Tag: fiction

Mating Calls

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By Sam Jarvis

The blue-eyed, red-breasted phillabrew is a bird of great complexity. Feeding on mainly seeds, it lives much of its adult life high in the treetops resting on branches and pruning its feathers. But in the early stages of adulthood, the male phillabrews retain many of their feathers, aspiring to fluff them out should they meet a suitable mate for breeding.

It is not difficult for the blue-eyed, red-breasted phillabrew to find a female companion with whom they wish to procreate. Their challenge, is convincing the female that he is the best option for her. Approximately three or four days after its initial contact with a female, he will take out his cell phone and text her. The correspondence varies, but usually begins with “hey” and will have some form of “babe” peppered in. He will sit on his couch, smoke weed with his friends, and wait for a response while pretending he does not care. Research has found that he actually does care, but doesn’t want to come off as a pussy to his fellow bro birds.

In very rare instances this approach will work, eliciting a response from a female who is either looking for a serious boyfriend, or just wants to get laid and thinks Jason is “cute enough.” They will go out a few times, usually somewhere kind of inexpensive so that the male doesn’t have to spend his fortune in the process of fornication. The females will notice this, and although statistically they will still mate with the male phillabrews, they will be silently annoyed that he can’t get his shit together and spend a little more money on the wine.

Turns out cheap wine gets you just as buzzed as the good stuff, so the females will inevitably go home with them. High up in the branches, he will kiss her. It is worth noting that most male phillabrews are bad at kissing, a combination of inflated ego and the fact that their beaks make it difficult. His performance usually worsens as the night goes on, the male thinking he is doing a great job pleasing her while the female is kind of going, “Oh great, I’ve officially lost all sexual attraction to you.” Science however, suggests that we shouldn’t place too much blame on the male. Sure, he can’t find most of her female parts, but can you point out the female parts on a bird? You can’t. You are sitting here right now thinking oh my god, where are all of their parts! Where are the male parts, even?! So you see, it’s more complicated than you think.

Want more weird shit? Try What Really Happens When Girls Go To The Bathroom In Groups.

Or maybe you’ve been asking yourself How Many Houseplants Is Too Many? 10,000?

OR you want to hear about My Date With Gary Busey.

“More links! More links!!” -You guys.

Sex Ed

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Mrs. Perkins knew she was in trouble the second she set the plastic mold of the female reproductive system onto her desk. The class before her, 20 students and 20 of their parents, looked on with wonder as they sat in the room that was usually adorned with test tubes and Einstein quotes. Today, they were surrounded by graphic diagrams and step-by-step instructions on how to put on a condom.

Why Principal Thompson would schedule the first annual Bring Your Parent To School Day during their sex education rotation would be discussed for years to come. This was one of two large oversights in his calendar, having also picked the week the PE activity was swimming. Sally May’s mother in a bathing suit was nothing to be desired. Tanner Bergman’s father had refused to wear a swim cap, worried the rubber would rip out the last hairs that remained on his horseshoe head. Mrs. Perkins adjusted the plastic vagina as fifth graders and their namesakes looked on.

“Let’s start with the inside. Here are the ovaries, where eggs are produced.” Children giggled and adults shifted in their seats with discomfort. Finally, little Laura Mazur shot her hand in the air, her brunette hair held back by the cutest of headbands.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Perkins?” she asked.

“Yes, Laura?”

“Where exactly in the uterus does an egg attach itself?” Laura sat awaiting a response, pen and paper at the ready. Laura was incredibly smart. Yale bound, for sure.

“On the side, although it varies each time,” Mrs. Perkins responded. Laura wrote it down, word for word. It was then that Mrs. Perkins opened it up to the class. The discussion, not the vagina. “Does anyone else have questions so far?” Ed Lerman, father of the adorable nerd Charlie Lerman, after much deliberation, raised his hand.

“Yes?” Mrs. Perkins asked.

“Why is it that whenever I initiate intimacy with my wife, she turns a cold shoulder and pretends to be asleep?” Mrs. Perkins looked over to little Laura, sitting patiently in front of her notes.

“Well Mr. Lerman, perhaps if you were more motivated in your career…“ Mrs. Perkins started.

“Is that it?” Ed asked.

“Well,” she continued, “it could also be that during your children’s bath time you watch Sports Center and drink beer.” Ed pondered this as Scottie Nemoy’s father chimed in.

“I help with bath time every night. Or I did, before we separated.” As the word separated clung to the air, Sally May’s mother to perked to attention, pushing her boobs higher into her bra.

“Do you want to get out of here?” she asked. And like that, they were gone. Now little Laura, who had just finished rereading her transcripts, had another question.

