Category: Randomness (Page 1 of 3)

An image of a watch that's melting, Dali style.

Time Travel at the Speed of One’s Thumb

January 19, 2026 / Kyle A. Massa

Confession: I listen to podcasts at 1.5x speed.

It’s like watching a movie in fast-forward. Slight fast-forward. It’s not double the pace—it’s just halfway there. The effect is podcasters who sound peppy, caffeine-wired, and a little like Alvin and the Chipmunks. They also tend to speakinsuchawaythatalltheirwordlumptogether.

My wife razzes me about such silliness. But once you’ve grown accustomed to 1.5x, regular speech sounds sluggish. Tipsy.

Tipsy or not, this is artificial time travel. With the tap of a thumb, we warp to the moment those words were spoken, then listen while they’re spoken again at whatever pace we command.

Obviously, we don’t get that sort of control from everyday life. Boring or intolerable stretches seem to last a lifetime, while the better ones (vacations, for instance) zoom on by. It’s like someone’s cranking or slowing the speed on the pod, only it’s not us. Maybe it’s God. Does God like podcasts? Probably.

There must be mental tricks that alter time’s perception. I’m pretty sure that’s what mindfulness is all about, although I despise mindfulness because it’s a social media buzzword everyone uses, yet no one defines. Like “growth hacking.” Or worse, “gut.”

It’s a futile gesture anyway. Ask any parent about their child’s childhood, and they will, to a person, express the same thought: “It went by so fast.” If anyone says, “It was the slowest stretch of my life,” you must avoid them, because they’re an alien replicant. Reminiscence bolsters this phenomenon, too. High school dragged on while I was living it, yet now, it seems it vanished in the space between blinks, and so long ago.

And oh yeah, remember Covid? In my lifetime at least, there’s no distortion like it. Some days, even high school feels more recent than lockdowns and social distancing. Others, it feels like only a few months have passed since everything went back to more-or-less normal. Covid feels like its own little pocket in time—a separate feed, to further the podcast metaphor.

Of course, our understanding of time’s passage is entirely subjective, even though the recording is anything but. Every minute lasts sixty ticks of the hand, every hour sixty minutes. Yet when we live that hour, we’re living at different speeds.

So I suppose I’ll continue living at whatever speed life chooses. Unlike my podcasts, where I listen at 1.5x, sometimes even 2x if I’m feeling plucky, and I pile into the car with Sara, and my Magic: The Gathering pod starts auto-playing, and she mocks it by speaking in clipped jumbles of gibberish until I turn it off.

But hey, I chose that speed, just like I chose that podcast. Time, however, has different plans.

Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include 10 books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.

Some links in this publication may be affiliate links. This means the author earns a commission on sales made through those links, while you pay no additional cost.

A Random and Roundabout Story Concluding With an Important and Groundbreaking Theory

September 29, 2025 / Kyle A. Massa

An image of Stonehenge. You know, all those old slabs of rock piled together for who knows what reason.

So I was listening to this podcast when something profound occurred to me.

It was a fantasy football podcast and, for the record, I loathe fantasy football. You might as well flip a quarter and try calling it, only quarter-flipping is more fun than praying your first-round pick doesn’t get horribly injured. I don’t listen to this show for the fantasy advice, anyway. It’s called The Ringer Fantasy Football Show, and I enjoy the football analysis. And jokes.

They were talking about Stonehenge. Don’t ask me how they got on that tangent, but I’m about to go on a tangent myself. One host argued that given enough time and resources, he could totally build Stonehenge. The other host deemed that ludicrous.

Turns out, in the 90s or something, some guy in Michigan actually did build Stonehenge in his backyard—or a replica of it, at least. A listener emailed this fact to the show, at which point the one host used it as evidence to suggest he could do it, too, and the other host remained skeptical.

For many, the replica ‘Henge story probably sounds extraordinary. A guy rebuilding a world-renowned monument in his backyard, by himself? How amazing! How ambitious! How enterprising! But here’s where my mind goes: What did his neighbors think?

Imagine you live in the house next to the guy who’s hauling gigantic slabs of stone up and down the street. Imagine he’s blocking your driveway with said stones. Imagine he’s tearing up the cul-de-sac, terrorizing local dogs with the construction noise, and inviting local news anchors to capture the chaos. And just imagine you’re trying to sell the house next to Stonehenge. Does any of that sound amazing to you?

To me, it’s a scenario that’s all too familiar. That’s because a guy in my neighborhood is basically the Stonehenge guy (although as far as I’m aware, he’s not a druid). I’ve only glimpsed him a handful of times, but I witness his work whenever I pull into the neighborhood. It’s impossible not to.

He builds dog crates, which sounds industrious when you first hear it, yet quickly degrades to disgust when you see his driveway and front yard. Wooden planks, workbenches, tools, and sawdust. That’s his year-round lawn ornamentation.

Did I mention the washing machine? One of those sprouted on the grass one day and stood for about a week or so. There was also a full-size bouncy house, which was almost the size of the guy’s actual house, and which came and went as mysteriously as the washing machine. All in all, I have no idea what, specifically, this guy does for a living, or why there’s always so much crap in his yard. All I know is, there’s always crap in his yard.

