Tag Archives: satire

To All Those Anti-Left-ites

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Left-handedness is not a choice– it’s a quality people are born with. You think they would choose to be left-handed? You think that’s the easy way out? No, not in this right-handed society. Not in this world where every left-handed schoolchild is forced to sit unnaturally in a right-handed desk; where they must train themselves to use scissors meant for an inherently different kind of person; where they can never fairly arm wrestle. Even the most fundamental interaction with our fellow man– a handshake — is a constant reminder that lefties are not, and never will be, the norm. It takes a special kind of bravery for a left-handed person to constantly introduce him/herself to their fellow man with a lie.
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Society claims to be tolerant, saying, “Oh, I’m not a leftist. I have friends who are left-handed.” It’s a nice sentiment, but if our culture really understood, we would stop looking at lefties with disgust as they write with their hands curled around a pencil (I know it looks gross, but have some compassion.) What’s worse are those ignorant individuals who argue that handedness isn’t even an issue anymore, saying things like, “We have a left-handed President, how much more hand tolerant can we get?” Just the fact that someone could boast tolerance when we live in a world where all left-handed people are still marked with lead smudges on their pinkies proves that this topic requires greater awareness.
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When was the last time you heard, “Now raise your left hand?” or “Place your left hand over your heart?” Never. Your left hand never vows or pledges. Our society systematically distrusts all things left-handed, as evidenced in the expression “a left-handed compliment,” (meaning questionable or deceptive) which, despite how we claim to be a politically correct nation, still remains an accepted idiom.
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Still incredulous about this prejudice? Well, answer me this: Do we have rights? Yes. Do they have lefts? No! Can our wrongs be righted? Yes. Can their wrongs be lefted? No!

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Really, still not seeing it? Well, would you rather be left behind or right behind? Have you ever been grooving on the dance floor only to be told that you have two right feet? No, I didn’t think so.

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What lefties need is a spokesperson– a famous face for left-handedness. How about Tom Cruise? No, too controversial; we’d lose support from pro-height people. How about Jerry Seinfeld? Yes, yes, he’s likable, and I can’t think of any additional bigotry he’d incite. Together with Jerry, let’s send out a call to arms to put our hands together.

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Lefties should no longer use a can opener or a stick shift or a baseball glove with shame. That’s right, I mean, left! They’re here, they’re…. er…. get used to it!

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I am a proud left-handedness activist. To join the movement, raise your left fist in solidarity.

This Is Acceptance

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This is Rejection

“Dear Writer: We regret to inform you that your submission is not a good fit for our publication. This is a subjective business, and we hope you continue trying to find placement elsewhere.”

This is Your Blogger When Rejected

She opens the email with the expectation (instilled from its countless predecessors) that it is a rejection and, when reading the form letter, she thinks, “Yup, that sounds about right. Another one for the excel sheet.”

This is Acceptance

“I love this, I love you, and I’d love to publish your writing.”

This is Your Blogger When Accepted

She reads the email just out of the shower with a towel still wrapped around her. She yelps. She shrieks to Phil, “Funny Women. The Rumpus. Accepted me! The Rumpus is such a good placement! Shut the front door! The Rumpus! The Rumpus!” Her shrieks turn into a sort of “The Rumpus” chant, which is outwardly senseless, but so impassioned that Phil can’t help but join in. The enthusiasm builds until they are screaming “The Rumpus” like a literary battle cry. Because they are already shouting at the tops of their voices and therefore can no longer heighten enthusiasm through volume, she continues the chant and begins jumping around the apartment, still clutching the towel to her body (the windows are open and they are in a suburban neighborhood after all). Now that the two have both reached the point of full-out shouting and jumping, surely they cannot possibly elevate their fervor further. No, no they cannot…. at least not without the assistance of Freddie Mercury! Between leaps and blurts, Phil manages to enlist the help of all four members of British rock band Queen, to the tune of We Are the Champions. With the inspiration of the most motivating song to ever grace the ears of victors, their chant has morphed into an even more inexplicable version– We are The Rumpus. Fist pumps are involved, and their downstairs landlord is one electric guitar solo away from pounding a broom against his ceiling.

Any Questions?

Benedict, By Vatican

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“An Italian perfume maker was commissioned to create the pope’s cologne. The exact formula is top secret but it’s rumored to have hints of lime, verbena and grass — reflecting the pontiff’s love of nature.” –NPR

 

To the Newly Appointed Suffragan of Scents,

Our Gregorian chant-a-gramers reported that they reached you at home last night to commission you to this venerable position. So, now you know. The Vicar of Christ, the Supreme Pontiff, the Successor of St. Peter—The Pope—thinks he smells. And, as his Prime Minisniffer, I must agree. His Holiness is getting a bit…. stale. Like a Barberini Gospel, am I right? Anyway, we’ve collectively determined that his God-given odor falls short of capturing the outdoorsy essence of his character (no offense to The Big Guy), and this must be remedied.

Just so we are clear, the Governor of the World has a very specific vision for his signature fragrance. You are just the alchemist, not the artist. If you were thinking something tropical like coconut or pineapple, just forget it. You wouldn’t find the Master Pastor lying poolside listening to Jimmy Buffet, so why would he smell like a piña colada? We want an aroma reminiscent of foliage. An olfactic symphony of leaves and flowers, with a subtle note of citrus. An eau de Tree of Life, without the stink of sin.

As for the bottling design, the papal command is a golden mitre, the taller the better.  We are looking for ornate, but a natural ornate. Think Renaissance man meets pastoral poet. And no head, just the really tall hat.

Now for the name. We aren’t interested in anything cutesy like Holy Toilet Water, Very Vatican, or Pope-pourri. We’re thinking something elegant, like Papa. No, scratch that. Benedict. Simple, classy, sophisticated. It’s righteous.

Well, there’s nothing left to say but welcome to the Cologne Council. Oh, and if you mess this up, there will be Hell to pay.

Sincerely His,

Servant of the servant of God’s Prime Minisniffer