Tag Archives: writing

A Darkly Humorous Situation From My Twisted Mind

Inspiration can strike at the oddest of times. One minute you’re thinking “Thank God I don’t have to write another post today” and the next you’re thinking “That is comedy gold. I must write it down!” I was thinking about what the most awkward situation ever would be. Think about it for a second. I bet you won’t come up with one better than mine. Here goes nothing. This might be rough because I’m writing this down on the fly without much planning. I’ll see where the story takes me. Without further ado, I present The Most Fucked-Up Hospital Room of All Time.

The mother looked at her son. The father looked at his brother. The father also gazed upon his son. The mother glanced at her grandson. It sounds like one big happy family.

However this was not your average birth. Sure, the labor and delivery of the child was no different from the birthing of any other child, but this one was different. It was different because even though there was a brand new mother, son, father, brother, and grandson in this hospital room, there were only three people (excluding the nurses).

If you haven’t yet connected the dots, the child wasn’t conceived by your typical couple. This child was the spawn of something far more sinister and taboo. The child was born of an incestuous relationship.

It was truly a scandalous affair. The mother did dearly love her son, and the son was quite fond of his mother. It only felt natural that the two should make love. So they did. They did everything correctly in their illicit relationship; they made sure to use all of the proper contraceptives. Unfortunately, even with proper use, condoms only work ninety-eight percent of the time. It was that two percent that manifested itself during this incestuous relationship.

Which brings us back to this oddest of predicaments. What does the son say to his new son/brother in this situation. He decided to be blunt. He leaned over to the child, putting his mouth next to the child’s ear. “Welcome to the world,” the son whispered. “I’m your new brother-father. The woman holding you right now is your mother-grandma.”

Upon hearing this, the nurses began to whisper amongst each other. The mother looked at them. “It’s a long story,” she lied. It really wasn’t. She had caught her son masturbating to some perverted porn that showed a mother and son having sex. Upon seeing her son’s nude body and the kind of porn he was watching, she decided it might be fun to imitate the people in the video.

The mother’s brother entered the room. “Is he healthy?” he asked.

The mother grimaced. “Oh, I sure hope so.” She looked at the infant in her arms. “I hope you’re not retarded.” She held the child up to her brother. “This is your new nephew.”

“And grand-nephew,” the father/brother informed.

“How are you guys going to raise the child?” the mother’s brother asked his nephew.

“I don’t know. I’m the child’s brother, so I feel like I should do some wild stuff with him, like smoke weed and shit like that, but if we do smoke weed I feel like I should scold him, because I’m his father.”

“It’s going to be a balancing act,” the mother said.

Another person burst through the door. It was the mother’s mother. The father/brother’s grandmother. “Is it retarded?” she asked immediately upon entering.

“We don’t know yet,” the father/brother answered.

The grandmother glared at her grandson. “And while we’re on the subject of retarded,” she began, “What in the hell were you two thinking?”

“Why don’t you just rejoice that you have a presumably healthy grandson/great-grandson,” the mother/grandmother asked begrudgingly.

“Actually,” a nurse chimed in, “The child is showing some autistic behaviors.”

Everyone looked in the room looked at each other.

Two days later, the mother left the hospital with her son and her son/grandson.

Fifteen minutes after leaving the hospital, the child was alone, sitting on the steps of an orphanage. The son was glad that he wouldn’t have to raise the mentally impaired baby.

The mother was happy that the whole thing cost way less than having an abortion.

Dark, I know. That is some black humor. It probably plays out better in my mind. I can almost picture it in my head. But there you have it. That is how I write. My best work? No. My worst? No. And now that I have an audience (3 followers!) I look forward to hearing what you have to say about this venture into story writing.


I should probably add that this story is ENTIRELY FICTION and that I have NEVER had this happen to me.


A Fantastic Fear of Bees

They’re everywhere. There is no escape. Everywhere I turn, one appears, waiting for me to let my guard down so it can inject its poison into my flesh.

