Tim Ryan is Funny.

[tim-ryan-humor-blog]

The Cultist in the Woods

Simon the Nameless Cultist sat down on the velvet sofa and sighed. This sigh was a good sigh - it was the exhalation of stress from his relaxing body. His fingers with their black-painted nails were wrapped around a cup of Swiss Miss Hot Chocolate (with extra marshmallows). He brought the white, porcelain mug, which had a poorly cropped printing of a photo of his beagle Jackie on it, to his scarred, hideous face. The warmth made him smile. Simon was spending some much needed alone time in his father-in-laws’ log cabin. The cabin was cozy and located some distance away from society in Maine. Simon recently got the okay for some time off from Peter the Blood-Father, a higher-up in The Cult. Simon was nervous he wouldn’t get the paid leave approved - with recent restructuring of the hierarchy, as well as other major changes brought about from an outside marketing company (such as re-stylizing the name to “Cvlt” with a v instead of a u), he wasn’t sure about anything anymore. These headaches were also the reason he asked for a vacation in the first time. So Simon sat enjoying his time away from the occupational craziness, like the recent unsuccessful overtaking of a small bible-belt township or the accidental portal-to-hell opening in the basement of a hospital. But only minutes into his fresh cup of hot cocoa he felt some sort of disturbance.

A small noise outside caught his ear. There weren't many noises out in the woods at that dark hour, and this particular one didn’t sound like any of the others. Simon tilted his head to listen but it was too faint. He got up and sauntered over to one of his closed kitchen windows. It was frigid night so naturally Simon had the window closed. He moved his face close to the cold glass to listen for the external sound again. It sounded slightly closer than before. It seemed to be not an animal, or organic forest sounds, but a very distant voice - high pitched, but not a scream. He spent a minute trying to process what the noise good be when suddenly it occurred again. This time it sounded closer but still distant. “Hhh  hhh … hh hh …” It was a human sound - like chanting, but… peppier.

“Heh heh … hoh hoh …” It moved closer again.

The window had no screen in it. Simon opened it, and stuck his head out. He listened again. Nothing. He squinted his red-pupiled-eyes to try to find the source of the sound. A petite figure emerged from the heavy woods.The silhouette's body was slender and top heavy. There was no denying it was human, though small. But one strange feature was instead of hands the arms seemed to end in big puffy cotton-like balls.

“Hey hey … ho ho …” It moved closer with a graceful swag almost like a dance. It was clear this figure was making the noise. Just as Simon began processing what he was watching, more figures emerged. They all sang their haunting song together.

“Hey hey. Ho ho.” The original figure was the closest in the foreground. As it moved closer to Simon’s lonely cabin getaway, its identity became clear. Simon backed away from the window slowly in horror. The flood lights on the outside of the cabin revealed a high-school-aged cheerleader in full uniform, pom-poms and all. The other figures followed their leader. Out of the darkness they emerged. All cheerleaders. Simon gasped. They chanted louder now, with pride. “Hey hey! Ho ho!” Simon was surrounded. He slammed the window shut and rushed to the front door. “Hey hey! Ho ho!” Their fanfare grew louder. He fumbled with the old, rusty lock on the wooden door. “Hey hey! Ho ho!” He locked the door, and tried to think for a second. “Hey hey! Ho ho!”

“What do you want from me?!” Simon shrieked.

“HEY HEY! HO HO!” The noise infiltrated the walls of what was supposed to be Simon’s escape from the world. He looked out the window again. A sea of cheerleaders surrounded him, chanting their song as if to raise some dark spirits darker than anything Simon new. As he watched them get closer and closer he began to cry. “What do you want from me?!”, he cried again. “Why?!” He fell to his knees and sobbed loudly. “Why?!” “HEY HEY!!! HO HO!!!” The cheerleaders closed in on the cabin.

[tim-ryan-humor-blog]

Intro to untitled potential project

(this is the start of a project I’ve had in my head for a long time but just started writing on the train)  Marty walked down an unassuming suburban sidewalk side-by-side with his dog. The dog and Marty had much in common - they were both elderly, mostly gray, tired, and generally slow. The two walked at the same pace and as they approached a red fire-hydrant the dog lead by his nose, out of some sort of canine-ly duty, occupied it. This has been one of many stops on his route for the last ten-or-so years.

As the dog slowly lifted his shakey leg and pissed in small, discolored spurts, Marty’s attention was captured. Across the street on the opposite sidewalked was a girl clad in a sports bra and sofee-shorts jogging. Marty was already fully aware that this was his new neighbor who moved into the neighborhood two weeks ago. He watched with awe as her powerful thigh muscles propelled her body forward step by step, causing both her ponytail and her breasts to bounce along. The sound of flowing liquid could be heard, and it was either brown urine sporadically spraying out of the dog’s half-lame urethra, or drool flowing from the corner of Marty’s wrinkle-creased mouth. The neighbor girl turned the corner, and as Marty’s eyes were not well enough to allow him to focus on her backside as she sprinted down the block, he snapped back into reality and continue to march with the dog.

Just twenty feet away and the two were back inside their home. Immediately Marty’s wife began as Marty undid the dog’s leash. “I saw you oogling at her again,” she declared with her hands at her hips.

Marty slowly rose from bending down to assist the dog and through the fogginess of mild veritgo he observed his wife. She was only a year older than him, and though she did not by any stretch of the imagination look young, she did appear to be much younger than Marty. 

“What are you talking about?”. Insinuating that he didn’t know what his wife was referencing was a cheap way to try to get out of the situation and only furthered his wife’s anger.

“Oh don’t give me that shit! You’re like a horny teenager everytime she walks past!”

Marty realized that lying would not get him anywhere. “What can I say, Maureen? She’s a beautiful girl!”

Maureen shifted her position from hand on the right hip to hand on the left hip. This new position was just as hostile. “So, you’re going to try to fuck her?”

This surprised Marty and he genuinely laughed out loud. He walked towards his wife slowly and put out his hands to invite hers. “Maureen, I would never.”

“After 40 years you’re going have an affair, huh? Is that it?” Her tone was sharp like a kitchen kinfe.

“No, Maureen.” The coolness of his voice calmed her. She let her guard down and put her hands into his.

Marty said, “I do not want to fuck her,” and hugged his wife.

And this was true. He didn’t want to fuck her. He wanted to eat her.

