Category Archives: Narrative

Book Reviews For Wine Moms

By Sharon Blanda

An excerpt from The Adult Issue, out now!

Greetings, ladies, it’s Sharon, your new best friend. This week we have another hefty sack of novels to sift through. We have a few fantastic selections: some, sadly, corporately-published, and one brave self-published. No need for big name authors here. I picked the best of the best, and brought them to you, personally. Intimately. Pour yourself a glass of that Franzia blush and buckle in, honey! Because this one’s going to be a doozie.

Lydia in the Wild, Mary Contrary, Penguin Publishing, 2017:

Lydia, our main character, is a small, religious, big-city girl with a tiny vagina. She’s your average lover – small and big-city-dwelling. Working full-time at a failing New York tabloid writing book reviews has left her womanhood parched as a puckering sundried tomato (and no, more oil-based lube won’t solve feminine dryness caused by years of sexual dissatisfaction). Attempts at seducing her 60-year-old married boss have proven less than fruitful. Lydia is exhausted, barely finding time on the weekends to pleasure herself with the $5 bullet vibrator she bought at Spencer’s on a dare at a bachelor party. When work sends her to the Wild Wild West of Newark, New Jersey for a research project, she discovers a big, small-town boy with a big, small, and medium member who will show her the ropes, quite literally. Within the first fourteen pages, Lydia is whisked away from the Big Apple to a life of shoddy investigative journalism, lassoes, and bondage (oh god, the bondage). Will Lydia leave her life of subdued mediocrity in a stifling city to bond to her rugged Rutgers cowboy in holy matrimony and sumptuous sanctified sex? This book, being only thirty pages with 32-point text, is an easy and steamy beach-read to leave by your husband’s bedside in an effort to get him to buy more Cialis, maybe pay some attention to lady-parts that, like Lydia’s, are bone-dry and unloved. Bring your bifocals and sarong down to the beach and give this one a hot read. 4.5/5 stars

How to Raise a Straight Daughter When You Are Questioning Your Own Sexuality (For Dummies), John Wiley & Sons, John Wiley & Sons, 2017 :

We’ve all done it, ladies. You’re at the soccer game waiting for your boy Cayden to come off the field (because your husband refuses to pick him up on Wednesdays, much like he refuses to satisfy your feminine needs). Your arms are full of juice boxes and other electrolyte-rich drinks for youngsters, when suddenly, you are struck by a divine beauty walking towards you. She introduces herself to you as Marlene, mother to Cayden’s friend Bricyn. She offers you a hand, and when she reaches out to take some of the drinks from your arms, to lighten your heavy load, you can’t help but notice her massive tidz. Is she pregnant? No, her stomach is totally flat, as can be seen through her well-fitted cashmere J. Crew cowl-neck sweater. Are they fake? No, they bounce like real bazookas (here, the handbook includes diagrams). Wait, you ask yourself, why are you thinking so much about this woman’s juggalos? Are you a pervert? Or worse – are you a lesbo? (I didn’t THINK I was raised on the Isle of Lesbos! The book even features a map) You shake these thoughts from your mind, but you cannot forget how giant her knockers were. Later that day at home, your teenage daughter comes home from the mall with – gasp! – a nose ring. Knowing that nose rings are used to tie women together – an act of lesbian sex – you demand that she remove it from her nose. But not so fast! Raising a straight daughter isn’t as easy as telling her to remove metal objects from her various cartilaginous body parts. To raise a straight daughter, you must be a straight icon. You must exude straightness. Your very coochie must ooze heterosexuality. Forget about the big-boobied-biddy you met at the soccer game and get yourself straightened up, first. 3.5/5 stars, -1.5 stars for too much breast description.

