Another old story, this time from my final year of university. The assignment was to make a sombre situation – such as a funeral – funny. Ironically, when I wrote this, I had been crying quite a bit thanks to having had a bad day, but by the time I’d finished I was laughing. Yes, at my own jokes. But once again, it was proof that comedic writing, (at least in my opinion) was my forte. I just didn’t realize it at the time. But my teacher at the time, Shyam Selvdurai, did: I got an A+!
And I am totally NOT stalling working on new stuff by posting yet another old story. Which by the way, introduces yet another segment, as you can see in the title: Stories From Yesteryear, which is pretty self-explanatory.
Grandma died watching “Paternity Tests Part 2: Are You My Baby’s Daddy?” on The Maury Povich Show. She was wearing her Save Water, Drink Beer T-shirt underneath a maroon cigarette burn studded bathrobe, gray socks (actually, they were supposed to be white but they looked grey) and an L.A. Kings baseball cap. She was a quarter of the way into a bottle of raspberry Pucker and had a wrestling magazine on her lap.
“Bombaclot!” was her last word, according to Aunt Bonita, her caretaker, who at the time was in the kitchen slicing tomatoes for dinner that evening. Bonita assumed that she was yelling at the television – because Gammy does this often – and chuckled to herself. But when Bonita did not hear the frequent emissions of gas coming from the living room, she knew something was wrong, and ran in there.
Actually, she slipped on the hardwood floor that she’d just polished with lemon Pledge, and caught her hip on the hallway table, activating one of its musical figurines. So before Bonita discovered the 300-pound corpse that was Gammy, she lay on the floor, holding her side and writhing to the tune of “Love is a Many Splendored Thing.”
“Wait – you use needles?!” I gasp.
The artist gives me an incredulous look.
I smile. “Just joking.”
We laugh in unison.
An hour later, the artist says, “All done, Jane!”
“Jane?!” I yell. “My name’s Janice!”
The artist stops laughing when I don’t join in. “You’re joking again, right?”
[Remember, I was 17 when I wrote this. I got an A++ on it, btw!]
Seventeen-year old Taylor Lane was sitting outside her white sandstone mansion on a chaise lounge by the Olympic-sized pool. Flicking a lock of silky black hair from her perfectly featured face, she felt the California sun beating warmly on her. [Where exactly in California, genius? Way to be specific!]
Neither of them hear the door open until it’s too late.
“Mom – I’m home early!”
The exclamation makes them jump apart. Naked under the spray of water, they stare at each other in horror.
“Shit!” the woman hisses. “Rachel is gonna kill me!”
“Kill you?” the man retorts. “I’m the one who’s marrying her!”