[tim-ryan-humor-blog]

The Bakery

(I am too tired of writing to edit this right now) 

Todd approached the bakery on Main Street slowly, carefully trying to find parking on the street. A line of cars behind him immediately began to honk at him for deccelerating. Todd attempted to fit his 4-door sedan into a car-sized gap between two other parked cars but gave up as parallel parking was never his strong point. He continued to drive, made the first right he could, and parked on a side-street just a few storefronts down from the bakery.

Entering the Italian bakery caused Todd’s nostrils to fill with the scent of hand-crafted pastries and sweets. Any other person would have enjoyed this, but it was “just too much” for Todd - he was not a fan of pastries or sweets. His own desires did not bring him to this small mom-and-pop shop. Todd was being paid off-the-books from the business he normally does telemarketing at to pick up twelve batches of holiday cookies and deliver them to his businesses twelve highest-end clients. Ernesto, the owner of the shop, greeted Todd as if he was an old friend (he had never actually met Todd before but a business like his rarely sees customers in general so he was down-right happy to see Todd walk in). After the pleasantries Ernesto began to pull out the packaged batches of cookies that Todd would then take to the car. Ernesto produced them faster than Todd expected he would. Todd would run back and forth from the store to the car loading up his back-seat with the treats. In the midst of all the haste he counted twelve baskets of cookies, which checked out in his mind.

Todd paid the shop-owner for the twelve batches and as he signed the receipt the man asked him a question which caught him off guard. “What would you like to take home for yourself, my friend?” Todd realized the man was offering him a gift. Todd was never very good with gifts. He declined. But Ernesto pressed Todd. He seemed to take Todd’s rejection of the gift personally. “Do you not like my baking?” he asked with his heavy accent.

Todd was quickly getting tired of this dance but he did not want to offend the man. “I just don’t eat baked goods, really,” Todd assured him.

The man made a face at this, a face which said if he was outside and not in his own shop he would have spat on the ground at this idea.

After this conversation Todd said his goodbyes and thank yous to the bakery owner and returned to the car he had filled with the platters of cookies. Sitting down in the driver’s seat he suddenly realized that he had to urinate. Holding it in until he got to the first client, which was 45 minutes away was not an option and the more he thought about it the less holding it in it all seemed like an option. He thought back to the bakery and his memory was clear enough to confirm that there was no restroom in there. There were, however, many other stores on the same strip located after the shop that potentially had restrooms for Todd to use. He decided this was his best (and only) option and got out of the vehicle.

His legs pumped faster than his normal walking speed as he passed the bakery he was previously in. His eyes were focused on the stores ahead that he did not peer into the large dirty glass window that showcased the inside of the store-front. On the other side, though, Ernesto happened to be looking out and caught a glimpse of Todd walking past in the opposite direction of his car.

“Guy’s Deli” read the 50’s-style neon sign at the store next to Ernesto’s bakery, and Todd entered the place. As soon as he entered he peered around - stained linoleum floors, yellowed wallpaper, large dirty mirrors reflecting meat every which way, and a white door with a plastic “Restroom” sign. Todd headed for it like a gun-shot, but was stopped by a man’s voice. “Hey,” a man with an Asian accent shouted. “Restrooms are for customers only”. He declared this from behind the deli counter.

Todd could not resist nature’s call. “Fine fine fine,” Todd announced impatiently. He grabbed a pack of gum from the counter, then pulled out his wallet. He looked inside the main pocket and saw he had no cashed, so naturally he reached for his credit card and handed it to him.

“Five dollar minimum,” the guy (named Guy) said as he rejected Todd’s card.

“Come on,” Todd implored at not the man in front of him but the universe itself. “I can’t spend 5 dollars just to use the bathroom”. He was normally a very frugal person but as he considered the alternatives to the current situation it seemed like he would have to cough up the cash. “Fine, what’s the easiest thing I can get for five dollars?”

Guy replied with simply, “muffin”.

Todd accepted with no hesitation, watched the deli owner ring up his card while he danced on his toes to keep his urine in his bladder, and then dived for the bathroom.

Inside the bathroom was uneventful for Todd. Everything came out of his body properly, and the bathroom was presentable enough that he found no glaring flaws. After flushing and washing his hands he exited the bathroom to find a warm muffin with butter on it ready for him. Now that there was no urine pressing against the flood-gates of his bladder he resented the muffin and the five dollars wasted on it. He took it with a huff and offered no warm goodbyes to the deli man.

As he walked out of the deli he looked down at the muffin. As stated before, he normally does not eat baked goods. The muffin did look delicious as it steamed and melted the butter into a liquid which it absorbed. And who was Todd to waste 5 dollars? So, Todd bit into the food as he started back towards his car.

Again he found himself in front of the bakery but stopped when the glass door swung open. Ernesto exited with his arms crossed and approached Todd looking like some sort of loan-shark or mafiosa.

“I thought you do not like baked goods,” Ernesto rhetorically asked Todd. Todd managed to sneak a guttural sounded out pasted all the chewed muffin in his mouth, but it didn’t help his case.

“It’s not baked goods that you don’t like, it’s Ernesto’s baked good you don’t like, huh?” Ernesto’s tone wasn’t so much offended as it was defensive and hostile.

Todd attempted to chew and swallow quickly to verbally defend himself, but he was not fast enough. Ernesto’s hands flew in every which direction as he spoke furiously at Todd. “My baking is the best and you tell me you don’t want it!” His anger was palpable.

Todd finally swallowed the muffin. “You don’t understand-”.

“I understand! I treat you well and offer you free food, and you insult me!”

Growing concerned that Ernesto will only get more angry, and that nothing Todd could say would calm him down, he decided his best option was to flee. “I have to go. I’m sorry.” He brushed past Ernesto and speed walked away.

“I’m sorry that I helped you! You do not know good baking! You don’t deserve my cookies.”

Ernesto’s angry words faded as Todd took off back to his car. He could tell that the more and more Ernesto spoke, the more and more angry he became, but he made not attempt to pursue Todd. Once in the car Todd locked his door and took a moment to breath calmly. He was parked around the corner so even though he heard Ernesto’s muffled, distant cursing, the man was not in eye-shot. He looked into his back seat and again felt some sort of resentment for the food he had purchased sitting behind him. Twelve batches of holiday cookies for twelve different clients. He listened again for Ernesto and this time heard nothing but silence. His mind was clear from the commotion now and put the key into the ignition.