Cooking with Charlie, Sharon Blanda, Selfpublished, 2017:

This book has everything. Have you ever found yourself alone on a Sunday evening with nowhere to go but your refrigerator? Your husband is at work, he said. He’ll be home late, he said. Your children are already in bed, and your big-mouthed friends are at the Suburban Ladies Sunday Night Book and Hors d’Oeuvres Club without you. Once, Janice accidentally invited you on a Facebook event, then deleted it as soon as you noticed. You don’t talk to Janice anymore, because you’re too busy working for a big-name magazine. Yes. A big-name magazine. You find yourself alone, with no one to comfort you but – oh? Who is this, knocking on your refrigerator door? It’s Mr. Charles Shaw! Everyone’s favorite cheap $3 boy from Trader Joe’s, his tender red and white varieties pleasuring your palate with a tart tang. He is so good to you, and treats you so kindly. Charlie would never stay late at work. Charlie would never uninvite you to a social event. Charlie is a kind and giving lover; an affordable and high-alcohol-content friend. Cook with him. Chardonnay? Try the “Scalp Your Cheating Husband Scallops with Linguine.” Merlot? Roast an entire “Put Your Book Club Up Your Ass, Janice Pot Roast” and eat it with your bare hands from the crock pot. Make passionate love to this recipe book, as if you haven’t been fucked in years. This recipe masterpiece, written by yours truly, and featuring colorful and life-life illustrations by my son, was rejected from Penguin, Random House, Houghton-Mifflin, HarperCollins, Simon & Schuster, and even Tyndale (I took the fucking swears out!), but can be found as a self-publication on Amazon. 5/5 stars

My Grandson Will Ruin You, Uber.

by Gwynneth Gesth

An excerpt from our latest issue, The Fake News Issue!

Fascist tyrant of the streets,  

I write to you today on behalf of my grandson, Ross Gesth. I write to you today, in this very public, real, and good newspaper, to deliver to you the news that you are finished. Ruined. My home doesn’t get internet, so I write to you now, you technological Pol Pot, from the local public library. I come here twice a week to keep up with the other world, that one Online, and I’ve gleaned from Facebook and WordPress and Ticker and Zomit that you have made an enemy of youths around this nation. Big mistake, Uber. Big mistake…you neo-Nazi.

My grandson writes of you often, Uber. He makes “statuses” online about the way you lure vulnerable youngsters into serving a rigid totalitarian state, and on www.RossGoesOff.wordpress.com he even outlines a plan to sabotage you with pranks, hijinks, and more serious ideas as well. You want to use an army of cyber-youths to take down the media in order to further serve the oppressive regime you’ve help put in place? So be it. My daughter’s son Ross will erase your website from his phone, and then he will become a full-time taxi driver. My handsome and righteous grandson will combat you in the very streets you terrorize.

I offer to you, through this good publication, an offer: Leave the young people of this country alone, cease your nationalistic rhetoric and your Constitutional injustices and, if you truly want to allay the gripes that Ross has alluded to on various online playgrounds and real-world playgrounds as well, stop employing drivers who take it upon themselves to decide what music is played. That’s indoctrination, and if it does not end I will be forced to take matters into my own grandson Ross’s hands.

Also, “surge pricing.” I’m not sure what that is, but Ross says on Twitter.com that it is “wack,” “so fucked,” and even notes them as an example of “some serious Nazi-level shit. Big, big bullshit.” Your fascist coup of LaGuardia airport hasn’t escaped us Uber. The eyes of the world are watching. Sickening.

To Ross you are a new enemy. Your betrayal – your empty promises of a fairer, better world, where no middle-aged man is denied the opportunity to make a little extra cash on the side – stung him hard, like the first round thwap of a switch from a time when parents had God’s blessing to do what was necessary. I remember that time. And I remember you, Uber. You’re nothing new to me. No. We knew you by many names: Stalin. Mussolini. Mao Zedong. We should have seen you coming, but how could we? You slithered in like all the others, cloaked in technology, innovation, and “progressivism.” You rose up on the back of the little guy, but you didn’t even realize that that little guy was my grandson Ross, who is 6’4”.

Adelphi Is Gone

By Sam Thor

An excerpt from our latest issue, The Fake News Issue!

Responding to reports that Garden City just generally felt more pleasant to be around, authorities this Wednesday discovered that Adelphi University is officially gone. What used to be the mediocre campus is just nothing. We don’t know what is there, or if there even exists anymore. Whatever caused this, officials are still unsure, but also they don’t really care enough to put any more money into finding out.

The entire student body of 7,500 students have also seemingly vanished, but their parents haven’t filed any missing persons reports, obviously, since no parent can truly love their child if they sent them to Adelphi.

