I’m still a married woman, for crying out loud. And whose business is it anyway, this bulging tummy? It’s not as though I’m asking you to adopt this child, hello!

Ah well. At least I have a sound biological excuse for this rounded protuberance. You on the other hand girl, are just plain fat.


Hand Me That Chair

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I’ve been wanting chairs for a long time now. You see, in all the myriads of upheavals, uprootings, relocations, and comings and goings in my so-called life, I haven’t really found time or enough space to accumulate that much furniture. Chairs in particular. No proper seating to speak of, just these banged-up, mismatched plastic eyesores that serve their utilitarian purpose but are certainly not much to look at. Now that I’ve moved into an apartment with a bit of room to maneuver in, seating is my next project on the acquisitions list for the hive. Gotta get me some proper park-your-butt-in-comfort chairs!

And since I’m hung up on chairs lately, I’ve dug up a joke that features a novel use for a chair. Preferably those metal ones that stack up so nicely.


The CIA had an opening for an assassin. After all of the background checks, interviews, and testing were done, there were three finalists—two men and a woman.For the final test, the CIA agents took one of the men to a large metal door and handed him a gun.

“We must know that you will follow your instructions, no matter what the circumstances. Inside of this room you will find your wife sitting in a chair. Kill her.”

The man said, “You can’t be serious! I could never shoot my wife.”

The agent said, “Then you’re not the right man for this job.”

The second man was given the same instructions. He took the gun and went into the room. All was quiet for about five minutes.

Then the man came out with tears in his eyes. “I tried, but I can’t kill my wife.”

The agent said, “You don’t have what it takes. Take your wife and go home.”

Finally, it was the woman’s turn. She was given the same instructions—to kill her husband. She took the gun and went into the room. Shots were heard—one shot after another. They heard screaming, crashing, banging on the walls. After a few minutes, all was quiet. The door opened slowly and there stood the woman.

She wiped the sweat from her brow, and said, “This gun is loaded with blanks. I had to beat him to death with the chair.”

One Ring, Two Rings

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Yes, “The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King” made my back (and bottom) ache with the hours-long epic voyage to destroy that glittering band of gold. But copious amounts of iced tea and two boxes of popcorn later, I emerged from the theater almost cross-eyed, but deeming the experience well worth it.

I’ve been having somewhat of a movie drought lately, I missed so many new releases. Which is very unlike me, considering I used to brave hell and high water (literally, emerging from a last full show into a freak storm that featured thigh-high flooding). I’ve yet to see “Kill Bill,” “The Last Samurai,” heck, even “Mano Po 2,” haha.

But I tell you, I have seen the parody of LOTR. Go to “Bored of the Rings“. If you are a serious Ring-fan, or a true Tolkeinite don’t be offended, after all this site is better and way funnier than those pseudo-imaginative Legolas rantings that used to make the rounds of emails everywhere.

Precious, precious…

Dying For A Laugh

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Q: How do crazy people go through the forest?
A: They take the psycho path.

Har har har.

I have been saving this little bitty joke for some time now, I don’t know why. I forgot who sent it to me, but my friend—whoever you are—thank you. Yes, I know it’s not laugh-’til-you-pee funny, but it does merit a chuckle or two. Humor is a weapon that’s easier to wield than anger, but one so seldom used.

Humor readily transforms dismal into droll.

Sometime ago P, who is very dear to me, had a quintuple bypass. While he was at the hospital, a lot us—friends, family, and fond acquaintances were worrying about him making it through the operation.

P is a truly funny man, with a sense of humor that’s dark and oftentimes off-kilter. Hours after coming out of the recovery room, he was texting, “Hi friends! I’m dying to see all of you again.”

Har har har.