“Mrs. Perkins, where did Mr. Nemoy take Sally May’s mother?” she asked.

“Well Laura, they went to have sexual intercourse in the women’s restroom outside of the band room.” Laura jotted all of this down, furrowing her brow.

“I thought two people only had sex when they were in love,” Laura responded, now confused but still writing.

“Yes, only when they are in love. Or drunk, bored, or lonely. Or if the other person is really cute.” Mrs. Perkins then looked over to Ed, who was staring inquisitively at the plastic vagina.

“Did you have another question, Mr. Lerman?” she asked.

“I don’t think I’ve heard of half of these parts.” He squinted his eyes, still looking at the model.

“Well perhaps that, dear Ed, is why Nancy turns a cold shoulder and pretends to be asleep.”

Ed rubbed the top of his head as the bell rung and Mrs. Perkins handed worksheets to her students. He gathered his belongings, stopping Mrs. Perkins before leaving the classroom.

“Could I have one of those worksheets? I’d like to audit this class.”

You may also like Suicidal Math Teacher (The Downs and Downs of Mr. Greenwald)

Check out all my short stories here.

What Really Happens When Girls Go To The Bathroom In Groups: A Piece of Investigative Journalism

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By Sam Jarvis

It was a night like any other, all of us sitting around a big table in the middle of PF Changs. We laughed and ate beef and broccoli, flirting with the boys across from us. It had taken me months to infiltrate this group, hundreds of dollars worth of gel manicures to gain these girls’ trust and prove that I wasn’t a rat, I was their friend. I had fooled them.

Roxy chewed on a bite of orange chicken, reaching into her mouth to pull out a piece that was definitely too- something. She set it on her plate and I gagged in my mouth. It was then, under the dim lights of this critically acclaimed restaurant, that Lena made eye contact with us.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom.”

As soon as she said it, the girls looked to each other in understanding, rising from their chairs in unison.

“I’ll come.”

“Me too.”

I felt the temperature on my face rise. This was the moment I had waited patiently for, and I wasn’t going to screw it up. Lena looked at me.

“Are you coming?”

I nodded, stood. I took my purse with me but I’m not even sure why. I could feel my heartbeat in my ears, trying my best to ignore it so I could hear the end of Jacqueline’s story about switching eyebrow threading places.

Lena led the girls into the women’s bathroom and I immediately took mental notes of my surroundings. Three stalls, two sinks, automatic paper towel dispenser. This was information they’d need when I reported back to the agency. I’ll be honest, I was in a bit of a daze. Having always been a loner, I had never been asked to go to the bathroom with a group of girls before. I was scared, but elated.

Roxy went into a stall and without shutting it, started peeing. I adjusted my bra to make sure the wire I was wearing was still intact. Deep breaths, I thought to myself. I knew they were picking up my heartbeat in the audio.

Nothing happened for several minutes, as I pondered the possibility that I had gotten a bad lead. But suddenly, Lena and Jacqueline were talking in whispered code. As I leaned in, struggling to make out the words Cote d’Ivoire, and Tuesday is the drop off, I put it together. Holy shit, they’re arms dealers.

Roxy put on her reading glasses and scanned a detailed map she procured out of her bra. Lena asked if anybody had a tampon. I truly couldn’t believe what I was seeing: these women were selling machine guns to African soldiers.

Sudanese militants, secret weapon bases, they were discussing it all in great detail.
And as I watched tens of thousands of dollars pass from one girl’s moisturized hand to the other, I breathed for the first time in several minutes. My palms were sweating so profusely that I needed a paper towel to wipe them. I casually walked over to get one, but of course the machine couldn’t sense my hand motion beneath it.

All of the girls were looking at me. I glanced up nervously, wondering if this paper towel dispenser faux pas had demolished the cover I’d worked so hard to create. Lena saw the terror on my face.

“Something wrong?” She asked, putting a hand on her slender hip.

“Nope.” I said, as convincing as I could. I took Improv 101 a couple years ago and hoped to God it was shining through now.

It had been hours. They’d sketched out twelve drop routes, paid, in cash, for seventy five semiautomatic weapons, and made me try on four different shades of lipstick.

My focus waning, it was thankfully time to go. They rolled up the plans, stuffed them back in their undergarments, and took a last and final look at themselves in the mirror.

“I’m thinking about getting low lights,” Roxy said to both herself and no one. And although I couldn’t believe that millions of innocent people’s blood was on her hands, I did think she would look excellent with some darker pieces near her temple.

We walked back to the table, now completely cleared. All that remained was a small pile of fortune cookies. One of the guys looked up from his phone.