Hofstra University emailed the student body, confirming that their gross smelly neighbor school ceases to be, but the email didn’t seem to be solemn, and with Stuart Rabinowitz actually typing “see ya the fuck later fats!” The area around where Adelphi was has become a huge party scene for the Hofstra youth, while many white students at Hofstra have started doing séances in the space the “school” used to occupy, just to tell the Adelphi students that it still sucks in the afterlife.

Surprisingly, the shuttle to Adelphi stills seems to be running. Adelphi’s one positive quality was that they had the only shuttle that knew when the trains came in and arrived accordingly, a skill that Hofstra never seemed to achieve. The vanishing of the entire university apparently wasn’t enough for the school to give up their one good thing–the ability to leave there entirely, quickly and on time–so the shuttles continue. However, no one is ever driving, and nobody truly knows where the shuttle ends up. Scientists theorized during their break from more pressing, relevant matters, that the shuttles appear and disappear through a small black hole, or something, maybe. Similar to what Adelphi previously was.

Weathered Old Man Who Lives By The Sea “Fucks Heavy” With Ghost In The Shell Remake

By Jordan Hopkins

An excerpt from our latest issue, The Fake News Issue!

The “Ghost in the Shell” remake starring Scarlett Johansson comes out in two weeks, and expectations are high. The Rupert Sanders-directed film is set to be the biggest anime live-action adaptation since “Aeon Flux”. However, with fame has come controversy; many people are up in arms concerning the film’s Asian protagonist being played by a white Hollywood actress. Always at the forefront of both art and clickable public debate with a high potential for shareability, we, here at Nonsense Humor, are just as excited as you are, and so to gain some insight on the upcoming release we went to our resident culture expert: a weathered old man who lives by the sea.

Howard Daniels is a seventy-six year old lighthouse owner from a nondescript but somewhat disarming town somewhere in Maine (maybe around the place where Stephen King lives or something). We spoke to him about the film – well, he shouted at us from the top of his decrepit, slightly menacing watchtower, the light pointing out to sea through the haze like a ghost.

“Yeah, I’m dumb fucking stoked, my dude,” Daniels was quoted as shouting at our reporter from the parapet. “I read every issue of the manga when I was living in Japan after The War, and I loved the 1995 Mamoru Oshii-directed film. Artificial intelligence, man. That’s some heavy shit.” As huge waves battered the spire from the east, spraying our reporter with their scenic brutality and throwing him several meters into the air, Daniels admitted that he did understand the problem with Johansson’s role in the film.

“Yeah, I can understand why people are upset,” he roared above the surf, his voice the ocean itself. “It kind of feels like they’re taking roles away from Asian actors, which I can understand is broke as fuck. I don’t want to support that kind of behavior, you know?”

Daniels admitted that he will likely not see the movie in theatres for this reason, and revealed that he would “probably end up torrenting it or something, I dunno”.

I Thought Ponyo Was Hentai, What Gives?

By Dorito Man

An excerpt from our latest release, The Fake News Issue!

I work hard. People in my life understand this, So get this. I get home late, and my weirdo roommate, he tells me he has just the thing to cheer me up. I get want to grab a nice cold one from the fridge and crawl into bed, but I can’t, because there he is. Standing in the way. I can feel the condensation meeting my fingers. I crave it. I am thinking about this and my eyes are just about to glaze over when he pull out this blu-ray. I don’t know where it came from, and I don’t want to know. He’s really into that anime shit, and I’ve promised him I’d check some out, but honestly, I’m scared. I don’t have the time for big 2D jigglage. I have a girlfriend I’m too tired to talk to, okay? I’m too old for cartoon boobs that refuse to follow Newtonian physics, where the nipple can be fully penetrated by a large manhood. This time was different, though. I could tell that he wouldn’t leave me alone unless I gave Ponyo a shot.

I was ready. Taking a cursory glance at the blu-ray case, I saw a little girl, and I saw fish. That’s all I managed to see, and I thought to myself, ain’t this illegal? I know what this anime business is about. Seeing the ocean life on the cover only confirmed my biases about where this journey was headed. Knowing what he’s into–Samurai Champloo (which I think is Japanese for coitus), Kingdom Hearts, Neon Genesis Evangellier (even jellier than what?), I got ready for the evening that I assumed he had planned for us. I got the baby oil ready and lathered the entire bottom half of my body like a hybrid of man and seal. My socks stayed on of course, to preserve heat.