I got stung yesterday. Stung by a bee. Actually, it was 3 bees, all at once. I was mowing my neighbor’s lawn when all of a sudden I felt the awful feeling of a bee stinging my ankle. Whenever I feel myself get stung I start shaking my body in a sort of violent dance as an effort to get the bee off of me. After this shaking, I simply run away. I’m sure it looks very comical to anybody who happens to glance my way. Yesterday, upon feeling the sharp pain of a bee sting, I did the bee sting dance and ran away, same as I had dozens of times before (is being stung a dozen times in 16 years normal or do bees just like pissing me off?).

After cowering in my garage for a few minutes, cursing the existence of bees, I returned to where I had left the mower. I continued mowing but didn’t quite feel right. I felt a headache coming on so I decided to try to work faster. Eventually this headache turned into a horrible pounding in my head. This horrible pounding in my head was coupled with a feeling of light-headedness and a sudden feeling of warmth all over my body (it was a hot flash but I didn’t want to say hot flash because it would sound like I was a menopausal woman).

I was fairly certain I was going to die. I managed to find the strength to finish mowing the lawn and began the short walk to my house. The short walk felt like it took hours. I imagine that I looked zombie-like, shuffling along with a pained look on my face. I was beginning to feel what I can only describe as a pressure in my chest, causing breathing to become slightly difficult.

Upon reaching my house, I burst through the door and announced to my mother that I was just stung by three bee and that I was fairly certain I was going to die. My mother told me to grab an icepack and lie down (with a lot less concern than I had hoped for). I grabbed an icepack and retired myself to the couch. She brought me a bottle of water and some Benadryl (cherry flavored, the second worst flavor of medicine, after grape). I drank the Benadryl without vomiting it all up and attempted to take a nap.

I have never been tested for a bee allergy. I have never had any reason to. I’ve been stung many times and never had anything remotely close to what happened yesterday occur. Maybe I imagined all of the symptoms. Maybe if I go in for a allergy diagnosis, all I will get is a psychological diagnosis for hypochondriasis (look it up if you don’t know what it means).

Today I woke up knowing that I had more lawns to mow (my dad makes me mow about 10 lawns in total). The afflicted area (my ankle) felt very itchy, but fine. My head felt fine. I decided that I was fine and started my day. I took our family’s golf cart and drove it to my great-grandma’s house (yes, many people in my town drive golf carts around. It’s not that weird, and it saves gas and ultimately the environment). I started up the mower and began to HOLY SHIT! There were bees everywhere. It was a hot day and the bees were out to play. Last night, I had entered my symptoms into google and found that it was possible that I was allergic to bee stings and that the next sting could be worse (never look up your symptoms online. If you do you will convince yourself you have the bubonic plague or Ebola when really all you have is a cold). I debated not mowing my sweet, old, fragile great grandmas lawn. After deliberating for a few minutes, I decided I should power through and mow the lawn. I saw many bees, but these bees motivated me to move faster (translation: I was running from the bees the whole time which made me mow fast). I finished mowing that lawn in record time. Unfortunately, I had another lawn to mow. Oh boy.

The second lawn I was tasked with mowing was the lawn of a very important building in our town, the Heritage Center. I had to make sure it looked nice. But, to my horror, what should appear? A bee? Hell, I wish it were a bee. It was a black hornet. I had never encountered a hornet in the wild, buy my instincts told me that this wasn’t a good situation. I watched the hornet fly around, basically pissing myself. Suddenly, it flew right at me. I hope nobody saw what I did next. I screamed and dropped to the ground.

After a full minute of lying on the ground in a very public place, I decided that the hornet was gone and that I should get up. I opened my eyes and exhaled a sigh of relief. I had survived. The Heritage Center has a fairly small lawn that I finished with great ease.

I drove the golf cart back home and entered my house. An oasis, a paradise that didn’t harbor a single bee/wasp/hornet/any other horrifying insect with wings and a stinger. Or so I thought.

I walked down the stairs to my room. Upon entering my room, I was greeted by the unmistakable sound of a bee: buzz. I slammed the door shut and thought up a game plan. I grabbed the newspaper (it was a boring edition since I wasn’t in it this week) and prepared for a fight. Wielding the newspaper in my hands I opened the door and gave a battle cry. This was war.

The poor bee didn’t even stand a chance. I was on him instantly. I gave one swift, powerful swing of my mighty rolled-up newspaper. The buzzing stopped. The war was over. I could retire to my room in peace.