“What took you so long?”

Lena smirked, glancing at the girlfriends who flanked her sides. I was oddly proud to be one of them.

“Oh, you know. Girl stuff.”

 

You might also like Always A Bridesmaid, Never A Desk Lamp.

Always A Bridesmaid, Never A Desk Lamp

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By Sam Jarvis

Let’s face it, I am an amazing bridesmaid. I’ve got extra bobby pins. I know the right pace to walk down an aisle. I can inform Aunt Georgia that the reception buffet is the wrong place to tell the story of how she walked in on Uncle Bob spooning his tennis student. And as I watch every beautiful bride walk down the aisle, her soon-to-be husband smiling at her in what I’m certain is the most incredible moment of their lives, I will dab a tear from my eye. And then of course hold her bouquet and straighten out her dress.

I’m happy for my friends. Really, I am. But when is it going to be my turn? My time to shine onto a neatly organized surface, illuminating a collection of paper clips near a days-old coffee stain? It’s hard to watch the girls I grew up with get zipped into dresses, one after another, knowing that I may never get the chance to gather dust in a cubicle, a Post-It note saying, “Pay gas bill!” taped to my base.

You can’t force these things. I know that. But if you haven’t turned into a desk lamp by the time you’re 30 or 35, you start to worry that it may never happen. I’ve baked penis-shaped cakes, lunged for bouquets in turquoise chiffon, and scoured social media for anything filtered and cropped that’s missing #TimHeartsSarah. But will I ever be surrounded by a mug full of pens and a half-eaten granola bar that is quickly attracting ants?

The next time someone asks me to be their bridesmaid by sending me an adorable Pinterest-inspired DIY photo frame, I hope that I will be in the position to respectfully decline. I will tell her that I can’t, partly because David’s Bridal doesn’t make dresses small enough for office supplies but also because my Saturdays will be spent sitting silently in an empty, dark office, excitedly awaiting the arrival of a bustling Monday. I will therefore be unable to attend your celebration of love at the Marriot by the airport.

It’s important to have hope, to have patience. I struggle with that sometimes. But tonight, as my head hits the hotel pillow, spinning from the open bar and several rounds of the Horah, I feel at peace. Someday I will be complete. I will be a desk lamp, watching Nate from accounting pick his nose and wipe it under his swivel chair. And I can’t wait.

Read more of my short humor pieces here.

Suicidal Math Teacher (The Downs and Downs of Mr. Greenwald)

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By Sam Jarvis

The only thing Mr. Greenwald liked was numbers. Problem solving of any other kind was just too hard. Every day, he went to work in a bad taupe suit and looked into the eyes of 25 freshman. Was this all his life had become? A turkey sandwich for lunch and chalk on his hands? He stood in front of the class.

“Say there was a train traveling 70 miles per hour, and 3 miles down the track I’d tied myself to the rails,” he began. “How long would it take the train to hit me?”

“Don’t you mean how much time would you have to free yourself?” Rachel Cunningham asked.

“No,” he responded. Abigail Billows raised her hand.

“2.57 minutes.”

“Not soon enough, I say. But correct.” Mr. Greenwald paced as students passed notes and stared at the walls. He stopped, noticing chalk on his pants. He tried to brush it off but ended up spreading it even more. “Now let’s say,“ he continued, “I was at a record store and they were having a sale. Buy one CD for $13, get another 30% off. If I had $35 and planned on jumping out of my apartment window later that night, how many CDs could I buy?” Mr. Greenwald waited for a response. Trevor McGinley blinked at him.

“Um, sir? We’re supposed to be learning about parabolas today.” The class erupted in laughter as Mr. Greenwald set his chalk down. A paper football was launched in his general vicinity. He exhaled, rubbing his eyes with such force that he wondered if gouging them out should be part of today’s lesson plan. His vision soon refocused on the stupid kids in front of him.

“What if I had a gun and was going to shoot myself in the head. How far away could I hold it and still have it kill me instantly? Bullets travel at 1,126 feet per second, if that helps.” Abigail again raised her hand as Mr. Greenwald nodded in her direction.

“I would suggest putting the muzzle right up to your skull if you wanted to guarantee being killed instantly. The velocity of the bullet wouldn’t really matter at that point.”

“Also,” Rachel Cunningham chimed in. “Your sandwich just fell on the floor.”

Read more of my short humor pieces here.

Delay

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By Sam Jarvis

The flight had already been delayed 6 hours, but he was finally getting close to his boarding time. They’d pushed it back twice, once for bad weather and a second time because the incoming flight got rerouted, but Josh had a good feeling about this. They’d be on their way soon.