As if on cue with the noise of the engine firing on, Todd came to a startling realization. He turned his head to the back-seat and counted the batches of cookies again. Twelve batches. The entire time he was working with Ernesto in the assembly-line fashion he was set on twelve batches of cookies, but only now he realized that he needed thirteen for his thirteen clients. The realization that he would have to go back to the bakery and face the aggressive Ernesto struck him like a tragedy. If he didn’t do it he would be failing to properly do his job - his boss was counting on him to deliver the cookies to each and every one of the thirteen clients. If he did go back in…

His thoughts were interrupted when from the corner of his eye he saw the reflection of something in his rear-view mirror. He turned his head to look out the back of his car, and he saw a fuming Ernesto power walking towards him. There was a long object in the volatile man’s hand. Squinting, Todd recognized it to be a baseball bat.

Todd thought quickly and immediately put the car into drive and hit the gas. The car zoomed away from Ernesto. Ernesto screamed at the fleeing vehicle, but Todd couldn’t hear it. While he continued to accelerate down the block he watched through the mirror Ernesto swinging at the air and shouting. Though he was already hundreds of feet away from the angry man, Todd continued speeding the vehicle down the block until Ernesto faded from his view. Finally making it to a red-light a safe distance away from the bakery, Todd put the car into park and stopped to catch his breath. Thought it wasn't the first thing in mind he later decided to stop at a different bakery to pick up a replacement for the thirteenth forgotten tray of cookies.

[tim-ryan-humor-blog]

Modesto the Parrot

(I have yet to really edit this so bare with me)

It was 7 o'clock AM on a Saturday. Modesto the African Gray Parrot’s beady eyes opened and were met with a small amount of sunshine seeping through the cloth that covered his cage. Just a few second from then his morbidly obese owner would have waddled over to his cage to remove the covering and say good morning. This was by far Modesto's favorite part of the day - he enjoyed all the activities they would do together, especially all the swearing his foul-mouth owner indulged him in, but the morning uncovering was the best part. Modesto always started the mornings off with a happy whistling tune. Sometimes if his owner forgot about him (uncommon but not rare), the sound of Modesto's song would remind him to uncover the bird cage. So the bird began his whistling.

Minutes went by. Modesto kept singing but remained veiled. The parrot was growing concerned and decided singing louder would surely attract his owner. Modesto's song transitioned from a cheerful hum to a piercing screech and rang through the entire house. Surely the owner must hear Modesto's cry now.

More minutes past and Modesto was no fool - something was wrong. Modesto was always the type of parrot to spring into action, so he sprung. He climbed up the stainless-steel bars of his cage like a new recruit climbs a wall at boot camp.  When he reached the top of the cage he found a corner with a perfectly sized gap and he stuck his beak through it. His beak caught the cloth covering and he tugged with all the might he had in his body. The cloth slipped off the cage and fell to the floor, unveiling all of the cage.

Modesto's eyes took a minute to adjust as sunlight poured in through the bare bars of the cage. When they did adjust he moved his head in all directions in search for clues regarding why his owner didn't tend to him this morning. In seconds it became painfully apparent to the parrot. His owner lie on the floor, seemingly unconscious. There were many things that could have caused this. His owner was nowhere near good-health. Modesto could not have been aware of this fact, but it was really shocking that the man hadn’t collapsed to his death five-to-ten years prior.

Parrots are very intelligent creatures, and compared to the rest of them Modesto was sort of a savant. He had a way of understanding the human world. He would spend many nights with his owner watching tv shows and movies, and he processed all of what he saw immaculately. Now, in this situation, he could recall many scenes in movies and tv in which a character did exactly what he must do now - Modesto the parrot needed to get to the phone and dial 911.

The parrot scaled the metal enclosure that houses him till he reached the mechanism that kept it locked. He tilted his head, his mohawk-styled feathers swaying while he did, in order to analyze the device better. He figured it out in a second and went to work. Watching him use his beak to unlock the cage was like watching a YouTube video of a small child with nimble fingers finish a Rubiks cube in record-shattering time. A solid CLINK and the cage door swung open. In a just a few less-than-graceful moves Modesto hopped his plump body from the cage to the floor of the room, shook out his feathers from the fall, and waddled towards his unconscious owner.

Stopping at the side of his owner, Modesto again titled his head to observe. The large man lay on his belly in ragdoll-fashion. The overweight body rose and fell gently - the parrot realized that the man still barely breathed. He opened his beak and debated trying to speak to his owner for a moment, but then he realized that not only was it futile but he did not have a moment to spare - there was still time to get his owner help. Modesto the Parrot took off towards the phone. Inside his fragile skull the free-form jazz drumming soundtrack from the film “Birdman: The Virtue of Ignorance” played with intensity. Using all the might in his small body, Modesto lept up from the hardwood-laminate floor an espresso-colored Ikea-brand half-dresser. Inside the dresser was a number of things, including unfolded clothes, pornographic magazines, a half-used eightball of cocaine, and a “Peter Heater”, but none of those things concerned Modesto. What Modesto was concerned with sat on the top of the dresser, like the last item for some adrenaline junkie’s scavenger hunt sits at the top of Mount Everest. The bird worked his the handles of each drawer till he finally reached the top. Taking to gape his beak open and refill his avian lungs he saw the yellowed corded telephone. Quickly, he ran towards it and knocked the hand-set off the hook with his head. BWURRRRRP. The dial-tone sounded and Modesto knew what to do next. It’s hard to say if he exactly understood how to read the numbers labeled on the buttons, but he understood the pattern to dial for 911. 9-1-1. It rang, and then the call connected. “911, what is your emergency?” a man asked the parrot with confident coolness. Modesto opened his beak. His thoughts were quick. He needed to communicate that his owner was in trouble, barely breathing, on the floor. He might need to tell them the address, which Modesto knew off the top of his head from hearing his owner order General Tso’s chicken many times before, but he wasn’t too sure if he could recite it properly. So Modesto began to verbalize everything that he possibly could. Modesto was sure that if he could get the right words out he could save his owner. Perhaps the man just needed a defibrillator shock to jump-start him back to full-life. Perhaps there was something in the man’s system that just needed a proper flush out, and then he’d be good. Maybe the man just needed a few drips of saline to hydrate him and get his body working again. Unfortunately for Modesto, and for his owner, he greatly over-estimated the words he knew how to say. Modesto was a very clever bird but his vocabulary was limited to his one sentence: “Fuck you, fucking prick.” A second of silence, and the call disconnected. On the other line of the deceased call the 911 operator muttered to himself, “stupid kids and their prank calls.” Fin.

