An Open Letter To The Wax Figure of Sofia Vergara

By Sam Jarvis

Dear Wax Figure of Sofia Vergara,

Thank you for taking the time to read this, even though you are made of wax so I assume you are illiterate. It’s still kind of you to maintain aggressive eye contact with this piece of paper as I hold it mere inches in front of your face. You haven’t blinked in several minutes, so I’m pretty sure you’re absorbing the information.

I write to you today, because I want to tell you that I understand everything you’re going through. I can’t imagine how agonizing it would be to know that while you look like the creepy fraternal twin of Sofia, you lack her accent and bubbly personality that is so adored by millions. It can’t be fun to have breasts that are sculpted to perfection, but are missing the bounce and natural movement that make them so iconic. And perhaps worst of all, there is no wax figure of Joe Manganiello. You spend every night alone in this room. Well you aren’t technically alone, you are surrounded by Wax Figure Rihanna and Wax Figure Heidi Klum, but I’ve never heard either of them speak a single word.

Sure, you look a lot like the highest paid actress in television. That’s nice. But those residual checks have no mention of you OR Madame Tussaud. You have to tell people you were made in London, which is wayyy less exotic than Colombia. They speak English in London, did you know that? So boring. I assume you would defend all of this by saying that none of it matters, that your one true happiness in this world is your 24-year-old son Manolo and as long as he’s good, you’re good. But he isn’t your son, he’s Sofia’s. You’re as barren as a chunk of plaster and wax because you ARE a chunk of plaster and wax.

I don’t mean to put you down. I respect everything you do, even though all you do is stand there. Your skin looks just as flawless as it did yesterday when I visited and brought you that nice wedge of brie. You keep a smile literally glued to your face day in and day out, nobody ever stopping to think hey, what if this inanimate object has a complex set of emotions? I’ve thought of these things, but only because I’m currently in an intimate relationship with an ottoman. So I get it, you know?

Anyway, I guess I should let you go. The line behind me is truly horrified that I refuse to put this letter down and walk to the next figure until I am absolutely positive that you’ve gotten to the end of it. I just want you to know that I support you, and also that things aren’t really working out with the ottoman and I wanted to see if you’d like to grab a drink sometime? You know what, let’s hold off on that drink, because at this very moment I’m getting arrested for licking your ear. Wow, everybody in this museum is like, super mad at me right now. I’ll write you from prison!!

 

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Read more of my short humor pieces here.

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

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.”

 

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