In the valley of the dollhouses
there lay the site of the Calico Critters’ Lumberjack Festival.
When the Hopscotch Bunnies decided to participate
alongside the Eager Beavers
rather than fell trees,
they were needed on the roofs
to get better reception.
When 10:10 met 8:20,
an annoying, perky sort,
told 8:20 to turn his clock face frown
taking his advice,
cleaned 10:10’s clock
with his longer hand,
so that it took a minute
rather than an hour,
making 8:20 feel like an a.m.
rather than a p.m.
Mr. Gherkin always found himself in a pickle,
Miss Cherry, a jam,
but these 2 accident-prone soul-mates—
1 sweet, 1 sour—
had never met until they were joined
in sandwich-style matrimony
by the pregnant bridezilla.
Mary Katherine McFeeney
of Washingham High School,
Class of 1988,
had been a “Who’s Who?” in her heyday,
but Hellen Devlin,
the girl who’d watched M.K.
since their freshman year—
becoming an unofficial M.K.M. scholar
& penning the M.K.M. Fictionary—
had wondered why & how
“the girl most likely
to spread more than good cheer”
had ever achieved such acclaim,
for M.K. had never known what was what
who was on first . . .
& second . . .
giving the word “Homecoming”
a whole ‘nother meaning.
Born a “Children of the Damned” blond,
The Girl grew up believing
that she became invisible
whenever she closed her eyes—
only to realize that with invisibility
but as she grew & her hair darkened,
she actually got brighter,
that is, until she became nostalgic
for her happy-go-bumpy childhood,
& she reverted to the bottle,
lamenting the dark roots
that were just a branch
of the Black Irish part
of her family tree.
He had a face for radio,
she, a voice for print journalism.
They were only 10’s,
if they were added together,
so they married not up
but equal to one another—
with her writing what he said
& him saying what she wrote,
they lived fair-to-middlin’ ever after.
When Sticky Fingers Sal & Pickpocket Pearl
were strolling out of Curl Up & Dye,
Sal, distracted by a Grammar Nazi on strike,
slipped & fell into a plot hole.
Pearl, always quick with her hands,
reached into the man’s pocket
& stole the ultimate weapon—
his dangling modifier.
She held it down for Sal who,
even after her rescue,
just wouldn’t let go of it.
He was a tautogram,
she, an anagram.
They were socially-awkward individuals,
for he got his tongue all twisted,
just as she was all mixed up.
He was White Wine,
chilled to perfection;
she was Red Wine,
perfect as she was.
Then along came
all fancy & bubbly in her flute
& saying to Red & White
that they were mere
lunch & dinner accompaniments,
whereas she was the star
of holidays & weddings.
But then she met Beer,
who was enjoyed out of the tap,
& the can,
& she realized that his fans
would enjoy him
from any vessel.
He was holy water,
when he consumed her,
he was no longer a man of the cloth
but a man without his clothes.
He was the turkey at every Thanksgiving,
she, the ham at every Christmas.
When they decided to cook up something together,
they ended up with a little meatball,
full of spice & spunk.
The parents still reigned supreme, however,
for they could be enjoyed cold as well as hot.
He was nice
(but too nice to other men’s wives);
she was naughty
(but only with her husband).
Neither considered themselves
above the other,
for they were both
on very important lists.
Every John who came through
“Lorelei’s Happily Ever After, Inc.”
would learn that their slogan—
“If you’re not happy,
it’s not the end”—
was all too true,
for they went in as John Smith,
only to leave as John Doe.
Smiles were free,
but frowns cost double
(meaning they were still free
but not worth the trouble).
To save their rubber chicken wedding,
Mrs. Kentucky Fried—
also known as an angel with wings
with the breasts & thighs to match—
showed a little leg
as she danced back & forth
across the yellowing, crumbling brick road,
having the guests try to figure out why
she was up to such chicken shit.
But the bride found herself in a real sour pickle
when the egg came
before her groom did.
When I see lines of people waiting to get into Best Buy on Black Friday, I always wonder if they’re by themselves, and if so, how do they go to the bathroom? Do they wear adult diapers or do they fast? Do they call for backup?