[tim-ryan-humor-blog]

Cat-girl: I just want to get covered in cats.

Confused: Like, skin them and cover yourself in their fur?

Cat-girl: No, I mean tattoos. Though I would be really soft.

Confused: So would every guy that ever talks to you.

Cat-girl: Meow.

[tim-ryan-humor-blog]

Cop-outs

I’m not very good with goals, But I’m trying to get better. But I can’t do anything right now, Because of the weather.

My aspirations are fuel for a fire That burns out so fast Because I know that the high I will get Will probably not last.

And if the past Is any indication It’s all not worth my time - I can barely even afford a vacation.

I’d like to take a trip to the midwest And start my life over in a new way But I just have to be back To be on time for work the next day.

[tim-ryan-humor-blog]

Something funny I saw

So there's a Sports Authority in my neighborhood that shutdown recently, and for the Halloween-season a spooky Halloween store took the building over, but their sign was just a canvas tarp with the business name written on it that they put over the dim Sports Authority sign. So now that the Halloween store has moved out of there the building is back to just being a closed down Sports Authority, sign in-tact. Lol.

[writrs]

What Writers Can Learn from Gene Wilder

Every year has its collection of well-known people that die, but that doesn’t make the loss any less significant. Recently we heard news of the passing of Gene Wilder, an actor that manages to remain in the spotlight even though he has stayed out of the public eye. I had to look on IMDB to see what his latest project had been.

In 2015, he did some voice work for a movie based off a children’s show, and then before that he had a role in two episodes of Will and Grace  back in 2003.

So what is it about Gene Wilder that keeps him in our heart and minds after such a long absence?

He taught us to dream

Most people remember Gene from his iconic role as Willy Wonka, but Gene had a wide variety of roles that allowed him to explore his craft and expand upon the dream he had of being an actor. As a writer, each of us should dream big and pursue those dreams no matter how unlikely they may be.

Maybe you want to write a 20-book series or just the longest novel ever written. Perhaps you just want to focus on a collection of poetry or a graphic novel, no matter what that goal is, figure it out and then work out how to move in the direction of making it happen.

Many of you have participated in NaNoWriMo. Perhaps it is time for you to look into what the next stop for your projects might be.

He showed us you can have a career and have fun too

When I watch Gene Wilder playig characters in his movies, I don’t see a person trudging through the role. Instead, I see an actor that is having fun. Go back and watch Young Frankenstein and watch the scene where he “accidentally” stabs himself in the leg with a fork and tell me he isn’t enjoying that moment. (Better yet, check out this GIF from See no Evil, Hear no Evil with Richard Pryor. Gene is a deaf man trying to direct Pryor’s character who is blind as they drive.

He demonstrated how to make the world a better place.

Blazing Saddles may not be as well known as his performance as Willy Wonka, but this was the first movie where he teamed up with Mel Brooks on one of his projects. Wilder plays a gunfighter who has lost his nerve and is sitting in jail when the main character, a black sheriff that has been sent to a small Western town. The sheriff isn’t accepted by the people in the town, but Wilder’s character isn’t afraid to accept this stranger.

Together these characters saved that small town, and helped the townspeople to accept others.

He explored his characters.

I’m sure you recognize this scene. It’s an important and defining moment for the character of Willy Wonka. We see Wonka limping his way to the gates of the chocolate factory. Perhaps this is why he sent everyone away. Is there something wrong with him? Suddenly he turns a somersault and he’s perfectly fine.

This was not in the script, but when Wilder was approached about the role, he said he would only take the role if they would let him perform the scene this way. Wilder had explored his character and knew this would be the kind of performance the candy maker would choose to present his audience.

He showed others the way.

After his role as Dr. Frankenstein, Gene Wilder was asked by Mel Brooks to take a role in a third movie, but Wilder had other projects he was committed to, so he suggested that Brooks do the role himself. Because of that moment, we have many classic roles from Brooks that would not exist with out that encouragement.

You should also look for opportunities to help other writers as you work on your own projects. Who knows what might come from those simple moments.

Wrap up

I know that I could glean many more lessons from the life of Gene Wilder, but I’m hoping that you will take some time to explore those on your own. Take some time to celebrate the life of an actor that brought so much happiness and joy into the lives of others.

(Look I found that GIF with the fork.)

[tim-ryan-humor-blog]

Rick and Morty Total Rickall Scene Rewrite

Rick and Morty Season 2 Episode 4

Excellent episode but one scene in particular I thought could have been written a little differently to assert the ever-present dark tone of the show. Here’s my small re-write of the scene. It’s about 16 minutes into the episode. Sleepy Gary approached a scared Jerry and tells him an escape plan. Suddenly, Beth shoots him knowing full-well that he is parasite. Then I take over:

Jerry: *drops to his knees mourning Sleepy Gary*

Beth: *is not sure if Jerry is a parasite or not, so points the gun at Jerry*

Jerry: *looks up at the gun* Oh God, I can’t believe it. I must be a parasite too.

Beth: *still unsure - stands her ground and listens to Jerry*

Jerry: Think about all of the amazing times we had together. When our first date, our marriage, the birth of Summer - all of those incredible, happy memories! *starts to cry* I can’t believe it was all fake! I’m a parasite Beth!

Beth: *considers what he has said and thinks back*

*Flashback to their first date: Beth and Jerry are in a car at night and kissing, but Jerry gets too handsy- Beth tries to stop him but get too frustrated, storms out of the car, and walks home*

*Flashback to their wedding: during the ceremony Beth says “I do” and then turns to look at her parents for encouragement but they are lightly shaking their heads with disapproval - cuts to them at the reception with Jerry drinking much more than Beth and inadvertently ignoring her - then cuts to after the reception - Beth is in bed turned away from Jerry who is passed out and disheveled looking still in his wedding clothes - she sheds a tear*

*Flashback to Summer’s birth: Beth pushes out Summer, the doctors hand her to Beth, Beth marvels at her for a minute and looks to her side for Jerry to see their child for the first time, but he doesn’t see him. The doctor frowns and points outside of the room to where Jerry is watching football on a tv and cheering*

Beth: *frowns as she realizes that the memories Jerry believe were happy memories for them are very unhappy ones* You’re not a parasite Jerry.