It’s to preserve heat.

I popped that bad boy in hiding behind 7 different proxies (which is what my roommate calls our blinds) so the POTUS couldn’t spot me finna engage in some solid waifu lechery. From what I’d gathered by right wing people on twitter, though, the president loves anime–judging by his supporters avi’s so I wasn’t too worried, when I hit play. I see Disney’s logo upfront, and I nearly cry. Have they stooped this low?

But here’s the crazy thing.

Not a single nipple. Not one. Buddy, you could put a magnifying glass up against the screen and I promise you that wouldn’t help find any nipples because there aren’t any. No inhuman amounts of ejaculate being funneled into genitalia, no swelling of the gastrointestinal system without any sort of health related repercussions and not one, not one, slippery bad boy with suction cups for fingers. Tentacles, in case you didn’t get it. The movie takes place in the sea, from what I had gathered, so that seemed like a given.

Instead, what I did get was beautiful handpainted scenery, mindblowing cinematography of a breathtaking scope, and a renewed sense of purpose, with a sense that the world isn’t as cold as I make it out to be living this day to day life I call a mediocre waste of time and breath. When my roommate said that the film had strong female characters, I assumed he was judging by the amount of newtons worth of force their little buttholes could negotiate. I now realize that he was referring to the depth of their character, which is–in a way–far more important. This film made me want to call my girlfriend.

The tale of a little-girl-fish thing helping her newfound family find love, is exactly what I would expect of Disney. I didn’t even get an erection. How fucking cool is that?

Apparently Hayao Miyazaki has a long history of making wonderous pictures that explore relatable themes, in ways that we are too busy down at the mill to consider. How was I supposed to know that Howl was the name of the protagonist of Howl’s Moving Castle, instead of just a description of the sounds buttstuff creates?

How the fuck was I supposed to know Ponyo wasn’t hentai?

Japanese, check.

Female protagonist, check.

That’s about all I got. You hear that, you think hentai. This was not that. 0/10 hentai, 10/10 film.

I owe my roommate an apology. Not just for shunning all of his recommendations prior, but for begrudgingly stripping nude in his presence. Tomorrow, I might even check out Spirited Away! Look, was I a little disappointed when I learned that Tina Fey hadn’t in fact lended her voice to a piece of animated pornography? Sure. Sure as I’ve got toes on my feets.

I do not have toes on my feet. But seeing her out of character, in the role of a caring mother just trying to make sure her family can get by under the weight of the judgement of others made me consider how I’d been treating the mother of my own children, whom I have been separated from, for just so long. And that’s great. There is no other result that I would prefer to come from laying slick on a trashbag tarp of my own preparation. That’s just grand.

This has been kind of nice actually. I feel as though the power of friendship is actually pretty important. Ponyo taught me that. Maybe there are things in life more important than playing five hand poker with the baloney pony.

Ah who am I kiddin? I’m gonna go crack open a cold one and watch some busty beauties get shafted by failed government experiments. Consensually.

Dorito Man 48 signing off. See you later space cowboy.

Your Horoscopes

By Quin Asselin

An excerpt from our latest release, The Fake News Issue.

With modern life being what it is, with it’s Twitters and Big Macs and Smartphones, and beautiful healing crystals, it’s pretty easy to get completely mixed up in the ancient trappings of astrology and all the secrets it holds. So easy, in fact, that most have never had their proper horoscope breathed all over them. Find your sign and feel my warm breath on your supple little neck sprouts!

The Craven

December 31st – ‘Til Next Year

You needn’t worry about the scorpion fish, Craven. I put that saucy little sawfish in a cage in the attic. It shan’t escape. So run freely into the eve. Take it. Take the eve and suck the sweet gelatinous matter from its bones. You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’? Vegas baby!

The Astrologer’s Children

July 4th, 1776 – The Day My Love Was Shot Dead

Pib? Barmble? What are you two still doing awake? You young lads best scuttle back into your crypt before The Dreamsmith shambles with an ambling bramble by you, Masters Pib and Barmble. Look, you two mean the world to me and I’m just trying to raise you both right. And as for your mother… nah, you know what? Just get in bed.

