Welcome to Late Night Laugh Lines, your one-stop source for all things snark. Let me explain a little about the mission of LNLL for our new friends.
The Nu Romantics is a cool, sexy, group with great talents posting and participating. Wess, for example, is a sooper classy film noir genius. Sebastian and Benjamin write tons of delicious poems. There are many others who work hard to make this a great place. I don’t even need to mention the awesome founders — you know what they bring.
Then there is me. I am what is generously called an outlier. In Sesame Street terms, one of these things is not like the others.
As such, my little contribution to the group is not like the others. This is a Sap-Free Zone. It is a place to poke fun at relationships and love and everything that can go wrong with them, and how we (usually fail to) deal with them.
There is usually a sacred cow roasting on the spit. Step up and enjoy a slice.
If you are new to LNLL, please say hello. The ritual hazing will be long but painful and, with any luck, embarrassing. If your name happens to begin with Jackson Nunn, you may have to repeat the hazing every week.
And always, always, start with The Roolz. (Don’t expect them to make sense, just go with it.)
<ROOLZ skip=”if you hate yourself”>
The Dog Gamn Roolz!
1. RTDGR! (Read The Dog Gamn Roolz!). One day, your life could depend on it.
2. If things get that bad, you probably won’t be able to get at the internet anyway.
3. Remember, while zombies may not be a real thing, head shots are always in fashion, should it come down to that.
4. Not like runway fashions.
5. And not like 8×10 glossy head shots.
6. Growing up next to a creepy graveyard, I would have known if zombies were real.
7. Please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. If you are attached to them and want to stay that way.
8. Any missing limbs may be collected at the Lost & Found.
9. Please only take limbs that belong to you.
10. LNLL is continuing the experiment of not having a specific writing prompt. Please participate in whatever way suits you. Since that’s what people do anyway.
11. Did you hear about the dyslexic, agnostic, insomniac? He stayed up all night wondering if there really is a dog.
The stubby woman with rebellious hair strode to the front of the room. People slumped in various chairs, some with sunglasses on, others holding their heads as if to keep them from fracturing. To her left stood a pair of stern EMTs.
“Welcome to Berit Recovery,” said Grace Quillen in her Lauren Bacall voice. She turned to a small table, picking up a glass of Maker’s Mark and a joint.
“One sec,” she muttered while flicking a lighter. A long drag, then a longer hold, then an extended coughing fit.
“Whew! That’s some good shit,” she said, chasing the hit with the whiskey.
“Who wants some?” Hands went up all around the room. “Jesus, you people are dumbass suckers. This is mine. You are addicts. You can’t handle this shit. Morons.”
Grace poured another drink. “I am here to help you pathetic people get over your stupid addictions to your ex’s and crushes and all the relationships, real or imagined, that you simply refuse to get over.”
After knocking back the drink, Grace said, “We have a simple philosophy here at Berit Recovery. Which I will demonstrate now.”
“You, what is your deal?” she said, pointing at a young woman in the first row.
The woman looked around, nervously. “It’s my boyfriend. Ex boyfriend. We were–”
“Nobody cares, sweetie,” said Grace. “Do you want to get over him?”
The woman nodded.
“Who else would like to be done with their addiction to the people who don’t love them?”
All hands go up.
Grace picked up a rubber mallet, walked to the woman in the first row, and smashed her kneecap. She screamed in pain while the EMTs assisted her out of the room.
Waving the mallet, Grace asks, “Anyone else? No? Then get out of here. You’re cured.”