Jerry: *sniffles* I’m not?

Beth: *drops her gun and looks down at the floor* No. All those memories are real.

Jerry: *doesn’t notice the discontent and bursts up joyfully* I knew it! You really love me! *he goes to embrace Beth but she stops him*

Beth: I just need some space right now. *walks away*

And it goes back to the originally written show. 

[tim-ryan-humor-blog]

The Lottery

Paul sat down at in his worn leather chair for what, in his mind, would be his last day of work ever. He enjoyed that though. Over the past few months Paul constructed and followed through with a master plan that would get him out of his job, and much more, forever. He was very happy with the progress of his plan. He was borderline excited to go through with it - and excitement was something that Paul hadn’t come close to feeling in a very long time.

Paul’s plan was to take his own life. It was something he had thought about for a long time. It was something he had come close to, but he was never satisfied with the idea of doing anything without proper planning. So Paul decided that the best way to go about it was to systematically ready himself, in particular by diminishing his bank account to a flat zero dollars. He began this process by spending ruthlessly but after only a few days he was not happy with himself. He always knew himself to be a very fiscally responsible person, and ending the life of someone who was not him was not his objective. So Paul planned more meticulously and after creating a suicide-budget he came to the conclusion that his last instance of spending would fall on this particular day - a day which also happened to be his 46th birthday.

$8.50 was what he had left in his account, the exact amount of a sandwich from his favorite deli which was local to his office. He thought it was perfect. So when lunch time came around he had the sandwich delivered to the office. He sat alone, savoring it, with a smile on his face. This caught one coworkers attention as he passed Paul’s door, and he exclaimed “wow, when Paul is smiling you know it must be a good sandwich!”. Paul nodded. It was a good sandwich.

Time seemed to slip into the future for Paul as he fulfilled his mundane tasks for ideally the last time. Soon enough he looked up at the clock yellowed with age in his office and saw it was 4:35 pm. With this he smirked, got up from his desk, and started to walk around the office. His plan was to admire anything he was leaving behind in this world, but frankly he found it hard to. Everything felt dull, lackluster, and frankly gray. He was happy to think about not seeing any of these objects again.

As he was doing this two coworkers busted into his mental space. “Happy birthday, Paul!” yelled Charlie, a man who always seemed to have too much fun no matter what he was doing.

“We wanted to give you something before the day was over,” explained Cheryl, who always looked like she was trying very hard to hide the fact that she was overweight.

Paul didn’t expect this, and stumbled over his own thoughts for a moment, but then managed to say thank you.

From behind his back Charlie revealed that he had bought Paul a bottle of Gentleman Jack. “We all chipped in to get you this bad boy,” Charlie said. “I told them all not to get that for you, on account of the fact that you have a little problem with booze,” Cheryl chimed. Paul smiled a bit. He had been trying hard not to touch alcohol for a while but he figured it would be nice to coupling the end of his life with a smooth whiskey. Paul thanked Charlie.

“And this is just a little something else.” Cheryl passed Paul a red envelope with a card inside. Paul opened the envelope and looked at the card. The front of it consisted on generic free-domain clipart of party balloons and the words “Happy Birthday” in comic sans. As he opened the card an index-card shaped object fell to the table. Paul looked at it.

“It’s a scratch-off! Come on, play it now,” Charlie squealed.

Paul took some time to register this. Nowhere in his master plan did he account for anyone being generous. This could be bad, but he thought what are the odds of me even winning anything? Worse comes to worse, I win two dollars and I’ll stop at a 7/11 on my way home for a pack of gum.

Charlie passed him a quarter and slowly Paul began to scratch off the scratch-off. He watched the numbers that were revealed diligently and with each one he scratched slower and slower. He began to realize that he was wrong about the odds of him winning. Charlie watched over his shoulder and started to beam. As Paul finished revealing all the numbers Charlie burst out. “Oh my god, can you believe this?!”

“What?” Cheryl asked.

“Paul just won a million dollars for life!”

That was the last thing Paul heard. His mind began to race. His master-plan was destroyed. Never did he account for winning a million dollars, no less a million dollars “for life” - a term which seemed nothing but cruel to him.

Cheryl looked surprised. “Wow, Paul’s never won anything!”

Mentally, he was at the edge of a cliff embracing his ending. He was ready for it. He purposefully brought it on. And now, he felt as if he was suddenly pushed back hundreds of yards away from that edge. He could run as fast as he could, covering those yards, and dive off the cliff, but that was not what he wanted. That was not his plan.

“Happy birthday big man!” Charlie exclaimed. He slapped Paul’s back in a brutal show of congratulations and Paul teetered. The room spun as Paul was drowning in disbelief.

There’s no denying that a million dollars for life is a large sum of money. A person who is suffering might use that money to help them work through the suffering, like therapy and counseling, and ideally end it. But for Paul, a million dollars for life kept him away from ending his suffering. He sunk back into his chair and stared at the dull walls. He didn’t have to work here any more with that kind of money, but there was no denying that if he quit he would have to come back here at least once to fill out the proper paperwork. Then another thought terrified Paul - he might even get a severance package. He rushed for the bottle of Gentleman Jack and took a swig as his co workers all loudly exclaimed about how they unknowingly stopped Paul’s plan to kill himself.

[tim-ryan-humor-blog]

