5017

Picture this: It’s the year 5017. Your coffin is dug up from the mausoleum you built specifically for the purpose of sheltering your earthly remains.
Museum of Old and New Art, HobartIt’s carted to another planet and put on display in a post-modern museum/aquarium where octopus perform tricks with hula hoops, not because they’re forced to, but because they’re really into it – by that time I imagine whatever the dominant species is, they’ve figured out how to communicate with octopi – the point is, how would you feel about your coffin with your remains being on display?

I think it’d be pretty awesome as long as the octopus tricks were tasteful and not, you know, lewd.

 

Do not tell people about your Prize Award

We are pleased to inform you of the release of the
SPANISH SWEEPSTAKE LOTTERY INTERNATIONAL PROMOTION PROGRAM
Your email address drew the lucky numbers 01-5-11-12-21-34
that consequently won the lottery in the 3rd category.

The business I am introducing you to is palpably based on sheer trust
and with a sense of purpose for all modalities
has been mapped out because it falls within my area of Jurisdiction
and it is 100% Hitch free.

I HAVE A LEGAL AND CONFIDENTIAL BUSINESS PROPOSAL FOR YOU.
I am willing to send you a free rug simulation.
I know this may sound so strange for you and also extremely risky for me
to offer such proposal to a total stranger via email

but unfortunately this happens to be my last resort to get it done.
Right now I am the most happiest woman on earth.
Every camper should have this laser strong enough to light a fire.
It’s a UltraBeam Tactical Laser..!

-All the words on this page are an ad-
I will be waiting to read from you.
Thank You and Be Blessed.
To your success!

Yours faithfully,
Mrs. Janet Hessian, Network Online Coordinator.

Spoons

The problem with spoon theory
is that I never know how many spoons I’ll have

any given day.

If I knew I had ten spoons,
I could use them accordingly.
But today I might have seven spoons

and tomorrow only three, with no idea why.
As though someone sneaks into my cutlery drawer
at night to steal my spoons,

but then other times replaces some
just to fuck with me.
Let’s be honest –

there was never enough spoons,
even before I had to think of my energy
as a finite supply of kitchen utensils.

My opinions on dog names will eventually result in divorce

Unless they’re the children of celebrities, human babies are generally stuck with boring people names. But dogs can be called any sort of amazing name at all. It’s insultingly uncreative to give a dog a human name. Like a french bulldog I met, who was named, of all things, Gerald. Gerald could have been named Clams or Seven or Sir Snotsalot or anything other than Gerald.

My husband disagrees. I told him my dream was to have a sausage dog named Saucy. ‘It works on so many levels!’

‘What levels?’ he said.

What levels? Obviously the sauce/sausage connection. Also the fact that saucy sounds like ‘saussie’, an Australianised shortening of sausage. And then imagine if the dog had a saucy attitude. Just imagine.

 

A tranquilizer dart salesman solves the gun crisis

Let’s not kid ourselves. People love guns, they love ’em. They’re not going to give up their guns for anything. They’d rather shoot you.

The real problem isn’t guns — it’s bullets. Guns don’t kill people. Bullets kill people. If we want to really address the gun crisis, the solution is simple. We ban bullets.

Now you might be saying, ‘Gus, if we ban bullets, people won’t have anything to shoot’. Well, that’s the kind of limited thinking that led to our current bullet-centric society. Guns could shoot all kinds of things, but in my experience there’s nothing finer to screw into the barrel than a high quality tranquilizer dart filled with a mild sedative.

That’s right, tranquilizer darts! Can’t you just picture it? It’s late, and you’re alone in a dark alley because it is your God-given right to take a shortcut home. Suddenly a criminal leaps from the shadows. He’s brandishing a gun – but so are you! You fire simultaneously, each getting struck by a Tranq Em Good™ tranquilizer dart. Within seconds, smooth relaxing sedative is flooding through your bloodstream. You and your would-be mugger both collapse in the alley. Several hours later, you wake up feeling refreshed. You have a laugh, compliment each other on your fine choice of darts, then realise someone has made off with both your wallets while you lay unconscious.

That’s the kind of society I want to live in, and I bet you do too.

Will tranquilizer darts solve all our problems? No. You take a tranq dart to the eye, that eyeball won’t grow back. And depending on how many darts a person is hit with and what the average dilution of sedative is in each — you get the picture. But there will be far fewer gun-related deaths and a lot more naps.