“Ladies and gentlemen patiently awaiting the boarding of flight 3775 nonstop service to New York’s La Guardia, I’m sorry to inform you there has been another delay.” The speaker system was muffled but the message clear. “We will now begin boarding at 11:15 instead of 9:05. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

Josh slammed his ten-dollar Chilis To Go turkey Panini onto his lap. He then gathered all of his belongings, his roller carry-on, his suit bag, and headed to the gate desk.

“Excuse me, but what in the hell is going on here?” he asked a meek but adorable airline employee. She chuckled, lipstick on her teeth.

“Well this is pretty typical of hell, sir,” she answered, continuing to type on her outdated keyboard.

“What’s the hold up?”

“Hmm, help me decide. Should it be de-icing? That we have to de-ice the plane?” Her eyes were filled with excitement at the thought. Josh looked outside.

“It’s 85 degrees out,” he responded. She laughed hysterically.

“Oh my God you’re right. I can’t say that! How about like, a bird got caught in the engine? That’s a scary one.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“You asked what in the hell is going on. This is always what’s going on in hell.” Seeing that he still didn’t follow, she glanced at his ticket. “Mr. Hartnett?” she said, now sweeter. “You do know you’re in hell, right?”

“Hell?”

“Yep! All the books had it wrong with that fire and brimstone business. Hell is just an airport where your flight gets delayed every few hours for eternity.” With this Josh Hartnett gasped, taking a few steps back.

“Wait, I’m dead? Why didn’t I get into heaven?!” She looked at him, very serious now.

“You know what you did.”

He was horrified, until a smile broke from her face. “I’m just kidding, I say that to everybody! I don’t know why you’re here. I mean sure, murderers are all over this airport, we all know that’s bad. But beyond that it could’ve been anything. Did you pay all of your parking tickets?” She laughed and touched his arm. “I loved you in Lucky Number Slevin, by the way.”

“Yeah, thanks. So my flight will he delayed forever?”

“Yep! But there’s complimentary shoe shining at gate B14, so that’s kind of cool. Although remember to tip.” Josh scratched his head. “Also I would buy a neck pillow if you ever want to get any rest.”

“There are only like, four places to eat here.”

“I know, right? Couldn’t Satan have made it an international terminal? Those are so nice.”

“So it’s just Chilis To Go forever,” he started, now losing hope.

“Afraid so. And don’t try to get a discount because of who you are. This place is teeming with celebrities.”

“And murderers.”

“Yes! And murderers. And people hogging the charging stations!” She looked at him warmly now. “Anyway, what should your next delay be? I’m thinking storms over Tulsa. An oldie but a goodie.”

Read more of my short humor pieces here.

Heartbreak: A Vampire and a Mosquito

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By Sam Jarvis

The vampire stood in front of the mosquito, trying to keep his eyes on her as she hovered.

“Please, Leonard,” the mosquito begged. “Don’t do this.”

“You’re great, but I just think we’re moving in different directions.”

“But we have so much in common! Drinking blood? That’s a big one.” The mosquito looked helpless. She tried to flutter her eyes, be sexy, but the vampire shook his head.

“I’m dead and you’re a very small bug. I just don’t think it’s going to work.”

“But we BOTH drink blood! That is like, super bonding,” she argued, flying slightly closer.

“Yeah, I get it, we both drink blood. But that isn’t enough to sustain a relationship.” Now the mosquito was getting annoyed. She sighed with gusto.

“What about all of our plans? Our travel dreams?”

“I don’t remember making any specific plans,” he started, now kicking the dirt at his graying, crusty feet. “I thought this was more casual.”

“Casual? You thought this was CASUAL?” Her little arms were now crossed. The vampire sighed.

“Look I like you, but you’re coming off as clingy.”

“I thought we were in love.” Her eyes darted around, tears streamed from her tiny face.

“I’m sorry, but I’m done. You gave my sister four bites and she was itching so badly she needed to go to the dermatologist to get prescription cortisone cream.”

“I thought she was some floosy trying to date my man!”

“I’m not your man, Veronica. And if you don’t leave me alone I’ll have to buy bug spray.”

The mosquito shook her head in disgust.

“You are not the vampire I thought you were, Leonard Van Hausen. Not that vampire at all.”

Read more of my short humor pieces here.