Missed Opportunity

I took another shot of cheap Philadelphia whiskey. It didn’t go down well, and I was glad that I didn’t pay for it. It was 3:12 AM and I was still sitting at the bar. I was heavily intoxicated - not only by the shoddy alcohol but by sheer fatigue as well. I have been locked into a conversation for an hour and twelve minutes with a man wearing a cheap suit who came into the bar - located in the heart of Long Island, New York - to try to sell Boston Red Sox season tickets. Once this aspiring Bernie Madoff got wind of the fact that I had some interest in finance (I am still not sure how that happened) he began a diatribe about a new investment he just made in a small company that just went public. He raved about money and inorganically rattled off a number of motivational phrases which I’m sure he heard in a number of different TedxTalks. The conversation was painful and the flaws in all of his logic were bountiful. It was as if he was trying to pitch something to me but was too wrapped up in his own words to get to the point. Then it was 3:13 AM. I took another shot of Philadelphia. Again, it did not go down well. I decided this conversation had gone on for far too long but there was no end in sight. Then I realized what might be the one out I had. I told him to hold that thought because I had to use the restroom. He agreed to let me dismiss me, but as I walked away he grappled me into a half-hearted hug and told me he really appreciates a conversation with someone who “picks up what he puts down”. A pan of compassion struck me but it was not enough. I walked to the bathroom, which was conveniently located right next to the exit. In front of the bathroom door I glanced back at the bar where the two of us sat. He was looking down. He didn’t notice me sneak out the exit and walk home in the rain. After waking up at 10 AM or so I did mundane errands while fighting a hangover. The day flew and I went to bed early. The next day I woke up around the same time - this time hangover free. I turned on the morning news and the “Money” segment started by explaining how a small startup company that just went public yesterday had suddenly achieved over 20 billion dollars in funding. Stock prices skyrocketed by percentages unheard of. As I listened to the segment I realized that I had heard the name of this start-up before. It was the investment that the wannabe-life-coach at the bar was raving about. I reflected on this. Should I have stayed and listened to him? Should I have taken his words to heart? The markets were open yesterday. Should I have heeded the man's advice and bought stocks? That thought hurt and I opened up my liquor cabinet. All I had in there was a brown bottle of Philadelphia whiskey. I took a shot. It did not go down well.

[tim-ryan-humor-blog]

Time

I’ve always known Aunt Silvia to have peculiar things in her home all year round - holiday themed items and seasonal paraphernalia that would be in relatively high demand during their respective seasons. I assumed that she attended meet-ups with groups of other women just like her (women well past their prime) and swapped secrets about these things, like the best places to buy them when the season was over. Perhaps they would all take trips together to craft and hobby stores the day after major holidays to snatch them all off the shelves. Every now and then older items would pop-up around Aunt Silvia’s house too, like crock-pots clearly made generations ago. I would question Silvia about it and she would normally jest back with something like “they just don’t make them like they used to”. 

I realized how wrong I was, though, about all my assumptions the moment I opened the door to Aunt Silvia’s pantry. The closet was filled to the brim with out-date seasonal chachkies - Christmas wreaths, Easter egg painting kits yellowed with age, Halloween candies from the Mars candy company - the amount of items was immeasurable. As awe struck me I realized there must be something else going on here. There was just no way these items were obtained simply by Aunt Silvia going to stores and buying them. Even if she pursued an incredibly rigorous circuit of shopping with a crew of over-the-hill partners it would be impossible for her to achieve the number of products that filled the pantry.

After the awe quickly came fear. How was this possible? How did my aunt achieve all of these items? What I was looking into was not the pantry of an honest woman. My mind went to stories of leaders of drug cartels and how they used their homes to stash away their empire of drugs - was my aunt the ringleader of some massive seasonal nick-nack operation? When I was younger I was very much afraid of her because of her unending hostility… did she hone this hostility to control her evil domain? Backing up from the pantry, I bumped into something. It felt like a wall. Before I could turn my head to look I heard a click - a hard, metallic click. The click of a gun loading a bullet into a chamber. The cold metal barrel then pressed against my head. I inched my head to the side as much as the gun-wielder would allow and saw that it was none other than Aunt Silvia. “Well, I guess you’ve figured it out, nephew.” Aunt Silvia’s voice was colder than it has ever sounded before (and frankly it has always sounded cold). I managed to turn a few inaudible murmurs into words; “I don’t understand”. Fear was prevalent in my voice.

“Oh, you understand very well. Out of all of my nieces and nephews I knew from day one that you were on to me. I remember thinking when you were only 6, ‘that rotten brat is going to ruin everything I’ve got going here’”. I did not understand what she was talking about and sweat was beading on my forehead.

“I tried to bribe you. I brought you a penny-cars from the early 70s. I thought that you would get the message - that you’d take the gift as a truce… but here you are now.” She tightened the grip on her gun. I vaguely remembered the gift that she was referencing. “Aunt Silvia, I don’t understand what you are saying.”

“Fine kid, you’re going to make me spell it out for you? Is that how you get your kicks? Listening to my whole plot unravel before you? Fine. I’ll say it. Your Aunt Silvia is a time-traveller.” I choked a little on fear and confusion at the same time. “What?”

“That’s right. I’m a member of a league of time-traveller who go back to purchase seasonal home goods and miscellaneous items.” As ridiculous as this sounded, it all started to make sense.

She continued - “and now that I’ve got you in this position you’re going to help us get out a lot of trouble.” “What sort of trouble are you in?” I asked while sweating.

“See, we started by just jumping back and forth between present days and holidays so we could keep our homes stocked up with holiday goods. You know - fruit cakes, and good stuff like that. We took on a few others to help us out. One night I told the girls at bridge about it, and Dolores from down the way had an idea. She said we should go back years to buy all the good stuff. We started jumping to the 60s and 70s to buy crock-pots and microwaves - they just don’t make them like they used to. “But that Dolores is a hussy! She was fooling around with the man who plays the organ at her Protestant church and she spilled the beans. Then he told all his friends, and they started asking for us to back and get Big Bopper and Jerry Lee Lewis records! It became too much - everyone knew about our operation.”

It all made sense. As I listened to Aunt Sylvia’s words I realized that she was telling the truth. Suddenly she forced the gun closer to my temple. “Now you’re going to help me fix this situation kid,” she demanded.

I gulped. “How can I do that?” She smirked at her thought and then let it out - “we’re going back in time to the day Dolores was born, and we’re going to make sure it never happens”.

[mememaster]

Parenting done right

[tim-ryan-humor-blog]

Top 5 Inventors Killed By Their Own Inventions

1) The Car: Did you know that Stephen King’s “Christine” is based on a true story? The inventor of the automobile was slain by his own invention when one particular vehicle went on an evil mortal slaying rampage.

2) The Blender: The man who invented the blender died in a freak accident in which he made an almond milk smoothie; he had forgotten he was fatally allergic to almonds and died of anaphylaxic shock.

3) The Snuggie: An incident an a manufacturing plant caused a single Snuggie to be produced that had all of it’s holes sewn shut. The inventor of the Snuggie unknowingly tried this particular one on, couldn’t find their way out, and died of asphyxiation (not the fun David Carridine kind).

4) Walls: The man who invented walls was a head of his time - too ahead, in fact. After finishing the first complete 4-sided building with his walls, he realized that doors were not invented yet and he was trapped. Seeing a way out with the fact that roofs were also not invented yet, he attempted to climb the walls and escape, but they were too tall and he fell to his death.