Beam Boy!® The Only Super Powered Beam Made Of 100% Real Boy!

The Future – The End of All Beams

Oh damn! Is that the new Apple Watch? Fuck can that thing cook turtles and shit like in the commercials? I am sooooo jealous. I would sever my left leg for one of those. Anyways, your horoscope says you should be on the lookout to receive a heavy, wet, leg-shaped parcel soon.

The Dreamsmith

When The Words Evaporate From The Pages – June 12th

Dude, can you slink into my crypt and scare my sweet sleeping baby babs? You’ll know the signal when you hear it. Thanks, I owe you dude. I’m gonna get you like a half ounce man. What? Yea of course I’m good for it, kind shit my guy.

Benjamin Devino And His Shithead Twin, Harrison

Born September 3rd, 2002 at 3:36AM and 7:26AM respectively

When are you two going to learn to grow up? You two are just havoc incarnate, ya shit melons. I mean, it’s not enough that you two financially burden your parents with your twinsmenship, but Harrison also took his sweet time strolling his way out of Mama’s baby palace. Frankly, I think you two have been living rent free long enough…

Green Pisces

Green February 19th – Green March 20th

Look Green Pisces. We get it. You’re green. You’ve really made that abundantly clear to all of us by now. Just give it a rest for a bit, okay?

The One With Inkwells For Eyes

Hoo Hoooo – Hee Heee

Click your heels. Click them. Harder. Click them hard enough for The Dreamsmith to hear. Good… Now like we discussed, weep your black satin tears. Yes, let them stain the waters below.

Catherine

You’re This Sign If Your Name Is Catherine. I Thought That’d Be Pretty Clear…

Hey Catherine, or Cathy, or hell, even Cat! Trust you’re doing alright today? I sure hope you are. But statistically, one of you is going to get hit by like, two different cars at once. So I mean… roll the bones and hope you’re lucky I guess?

The Scorpion Fish

Every Moment Of Time That “The Craven” Is Not

The conditions are perfect my sweet. I’ve readied the skies and soon the black ichor shall raindown. That foolish Craven is in Vegas tonight, getting sloshed and losing $200 dollars to a broken vending machine. You may reap what we have sought after for so long my pisciscene dream. Swim for us both.

Party Blackout Allegedly Involved Alcohol-Induced Vomiting, Sbarro’s, And The Commuter Lounge Bathroom

by Party Boy

UNIONDALE — Verbal evidence from my friends and some strangers seems to allegedly suggest that I vomited on a girl, rolled around in some beer, vomited again, and then passed out in the commuter lounge bathroom.

My roommates and I made of the plans to go out to a party at one of Hofstra’s fraternity parties because we were sick of getting drunk and crying in our own dorm room. The night was started with a pre-game in our friend’s room: several beers were shotgunned and several shots were consumed. No one was sure on the number. When asked for comment my friend Steve said, “you drank a shitload that night, man. Like we all saw everything coming.” He then called me a, “Fucking idiot who needs to get his priorities straight.” I told him to let me live my life and now he has threatened to stop buying weed for me.

After I arrived at the party, I was allegedly a “riot” according to this one girl in my Math Excursions class. “Yeah, you were like dancing on this wall really getting into it. You’re so weird in class I didn’t know you had this wild side in you,” said one girl who chose to remain anonymous. “I came over to try to dance with you, but then you fell right off the wall into some beer,” she recounts.

At this point I allegedly started rolling around in the beer yelling, “Wrap me in a dough and call me Babe the Dirty Pig Boy. Feed me your dinner scraps!”

My friend, Deborah, who just happened to be at the party, helped me up. When asked about the situation she said, “It was really just a strange night for you. You were adamant about being wrapped in dough for a while then went into the frat house and ate all their hummus!”

I replied with, “That’s crazy! I did that!?”

At some point after this, the time cannot be certain, the cops showed up. Almost as soon as they arrived, I started vomiting a hummus-y beer mixture out of my mouth. My clothes were unscathed in the morning, so I was shocked when I was told this news. My friend Molly sorted it all out for me, “You threw up all over me. Down my shirt, on my shoes, everywhere. Then you made out with Stacy! And you know I have a crush on you!” I ran away shortly after that, scared of her crying or forcing me into commitment, so she did not give anymore quotes.

