I thought of this the other day and it is so painfully dumb I couldn’t help but share it.

The pirates were sat in the boat’s kitchen arguing over what the proper protocol was for dealing with a drunken pirate. After the debate about whether sea anemones made better pretend mustaches or better pretend eyebrows when you stuck them to your face, this was easily the pirates’ favorite topic of conversation.

They deliberately parked across two disabled spaces, because that kind of behavior was pretty much the whole point of being a pirate.

‘I’m fluent, thank you. Almost like a native,’ said the Captain, with a scowl. The Pirate Captain knew the French for ‘This is a pretty donkey’ and also ‘This is not a pretty donkey’, and he couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t either a pretty donkey or not a pretty donkey, so that was just about every eventuality covered.

‘You know when the Pirate Captain says something like, “I may lead a secret double life as a spy? Or maybe I don’t. Who’s to say?’ and then he arches an eyebrow? That’s enigmatic.’
‘Ah. I always thought that was just annoying.’

Back (apologies for my handwriting!)

The text of the postcard is

Dear Ellen,

This is how I feel when I have to untangle wires or cords.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so dramatic about wires/cords???

Sincerely,
DumbFunnery.com

I decided to watch the next Westminster Dog Show while listening to Jay-Z’s “99 Problems.”
Because the song has a b-word … and that’s why it’s funny.

She and I wanted to start using more words. I liked her so I took this as an opportunity. I told her if she was an angle she’d be “acute.” She told me I could’ve made a move long ago but I’m so “obtuse.” I told her I’m not fat and I ran away. Greater than 90 degrees? What a jerk.

Me: (Un-intelligable noise meaning great to see you too!)

—

Dentist: Boy this weather lately sure is great, huh!

Me: (Frightened noise because someone this peppy holding a sharp metal instrument in my mouth is scary.)

—

Dentist: You don’t mind if I talk about weird personal problems with the hygienist do you?

Me: (Weird open-mouthed noise indicating … well, actually, I do kind of find this one interesting. They never ask, they just do it.)

—

Dentist: Oh I love this song! This radio station is great!

Me: (Weird open-mouthed noise indicating oh yeah, I love this easy-listening-please-none-offend-none radio station!)

—

Check out Lies I Readily Tell to Salespeople

(Which I guess went well? He got me a crappy watch with blood stains on it, and he really wanted me to try it on, so I had to pretend to hurt my wrist. Later I cleaned it up some, which then made me wonder if I was tampering with evidence, but he can be like a little kid and get so sad if he feels like you don’t appreciate something so I figured a cop would understand why I did what I did. Also I was really drunk which probably hampered my thinking.)

I was gone for about a week, and then since I got back I’ve been pretty busy so I guess he got upset? I don’t know. But here’s the New Year’s Resolution list the day we made it …

And here it is earlier today, when I finally noticed it.

Maybe that’s his way of saying he needs to eat better? Or a call for help? Or anger? And where did he get that cookie? And how was the cookie so burnt on the bottom but just right on top? Oh yeah, I ate it. Should I not have? So many questions, so few cookies. What’s the world coming to?

Back (apologies for my handwriting!)

The text of the postcard is

Dear Ellen,

And God spoke unto Saint Jerome, but He thusly kinda mumbled. Lo, Jerome said, “huh?” and again God spaketh or something. Jerome, thy confus-ed face looking upward said “what?” and God chuckled, for He had said, “loner says what?” and thusly Saint Jerome didn’t get out much.

Sincerely,
DumbFunnery.com

At the first ‘lesson’ we were told we could pick whatever instrument we wanted but we’d have to supply it. Or we could pick one of the instruments the school had.
I had already gone through a period of my life known as ‘Tears of Sadness, Tears of Pain’ aka when my parents bought my sister a violin and she was learning (was she, though?) how to play. I remember going to my sisters ‘concert.’ When they warmed up it sounded like someone had taken the emotions associated with being an abandoned orphan and put them to music.
Thankfully, my sister’s violin sat useless in its case. My parents decided, having learned their lesson, they would buy me an instrument if I demonstrated a real passion for it. The school had the following options for instruments to borrow from them: French horn.
Thus began my rather inauspicious French horn career.

I was none too pleased with the pick. I had asked my mom to buy me a saxophone. They have tons of keys and they’re not that big. Instead I had the French horn.
Had Lisa Simpson played the French horn, maybe I would’ve been more excited.
Another thing that was unfortunate was that there were a grand total of three keys. Three keys and I am supposed to move my lips into different positions to generate different notes with the same key combinations.
Le what? Le did you just tell me I’m supposed to move my lips to make different notes? I’m not French and I’m not a miracle worker, so let’s get real, French Horn.

On days where I would not have gym, but instead music class, I had to bring in the beast. The beast had a carrying case which was huge. This did not make me happy. As though I was not dorky enough already, I now had to ride the bus home with a huge black case sitting next to me.
“Is this seat taken?”
“Oh yes … this is where my French horn sits …”
“You’re lame.”
“Yeah … like I said, French horn.”

One day I realized the following. I hate the French horn.
1, I’m not good at it.
2, I’m only going to become better with practice.
3, I suck so bad I get angry when I hear myself play.
How do you solve such a tough dilemma? Ah, but I am a creative problem solver!
French horn? Check. Music? Check. Dorky stand thing? Yes fine, whatever. CD player? Check! Headphones? CHECK! Let’s do this!
Beautiful music came flooding into my poor little ears – you really have to turn the music up really loud if you want to be able to drown an instrument you are, simultaneously, playing. At the end of practicing a song for the French horn I’d happily yell out, “hey mom! That any good?”
This style of practice did not last very long at all.

At some point the school invited parents to come out for a show. A large part of the show would be musical – with groups separated by grade. Over there are the eighth graders. Over there are the seventh graders. And here us lowly sixth graders sit.
We filed into the gym and took our seats.
My friend sat down beside me. After a bit of time he politely asked, “hey Brad do you mind if we switch chairs?” I of course obliged. I could care less about this music show. I wanted to not be there.

At the shows end parents came up and smiled and probably pretended to scratch their ears – while secretly pulling out ear plugs. My friends dad came up and congratulated him on being ‘first chair.’
Huh? First chair? What does that mean?
Later I learned what this meant and I was, frankly, impressed and stunned. Impressed because – well done, you little sneak. Stunned because, really? You do know we’re in sixth grade. And we play the French horn. Maybe he got ice cream for being first chair or something, in which case that move was understandable.

The bright spot of moving at the end of that year was that my new school had no such program, and no French horns. They were out of my life forever. Such raw, animal talent lays in me still – sometimes at night I purse my lips and hear someone saying, “no … no … no that’s still not right … try to make the note … no … no … try emptying the spit out … ew … that was a lot of spit … ok … no … no …”