5) The Stapler: The man who invented the stapler tested out his invention by stapling together some fan-fiction that he wrote (fan-fiction in which he ‘shipped Johannes Gutenberg and Eli Whitney). Tragically, however, he stapled his hand to a table in the process and after spending nine days stuck to the table died of thirst and starvation.

Bonus - George Lucas and his “Star Wars”: Though “Star Wars” is not an invention per se, this is worth mentioning. It is a little known fact that George Lucas is no longer with us. He actually passed away in 1999 during the first screening of his finished piece “Episode One: The Phantom Menace” from an abrupt heart attack. The autopsy showed that his heart issue was due to stress caused by the dialogue shared between Young Anakin Skywalker and any other character in the film (also, Jar Jar Binks probably didn’t help).

(True story: I wrote this on the train, and then the train hit and killed a pedestrian)

[tim-ryan-humor-blog]

A Sysadmin in Hell

(I wrote this for a writing prompt a while ago) I rose from my bed and rubbed my eyes for a minute, and then I remembered why I woke in the first place. My phone was screaming at me. I answered - it was the boss.  “Your services are needed in the Underworld immediately”, he roared at me through the phone. I agreed that I would meet him down there as soon as possible. In a few minutes I was dressed and I gathered everything I’d need for the day - my Microsoft Surface, wireless mouse, charger, patch cables. With the bag on my shoulder I went down to the kitchen and grabbed a granola bar. I told my dog, Getty, I had to leave him for work. He was indifferent. I traveled to the basement and shut the door behind me. In the middle of the room was the summoning circle - a pentagram made of blood with candles at every point. I put my bag down, grabbed a lighter, and lit each candle. I picked the bag up and sat down in the middle of the circle. Within seconds the flames consumed me.I got up from the floor of the waiting room of Hell, and rubbed the debris from my clothes. My pantleg was on fire so I danced to get it out. The receptionist, Tara, saw it and chuckled. She wore this extremely low crop top that revealed a lot and her hair was up in a flirtatious bun. I don’t know many succubus, but she was definitely the most attractive. “Hello Tim,” she said with a smile. “I’ll let Mr. Damien know that you are here”. I thanked her and casually watched as she walked away from the desk. She came back in just a moment and told me to enter Mr. Damien’s office.As soon as I entered the office, the demon roared at me. “The server is down and I cannot access the database!”. That was unfortunate - I really hoped it was just some sort of user issue that he called me in for. I’m sure the server’s not really down though. There must be something else that’s causing this issue, I thought. I assured Mr. Damien that I would be able to fix the issue, as long as he granted me access to the server room. He walked me through the hall, past the hanging and dripping bodies and the screams of horror, to the server room. He fumbled in his pocket for a key and I stopped him. I asked why he wasn’t using his keycard on the scanner. “My keycard melted again!”. Of course. I assured him after the server issues were resolved I’d get him a new one and he opened the door with his key. He left me and I settled into the room. I started visually troubleshooting and I saw nothing wrong - no orange or red lights on the drive, no signs of anything being unplugged. I decided I was going to be a brave. I went right up to the server and held the power button so it powered down. I waited a second and tapped the power again. It didn’t respond. That’s not good. I tapped it again. Nothing. All lights were grey and dead. I sighed as I realized today was going to be a long day in Hell. 

[tim-ryan-humor-blog]

Tales From the Open Mic: #2

(loosely based on a true story) Tom sat at the bar and sipped on a beer from the tap while nodding along to a conversation about “The Terminator” franchise. There were three other people at the bar, not including the bartender, and they were all engaged in this conversation. The three guys were like Tom - fellow comedians - waiting for their turn at an open mic set later that night.

For a while the bar remained sparsely attended until 9:50 or so when a large group of people flowed in through the back door. The entirety of the group consisted of walking Italian stereotypes. The majority of the group were big men and there were also a few small women as well. They were all dressed in black from head to toe and talking solemly amongst themselves. It was clear that this group came straight from a funeral to the bar.

Tom and his four comedian friends observed this and then traded looks with each other. There was no doubt that this was an awkward situation. Tom doubted that the funeral party came here for some standup to lighten the mood, but likely just decided on the nearest bar to drink away memories of a lost friend or family member.

As time went on the awkwardness was less abundant than Tom figured it would be. The funeral party was clustered at the bar drinking and talking in much lighter spirits than one would expect them to be. The open mic sets began and though Tom had some reservations about performing at all he went on. The funeral party paid little attention to him performing which actually made him feel a bit more comfortable. He exercised some new material and when it was all said and done he felt pretty good about his set.

When Tom’s set ended, one member of the funeral party took advantage of the lul in sound to make a heartfelt toast to their fallen friend which was followed by agreeing sounds and a round of shots of Patron for everyone in the group. Tom internally reflected on how it was eerie to watch this from a distance.

Up on the stage after the toast was Mike the comedian. Mike liked to work some improvisational stuff that involved audience volunteers into his set often inspired by episodes of “Whose Line Is It Anyway?”. Immediately Mike jumped into his routine and declared that he needed a female volunteer from the audience. Asserting himself, he made eye contact with every woman who was part of the funeral party. One particularly beautiful young woman had a flicker of interest in her eye, and when Mike saw this he urged her to come forward. A few guys in the party started to loudly egg her on. The young woman still seemed reluctant though and didn’t move from her seat, but Mike was determined. In what was a mighty attempt to convince the girl to have faith in him and join him on the stage, Mike addressed the woman - “it’s okay, I’m not going to rape you in front of your friends”.

All noise ceased to exist in the bar at that moment. A look of horror and disbelief struck across almost everyone’s face. Tom immediately looked at the floor and debated clicking his heels together in an attempt to flee from this intensely awkward scene. One big member of the funeral group slowly approached Mike on the stage. “Yo, apologize to her right now,” he boomed.

Mike was clearly nervous but made a strong attempt to play the situation off as if this was just light-hearted banter. “Yeah, yeah. I’m very sorry,” Mike joked. He made an attempt at a couple more small jokes while the funeral party began talking amongst themselves about their disbelief. Tom eavesdropped and heard that the situation still fizzling loudly. Mike finished his set and walked off stage. As he did, two burly members of the funeral group approached him. “Let’s go out back and talk for a minute,” they informed Mike. Without any say Mike was escorted to the back door of the venue. Tom heard one person from the group that stayed by the bar tell the woman who was targeted by the joke to not worry, and that “they will take care of him”. He looked quickly for his other two comedian friends and saw their tail ends as they bolted out the front door to escape the ordeal.