Several minutes of the night cannot be described, because no one was with me. My friend had left to go to the popular late night convenience store, “Bricktown.” When he found me, I was lying on a tree singing Rhianna’s 2007 hit, “Umbrella” despite sources confirming that Future was playing at the time. He allegedly put me around his shoulder and helped me walk back to campus. “You know how much more I can lift than you at the gym,” he said on the situation, “it was a breeze carrying you back.”

The two of us then went to Sbarro’s, the best pizza on Long Island, where we ordered several slices. I was said to have taken one bite and then immediately vomited on the floor. My friend then took me to the commuter lounge where I destroyed it with my vomit and urine and proceeded to pass out, pants at my ankles.

My other roommates were then called to come get me with their car, for they were sober. When asked to comment on the situation my friend Mike said, “You kept telling us, ‘if you try to make me move, I’m going to scream,’ you’re such a little fuck!” They eventually got me to my dorm and into bed.

I awoke the next morning with the feeling that goes along with a blackout: What happened last night? It could have been anything. I could not expect how disappointed I would be in myself after hearing the story.

At time of print, we have very few details regarding the appropriate amount of apologies that must be made, or if the girl from Math Excursions will call me back.

Like what you’ve read? Check out Nonsense’s first ever Humor Variety Show TODAY Friday the 31st, at 7pm in the Hofstra Cultural Center Theater!

Am I Really Responsible For Murder If Simon Said So?

By Zachary Johnson


Well, am I??
 I don’t think my question deserves to go unanswered just because you’re an officer of the law. I’m being treated unfairly here! There is no way our founding fathers intended to create a system where people are convicted of murder just because they committed an act of homicide at the behest and instruction of an individual temporarily know as Simon. That is like, the exact kind of shit that made them fight for independence from the British Empire. Didn’t you learn anything about American History?

Well whatever my dude, stay ignorant. I can fucking see the killer standing right over there, twiddling his stupid 10-year-old thumbs. Look at the way he’s fucking bawling, it looks so goddamn staged. If my eyes were all puffy and red, would you be cutting me any slack? That little sonofabitch is guilty of murder. That’s Simon, he’s the one you want!

Alright, well, I think his name is David, but for all of 10 minutes he was Simon and that’s the reason that girl died. Case closed! Have you even questioned him? Are you not concerned at all that a 10-year-old told me to kill one of his friends? Well, I guess Lisa wasn’t really his friend. She’s friends with Damien, and Corey told me they’re kind of a package deal when it came to handing out the invites. Anyways, either way, that kid is fucked up, dude! You’ve gotta send him straight to fucking juvey before he does this shit again!

Yeah, I know that I’ve got literal blood on my hands, but I was just beholden to the rules of his game! Sure, you’re right, sir, nobody else made a move to kill her but that’s just because I’m better at competitive games than they are. I fucking won, ok? I played by the rules, but I hardly think my incredible prowess and super precision knife skills are what we need to be focusing on here.

Though, by the way, if you do want focus on them, would you maybe wanna get drinks later, Officer? I’m a total loose cannon, maybe I could show you a few tricks or two. We’re talking really rough, really jagged, really wild fighting style, but it’s got this precise edge to it, it’s got this crazy edge, and that’s how you get ‘em. Then we could take it back to my place, maybe have some wild crazy sex, but with an edge, you know what I mean? Are you interested in knife play at all, sir?

What’s that? Yeah, that is my knife in her chest. No, I can’t tell you where I got it, but I can tell you it was made special. That’s stainless steel, and it cost me a lot of money so be careful with it buddy. Make sure you get all the blood off of it before I get it back, this shit is my life, man. It’s what I wake up for. All those kids thought that knife was so fucking cool, so fucking great and shiny, until we started playing Simon Says and David, acting under the authorital power that is Simon, forced me stab Lisa with it. Ugh, this is the last time I show up uninvited to a kid’s birthday party, I’ll tell you that much.

Stop that! Stop cuffing me. I’ve got sensitive wrists and I bruise like a peach! Oh man, you’ve got nice hands. Hey quick question if I say your name does that mean your body can and will be held against me in a court of law?