You’re thinking, ‘Won’t the low-risks stakes of tranquilizer darts encourage people to shoot each other more, not less? Won’t we have teachers shooting school kids just to get some peace and quiet, and moms shooting children, also to get some peace and quiet, and employees shooting their bosses on a daily basis?’ Probably, yes. What’s your point?

A side benefit is that tranquilizer dart sales are set to go through the roof – and not just darts and sedative! It will be difficult to retrofit most of today’s guns to shoot tranq darts, so we expect to sell dart guns by the crateful. The time to invest is now. And in contrast to bland old metal bullets, darts offer huge potential for personalization. If you wake up on your lawn to find a dart with a neon pink tail feather covered in glitter sticking out of your thigh, you’ll know your six-year-old neighbour Gloria has really improved her aim.

As part owner of Tranq Em Good™, I personally stand to gain huge financial benefits in the post-bullet world. But I’m not only doing this to become wildly rich. I’m doing this because I believe that in this great nation, we can have our guns and shoot them too.

A letter to the cactus in my apartment’s recycling bin

An Letter To The Cactus In My Apartment Recycling Bin
Dear Cactus,

I don’t want to alarm you. I suppose earlier this week you were chilling out, doing your photosynthesis thing in one of my neighbour’s windows. And now you’ve found yourself shoved in this recycling bin, mostly buried under unrinsed beer bottles and partially crushed egg cartons. A sudden move like that would be a big adjustment, I’m sure.

But I’ve got some bad news. Are you ready? Here goes.

I am pretty certain cactus recycling doesn’t exist. Yet, I mean! Doesn’t exist yet. It, definitely will, uh, sometime. It’s up there among other top societal priorities, probably. But at this moment in time – which happens to be the moment in which you’re in a recycling bin – cactus recycling is not a thing.

Unless I’m wrong. Maybe I’m wrong! I get most of my news from Snapchat so I’ve been known to be out of the loop on occasion. And I still haven’t even listened to Lemonade, so who knows? Maybe the city has only just introduced its brand new Cactus Recycling Initiative as part of a future-facing seven-point plan to combat climate change, and here I am, completely oblivious and spouting off like an idiot.

Nope. Just Googled it. No cactus recycling.

I want you to know I would have pulled you out. Really. You looked healthy and I bet you would have got along swell with that philodendron on my windowsill. If whoever shoved you in the bin had just placed you on the floor alongside the white leather sofa with only two cushions and that stain shaped like Nicaragua, someone probably would have taken you home before I ever had the chance.

But the thing is – look, you were in the bin pretty deep, and you’re covered in spikes. I mean, obviously, you’re a cactus. So it wasn’t like I could just reach in there and – well, you understand.

What I’m trying to say is – I’m sorry. And I hope that, before you get crushed into pulp in the back of the recycling truck, you get to spike someone really good. I hope you draw blood, buddy. I’ll be laughing with you, you just remember that. Godspeed, recycling bin cactus. Give ’em hell.

In solidarity,
Ashley

 

A discussion with my body re 2017 KPIs

Me: Thank you for meeting me today. I’m hoping we can agree on a set of strategic KPIs for 2017.

Body: Sure, whatever you say.

Me: Well, that’s the thing – we make plans and then you just do your own thing. It doesn’t really feel like you’re a team player.

Body: I don’t see you going along with any of my plans.

Me: I’ve already given you all of January to do whatever you wanted, which was apparently to eat Cheetos while watching every single mockumentary on Netflix. It’s time to get serious about this year. My strategy has two main objectives: developing muscle tone and maintaining a vaguely professional appearance. Each objective has three sub-points, starting with –

Body: My main plan is weird chin hairs. Lots of them.

Me: What? No! No one wants that!

Body: Also random wrinkles. Like, vertical cheek wrinkles.

Me: That’s not even a thing.

Body: … yet.

Me: This is what I mean, we’re working against each other. I spend an hour at the gym and then another hour with the tweezers, and you undo it all overnight!

Body: Hey, re-growing those hairs is hard work.

Me: It’s wasted effort! You could be using that energy to, like, develop some abs.

Body: You could be feeding me Cheetos.

Me: 2017 is not the Year of the Cheeto! 2017 is the Year of Beet Salad and Cross-Training and Actually Wearing Some Make-Up to Work Most Days.

Body: Beet salad, really?

Me: It’s got fennel, I thought it was –

Body: Okay, sure.

Me: Look, can you at least stop twisting out of pelvic alignment immediately after I pay $78 to see the osteopath every week?

Body: You clearly don’t know me very well.