Things That Are Not Like Riding A Bike (And Why)

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By Sam Jarvis

  1. Paying taxes. Basically one is the physical act of powering a pedal-driven vehicle that utilizes two tires and a chain, while the other is the collecting and filing of paperwork to make sure you’ve given the government the correct amount of money. So they’re really nothing alike at all.
  1. Getting your tarot cards read. Again when riding a bike, you are trying to get from point A to point B, whereas with getting your tarot cards read you’re sitting at a table in some kind of mystic and odd smelling room while someone tells you what is in your future by randomly pulling cards.
  1. Going to the dermatologist. Both have some kind of travel involved, but going to the dermatologist is not like riding a bike because at the dermatologist there are doctors and bad lighting and people checking you for moles. Also they try to get you to do weird chemical peels and stuff and it’s like guys stop, I’m 27, I don’t need one of those yet.
  1. Microwaving a veggie burger. This one’s harder to see the difference because both are so fun. But with a bike you are feeling the wind on your face. You’re free. With microwaving a veggie burger, you’re clearly trapped in your house. Otherwise you would certainly eat something other than a frozen non-meat thing. If you were free with the wind on your face, you would definitely eat mozzarella sticks or a hot dog. So yeah, they’re not the same.
  1. Making a YouTube video showing all the stuff you just bought at the mall. They’re called haul videos I think. But yeah again this is another classic example of the fact that riding a bike is a fun fitness activity but also a means of transportation, and at a certain level a competitive sport, while making a YouTube video showing all the stuff you just bought at the mall is just a haul video.

 

 

My Date With Gary Busey

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By Sam Jarvis

WHAT. TO WEAR. It’s hard because you know, you want to look mature. The man is seventy years old so your chunky heels and topknot bun are not going to impress him. If I do the math correctly, which 4 times out of 5 (85%) doesn’t happen, he was in his 20s in the 60s. Is that right? Oh my God, numbers are so confusing. Basically I need to look like Twiggy. She was hot back then.

I am now standing over my bathroom sink cutting my hair with kitchen scissors. Twiggy it is, ladies and gents! I am going to rock this date. How do I make my bottom lashes look like Bambi eyes? We’ll deal with that later.

The hair is not looking very Twiggy-ish. It’s looking, well, kind of bad. I can’t see the back of it. But I MUST PRESS ON. What scent do you think he would like? Sometimes I feel like he’d be a Chanel No. 5 man, but at the same time I can see him getting all googly over Bath and Body Works Pearberry. I think I have some of that somewhere. The cap might be dried shut.

I am back in front of my closet, naked and staring. What in this mess of fabric could possibly be good enough for an evening to remember with THE William Gary Busey? I can’t even believe I’m saying that. LA really is the place of dreams. You always picture meeting a celebrity, hitting it off, but it’s really HAPPENING.

I just caught another look at my hair in the mirror. I’ll have to gel it down or something. Still no idea what to wear. Where do you think we’ll go? I feel like he’s going to want Italian. I can just picture him looking me straight in the eyes and saying, “Would you like to split a caprese?” If he does that, I will die.

When he asked me out he told me that my hair was long “like the tail of a mermaid.” PANIC. I have cut off my beautiful mermaid tail hair. Why would Twiggy do this to me? Oh my God, she was jealous of me this whole time! Wow. I can’t believe she did that.

You know what though? Gary is going to love me for me. He’s that kind of person. What’s more important is that I have PICKED. AN OUTFIT. Do you think he’s into sweaters? I feel like I’m in too many layers.

I can’t wait for us to get married. Small ceremony, probably in Hawaii, definitely without shoes. He likes my feet. I really can’t believe he’s my husband. I am the luckiest girl in the world.

On Sundays we go to the farmer’s market where I buy vegetables and he sits and eats grapes. Also we have FOUR Amazon fire TVs and they were all FREE. Gary talks to them just like he does in the commercials and I am star struck every time.

When he’s out on auditions (still going strong!!) I sit on the floor and scrapbook. I’m working on our trip to Fort Myers, which was a complete success despite the fact that Gary kept getting sand all over him while I tried to rub in his sunblock. Cancer’s real, guys! Get informed! We use SPF 50 and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

We are not going to have kids because they would take away from our time together. Are you seriously asking if I’d rather drive a child to school, or make the LOVE of my LIFE his daily bowl of nonfat Greek yogurt with a berry medley? Ha. You’re funny.

He’s now 90 and I’m 35 (that’s a lie, I’m 46) and we are still so happy. Over mashed potatoes last night he told me how to make love to an inner tube and I was mesmerized by it. Our Chihuahua mixes sat nearby eating some kind of very fancy kibble and it was just SO. US.

Oh my God I never did the Bambi lashes!! Wow, thankfully it all worked out.

I am a comedy writer. Sadly, this is a complete work of fiction. You can read more of my short humor pieces here.