What’s that? Officer Simon? Well this is a fucking coincidence. Oh, you bet I’ll do whatever you want me to do, Officer. 😉

Yeah? Alright, I’ll get into the vehicle sir.

Diagnosis: I’m Not Michael Phelps

By Ariel Leal

“Have a seat, Mr…-“

“Bridges. Clay Bridges,” I told the suave doctor. What a mistake that was. I should have known better to interrupt the good doctor. Worse yet, who was I to question the authority and intelligence of the world-famous Dr. RJ Shafty (MD)?

He chuckled innocently before tilting his glasses down and looking me dead in the eyes.

“Now, now, Mr. Bridges, you and I both know how this works and you really should wait for me to tell you what your name is.”

He was right. Here I was, foolishly salivating at the sight of the outline of his skin-covered scimitar and I couldn’t even give the man the respect he deserves.

“The results are in,” he stated, staring at the crisp, white sheets in front of him. With the rays of sunlight striking them just right from the crack in the curtains, I vaguely made out various pictures of Rodney Dangerfield, but what did I know? I’m not a doctor.

“As it so turns out, Mr. Bridges, you are not Michael Phelps.”

At this point, I spat out all the saliva I was collecting in my mouth onto the rich mahogany desk in front of me. Dr. Shafty didn’t even bat an eye but that was to be expected; after all, he’s a doctor and I bet he deals with saliva pretty often. Already, the memories I’ve had of swimming the English Channel for my daily routine began to fade. I wanted to say something, to object, to question him. I knew I was in no place to question a surgeon of his class (that’s the highest class, for the viewing audience).

“Bu-I…are…” I was frantic. I slipped out of the chair and fell onto the floor like some sort of slippery reptile and inched my body closer and closer to one of several mirrors Dr. Shafty rightfully owned. I picked my head up and used my teeth to try to adjust the only mirror that was touching the ground. Being that I am an idiot and not a doctor, the mirror fell on top of me, shattering into large, reflective shards. I winced and cried aloud in pain but stopped acting like a complete basket case when I saw the blood pooling around my waist. I turned back to the doctor as a child would to a parent after being recently betrayed.

“Is this not the blood of an Olympian? Is this not the very essence of life that flows through the veins of the God of Chlorine?” I had to ask. My willpower was simply not strong enough to withstand the invincible urge to question the credibility of a licensed medical practitioner.

“You are no better than Lochte himself. Do not dare to compare yourself to the Webbed-footed Prince of the Seas,” Dr. Shafty barked at me, kicking me in the bridge of my nose. This pain felt comforting and warm.

“Look, all I can offer are some brochures on how to continue having sex with your wife after this…mess. All I can say is good luck. It’s not every day that someone comes here to discover that they are not Michael Phelps. I can’t say I can empathize, because I would be lying. After all, I have all twenty-three of my gold medals in my colon right now. Now, please get the hell out of my office. You won’t be needing a follow-up so you’re free to go. Don’t forget to congratulate my secretary, Michael Phelps, on the way out.”

The words became increasingly muffled as they were spoken and I could feel my body get weaker and less aroused by water. All those birthdays spent trying to blow candles out in the water only to sob at the fact that they weren’t even lit to begin with became more difficult to remember. My skin was dry and leathery and it became nearly impossible to slither out of the door.

Sighing, Dr. Shafty opened the largest drawer on his desk and pulled out a glass vial of what could only be described as lubricant and walked over to me, pouring every last drop into my eyes.

I felt the life drain from my feet and after several hours of blissful oblivion, I began to awake to the voice of my wife.

“Honey? Please wake up. Please be okay.”

Brushing aside the apparently falsified memory of my eighteenth birthday, spent waterboarding Commies in Singapore, I fully regained consciousness.

“Sweetheart, I…I’ve got some bad news,” I said, choking on what little water was left in my dried trachea.

“What is it, my love? I’m sure it can’t be all that bad. I’m sure we can work through this together.” How naïve she was.

“The results are back and I…I’m not Michael Phelps.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, honey, everyone is Michael Phelps!”

“It’s true…a real-live licensed medically-trained physician informed me,” I said, with warm memories of that bearish doctor’s masculine visage.