Bathrooms are awesome.
Growing up, if my family and I were on the road, we always stopped at McDonald’s to do our business (if not do business) because the bathrooms were usually clean. (We would probably need a permission slip at Starbucks now, though maybe a tall latte would buy us a few minutes of peeing privileges.)
Whenever I get to wherever I’m going, I always have to go, which is rather annoying. That’s what happens when you drink a lot of water—just like you try to eat healthy and get e-coli from the lettuce, but no ramifications from the greasy burger.
Which is why I’m happy that the Writing Lab is now in Building 4.
Going to the bathroom in Building 1 (if you’re unlucky enough to be at the Math Lab on Sunday) is like going into one of those gas station bathrooms where you have to use a key attached to a jacked-up hubcap.
That said, there are other campus bathrooms that could use a little attention to detail.
If you’re using the tutoring lab in Building 6, you want to be careful and not shut the door too hard in the handicapped stall of the ladies’ room because the sanitary napkin receptacle will fall off and give you a jolt. You also want to wash your hands very fast, as the water stays on for about two seconds (and that’s not the two-second rule you want to follow).
There are certain things all bathrooms should have, like lots of TP. I haven’t sat on a bare toilet seat in a public place since, well, since I was a little girl and Grandma told me not to. You know those passive-aggressive little signs like “If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie?” Well, if the seat is dry, there might be dried pee you can’t see.
I need at least six sheets of separation.
I get really pissed (pardon the pun) when you can’t get the toilet paper out, and it just comes off in squares—the amount Sheryl Crow says you should use to save the environment.
And then you have those people who like to leave their calling card; I always skip that stall.
Honestly, a stall should have a shelf (or a hook somewhere) for you to hang your purse and any other belongings, so you don’t have to put them on the floor; they should also have doors that you can push, not pull, to get in.
Building 4 has windowsills in their handicapped stalls (can you tell I love handicapped stalls?) to set your stuff. Hopefully, a real handicapped person won’t be giving you the stinkeye when you get out.
Building 4 also has hand dryers, but no paper towel dispenser in the handicapped stall.
At least you can push the door open with your foot. Pull dirty, push clean. That’s how all main bathroom doors should be.
The library’s bathrooms are some of the best on campus. The gym (when it’s actually open) works in a pinch, though when you walk in, the people there can tell you aren’t working out, and you feel like a fattie.
Sometimes, in Building 14, you come across the Post-Its from the Active Minds group (like “You are awesomesauce!”) stuck to the bathroom mirror like mini pep talks. This makes the bathroom more interesting.
Powerful flushers, hand-drying choices, faucets that aren’t on a timer, and hooks galore are the hallmarks of a great bathroom anywhere.
During those times that you have just fifteen minutes between classes, it’s nice to have a place to park and unload where you don’t feel like you’ve just left Wal-Mart at three in the morning.
That’s the rundown for the women’s bathrooms. As for the men’s, I really couldn’t say. We haven’t become that gender-fluid yet.
Originally published in the November/December 2018 issue of The Corsair, Pensacola State College’s student newspaper; first place winner in the humor category at the FCSPA State Publications.
He was Stan–
Stan the Man,
She was Jan–
Jan with the big cans,
which was why
she did not need
Stan the Man
with his ooey, too-dewy
When he asked to take her to bed,
“Never to bed,
even if we wed.”
“In a car?” he asked.
“Never in a car–
no matter how fast or how far.”
“In an elevator?”
“Never in an elevator–
no matter how high or how low,
you will never be the way I go.”
“In the grass,
under a tree,
or on the roof,
facing the sea?”
“Never in the grass
or out of the grass,
under a tree
or over a tree,
on a roof
or off a roof–
not even off my rocker–
You are gross,
you are gross,
don’t you smell,
don’t you see?”
you might like me,
you shall see.
Just one kiss,
and you will be in bliss.”
She shook her head and said,
“This ain’t green eggs and ham.
If I take you in,
I can’t just spit you out,
with my being Catholic,
is not allowed.”
And so Stan the Man
became Stan the Mailman,
delivering only those
oh-so discreet packages
that women really wanted
(batteries not included).