Tom walked out the back door of the venue to watch what would happen to Mike. There a couple of unaware people outside smoking cigarettes, so Tom bummed one off of them to blend in. He smoked the cigarette and watched the two Italian men as they stood over Mike. “Do you have any idea who that is in there that you just made that awful joke to, “ asked one man. Mike felt one-inch tall and stammered. “No, no I don’t.”

“That was Jimmy the Bull’s girlfriend. You know who Jimmy the Bull is, right?” With each question they loomed closer and higher over Mike. “I don’t.”

“Jimmy the Bull runs every liquor joint on the island. He was our boss and our friend, and we just buried him tonight.”

The other man spoke up. “Yeah, and do you know what he would do, if he was alive, to someone who threatened to rape his girlfriend?”

Mike panicked. “No, it was just a joke! I didn’t mean it.” Tom winced at this comment. He took a heavy drag of his cigarette and thought, what a terrible fucking joke.

“Well, she didn’t find it funny. And we didn’t find it funny. And I know Jimmy wouldn’t have found it funny.”

Mike tried to save face, but a fist slammed into his nose. He fell backwards onto a chain fence and the men hoisted him up. They were just getting started. The other man landed a punch right into Mike’s stomach, and Mike wretched.

Tom was horrified at what he saw. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of his comedian friend getting pummeled. The two men landed more and more fists on Mike until he resembled himself less and less. Tom wanted badly to be able to save his friend but he knew there was no way he could stand a chance against these two - and soon more men came out of the bar to join the jumping. Soon Mike couldn’t take anymore and he slumped to the floor crying and coughing. One of the men then turned, perhaps to address another, but saw Tom. “Hey, you’re a comedian too, aren’t you?”. Tom had never been more afraid in his life to hear that question, and as the man started towards him he realized that his only options were fight or flight - so Tom flew.

[tim-ryan-humor-blog]

Tales from the Open Mic: #1

(based on a true story) John was feeling on top of the world on this Thursday night. For almost a year now he has been attending open mics at a local bar and restaurant (called “Fatty’s”) and performing his comedy routines. His bits were not often well received due to the fact that ninety-nine perfect of the people performing at these open mics were musicians. After one night of performing and receiving a scarce amount of laughs a man approached John and said, “I thought you were an official from the restaurant telling us about the night’s drink specials and I was confused, but once I realized you were telling jokes I thought you were pretty good”. 

This night would be different than those and all of the rest, though. A couple days prior while John was dauntlessly editing his monologue, his creative juices rushed through his brain. After a few hours of putting the pen to paper he created what was surely nothing short of comedic perfection. He practiced it out loud to himself a number of times and he found it hard to believe how masterful the piece he created was.

So he entered Fatty’s on this particular Thursday night with the perfect monologue locked into his brain. He wore a smirk like no other as he thought about how every person in the establishment will be laughing at his material. The place was packed with not only the faces of patrons at the restaurant and the bar but familiar faces as well. John whored himself out to all forms of social media to promote his standup bit tonight and it seems that the majority of people who saw his shamelessly self-promoting posts showed up. This made his smirk grow - they will love his stuff.

He walked up to the bar like Hefner walking through an orgy-room in the Playboy Mansion, and signed up on paper as the first act of the night, with unending grace. He ordered a vodka and seltzer and he was mindful of how cool he looked while he drank it. He nodded to a few friends who approached him and explained how excited they were to hear his stuff. He thanked them for coming but then excused himself to use the restroom.

He walked into the small, untidy bathroom and approached the single urinal. His eyes were fixated forward at the graffiti and band-stickers that plastered the walls when he heard someone else enter the restroom. The other person entered the stall to urinate, since there was no other urinal for him to use. 

As the man started to let his fluids drain he spoke out loud, addressing John - who was a stranger to him. “What a day, huh?” 

John was in such a good mood that he enjoyed the idea of conversation with this man. “You said it buddy,” he agreed. 

“I could really use a drink,” the man announced in reply.

John smirked at that notion. “Agreed.”

The man finished, flushed the toilet, and then came out of the stall to wash his hands. He met John face to face for the first time. John noticed that the man looked extremely tired, as if he had just wrestled with death, and his eyes looked more sad than anything John had ever known. “I just came back from burying my only son”.

John could not process what he just heard. His smirk faded quickly. “What?”

The man began to wash his hands. “I just left the funeral for my son. Just died three days ago.”

In John’s life he had only known a small amount of loss. He lost his father a few years ago which was something that would have had a much bigger impact on him if he was closer to his dad. He could not fathom the kind of loss the man just explained. “How did it happen?”

The man sighed and explained, “Don’t know. He was nine years old and he just had a seizure one night. I was out at work and my wife was home. She tried to help him, called an ambulance, but he didn’t even make it to the hospital.”

“Wow.” It was all that John could say or think.

“Yeah. I can’t go home to that house without him so I decided to just come here and drink. Never even heard about this place before.” The man dried his hands and walked out of the restroom. John came to a realization that stopped his heart; while this man sits at the bar and drinks away the thoughts of a son he loved and lost, John will be on-stage in front of him making jokes - jokes that no longer even seemed remotely funny to John. That man had seen death today and at that moment John felt like dying.

He walked out of the restroom and slowly made his way over to the stage area right beside the bar while his mind fixated on the terrible loss the man had faced. In a matter of minutes an emcee got on stage. John didn’t hear any of what he was saying besides his own name being called. A few people clapped and cheered, but that noise seemed to be dampened by a darkness that filled the air. John’s body acknowledge the cue and walked on stage.

John looked out at the people as well as he could while a pale white light shined directly into his eyes. He saw many familiar faces that looked eager to hear him speak, and he wondered if they noticed the expression of horror he wore. He stumbled over his words immediately. “So, my girlfriend, she likes daddy fetishes,” he started as he looked around. Then he saw the man who lost his son. His back was to John and he was hunched over the bar with a shot of whiskey in his hand. John was sure that the man wasn’t hearing anything he was saying, but still it felt like everything he did in that moment was insulting to him. John watched as the man shot back the glass of whiskey and pushed it out to the bartender for another. Then while the man waited for another drink, he put his head into his hands and quietly sobbed. John could not go on any further. He said “sorry”, put the mic back into the stand, and walked off.