“But, honey, what about the time you slayed the water demons from heck and earned your rightful title as Water Wizard Mickey Phelpo?”

“I-I can’t remember,” I mustered, with the sentiment of barbed wire piercing my soul.

I watched the love and passion drain from her suede, brown eyes and kind of weird looking pointy face. She grew silent and cold, to the point where her cells physically began to harden as the molecules of her body moved less and less. She was now ice. I understood she could no longer love me. My daughter ran in, accidentally shattering the ice sculpture that was once her mother but paying her no mind. Don’t blame her; she’s too young to understand.

“Dad! I’m so glad you’re okay. This means you still get to come to show-and-tell tomorrow, right? I can’t wait to help you endorse Subway!”

“Sweetheart, I…” I didn’t have the nerve to tell her. I laid there, crying out every last droplet of water that remained in this pathetic body of mine. I mustered every last bit of strength I had to pick up the mirror that conveniently sat beside me. Looking into the reflective surface of the gadget, I gazed into the eyes of disappointment and looked upon the face of a man who had nothing left to live for. I stared and stared and only the stranger, Ryan Lochte, stared back at me. Whoever this man was, he certainly was not Michael Phelps. As my body faded into the bed sheets, only a silver medal marked “First Loser, Ryan Lochte” was left behind.

Wait, how’d you get in my house?

Listen, I don’t wanna be weird but I just noticed you were in my house and I find that kind of weird. How did you get here? Was it the window? The door? I live in a small house that is very high. I will assume you came in through the door. The door was locked. I locked the door. Do you have a key? I have not given anyone a key, but here you are. I will not assume you are here to steal my clementines. If you are, you need to leave right now. I love my clementines, and you, I do not love.

If my old roommate gave you a key, you need to head out. Kevin was not a good roommate and he is an even worse Ghost-roommate. Ghost’s cannot give people keys and therefore, you should not be in my house. Buddy, if Kevin gave you these keys, I will not enjoy that. He never pays rent, he stole my shirt, he… oh buddy, not cool. Well, if he didn’t give you the keys, would you like to watch the 1978 Superbowl with me? I have it on DVR. Do not spoil this for me, I do not know the ending. I have been watching all of the Superbowls with my fruit. My Clementines. Mine.

I wish you would just tell me how you got into my house. Did my neighbor Sarah Ann Lyon think you were a delivery man? She once put seven strangers in my house and only one of them was sent from German- owned company, DHL. The strangers and I had a very nice dinner party, but still they were in my house, and when I looked, I no longer had the playbook of the 1993 Superbowl, which you can imagine was very upsetting to me. If she did not let you in, then I have to imagine you are here for nefarious purposes, because as you can tell this is my house and not yours. I am outraged that you won’t just reveal your intentions in my home. Can you not see that I just want to sit with my fruit and unspoiled football games in peace? Can you not clearly tell that you being here is eating into my alone time in which I will watch the 2002 Superbowl? Yet, you continue to be here in my family room where if I had a family we would meet and discuss the political quagmire that is the Middle East.

Wait…. but no it couldn’t be, perhaps we went to high school together. I have blocked out my sophomore year of high school, so if you met me during that year, I will not remember you. If you wish to be my rival, you should just fill out a form and leave a suspicious note on my door like everyone else who wants to fight me. I simply cannot believe this is happening right now. Just steal something from me and leave, please. I just want to be able to return to my normal life.

You stand there, drilling a hole in the center of my floor with your silly feet. I will not stand for it. Do not move. I can tell you are planning to move. You already moved when you came into my house, and I will not have you continue to move. You are putting out your hand and I believe I know what this means. Here are all of my dear, dear clementines. They are the fruit of the gods and I will part with them if it means I can be free from whatever you are doing. You will probably treat them better than I ever did.

Once I tried to juggle and many of my golden-nectared fruits were lost to the cold hard ground that day. If you take these fruits, will you leave? Please take them, they deserve better than me. They do not need to see another halftime show. I will find new friends, new fruits, perhaps. Do not squeeze the small fruit too hard. I know you will take care of them. Just tell me please, before you move from your spot, how did you get in here, I mean in here, in my heart? You showed up to my home, and you’ve torn me down. I cannot go on anymore – actually, please don’t even tell me how you got in, just please take my clementines and go.