Normally, I’m unbothered by such things. Whatever signs, flamingos, gnomes, tchotchkes, etc.… It’s not my lawn, and if I don’t want to look at it, I won’t.

But this guy is different. You can’t ignore a 2,000 square foot bouncy house, especially when a strong wind might tip it onto your head if you happen to be strolling nearby. It’s times like these I wish my neighborhood had an HOA.

I know the acronym officially stands for “homeowner association,” but I think it needs rebranding as “Hand of Annihilation.” HOAs are tyrannical associations meant to imbue judgmental power unto old, retired people with nothing better to do than quibble about people’s shrubberies.

This should inform you how annoying this dude in my neighborhood is. Me calling for an HOA is little better than a blood pact with Satan. But hey, at least an HOA could do something about this eyesore.

…I think. I confess, I have no idea what sort of power HOAs really have. Can they kick you out out of the neighborhood if you don’t comply? Can they report you to the town? Can they cast some sort of hex upon you?

All I know is, I now know where HOAs originated. It must’ve been Stonehenge. Clearly, this structure was built by a lone, bored, ancient druid who was no different than that guy from Michigan, or the guy down the street from me. As he was erecting his mysterious structure (hmm, phrasing), his neighbors must’ve formed the world’s first HOA to destroy him, uniting under a pithy slogan which might’ve been something along the lines of, “Enough of this shit!”

In conclusion, I suppose this means I must form my own Hand of Annihilation. I’ll let you know how it goes. In the meantime, I’ll be listening to my fantasy football podcast, and wondering what deeds they might inspire me to achieve next. I’ll keep you posted on that, too.

Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include eight books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.

Flipping Pens

July 7, 2025 / Kyle A. Massa

My Italian hand holding up a red pen.

The pen is mightier than the sword. Especially when you incessantly flip it around in your hand.

That’s what I do with my pens, even when I’m not writing with them. In fact, I’m doing it right now. I twirl them between my fingers, pointer to middle, middle to ring, ring to pinky, and back, thumb guiding the rotation all the way. It’s a pointless gesture, a needless fidget, and worse, it’s distracting.

Example: My wife Sara and I work for the same organization, so one time I was participating in a presentation. I use a passive verb here because it’s accurate; My colleague spoke the whole time while I stood there flipping my pen, i.e. doing nothing. Sara was watching this presentation, and she kept giving me looks, so I stopped pen flipping.

Yet I’ve never stopped it entirely. Why should I? I’ve been pen flipping semi-compulsively for the past three years now, maybe longer, and I have no plans to stop now. It gives me something to do with my nervous energy.

Is it annoying? Totes. It’s a nervous tick no less bothersome than singing the same song over and over or saying “umm” all the time (both of which I’m also guilty of). Plus, my pen flipping is extra disruptive when I fumble my implement and it clatters to my desk, which is about as frequent as former New York Giants quarterback Daniel Jones fumbling footballs, which is to say, super frequent. I like hefty, oftentimes metallic pens, so when I drop them, they make a ruckus.

To be fair, many of us have nervous ticks. My sister laughs. My daughter gnaws on her hair. Even my cat has one: She scurries away at the slightest sign of danger. We’ve all got nervous ticks, and I’ve been telling myself it’s futile to abandon them.

…Or is it? I’ve been reading a lot about hypnosis lately, specifically when it’s used to access repressed alien abduction memories. I mean, I don’t remember ever being abducted by aliens, but that doesn’t prove it didn’t happen. For all I know, my abduction was brief because they couldn’t wait to send me back to Earth because of all the pen flipping.

Anyhoo, I think the pen thing would concern the average hypnotist more than aliens would. If I visited said hypnotist, here’s how it might go:

Hypnotist: So Kyle. I understand you’d like to be hypnotized into curing your pen-flipping addiction.

Me: Yes.

Hypnotist: And you’re aware there are other, perhaps more pressing character flaws you might cure, such as your addiction to Magic: The Gathering or your tendency to chew gum with your mouth open?

Me: Yes.

Hypnotist: And you do realize you’re flipping a pen right now?

Me: [Looks down at left hand to discover fingers are indeed flipping a pen.] Oh. Whoops.

Hypnotist: Well you better get your ass ready, buddy, because we’re about to begin.

Me: Okay. How much does this cost again?

Hypnotist: $100 an hour.

Me: You know what? I just remembered something… [And I scurry away.]

Another character flaw the hypnotist forgot to mention: I’m a cheapskate.

So maybe I should just avoid my pen-flipping problem. Vampires do it with garlic, so I suspect a similar moratorium should be possible for me. Why, I’d just need to steer clear of front desks, art studios, and office supply stores for the rest of my life. How hard could that be?

They say us Italians talk with our hands, and if my hands could talk, this is what they’d be saying: “I wish I had a pen right now.”

Annual Jugs

June 9, 2025 / Kyle A. Massa

A photograph of the two jugs in question resting on a countertop in a kitchen.

As we walked into work one morning, my wife remarked, “I always have to wait for you and your jugs!”

No, I do not have breasts. The jugs Sara referred to were my two reusable drinking cups, each of which is roughly the size of an extra large McDonald’s soda. They’re both too bulky to fit into my backpack holders, so I lug them around, water in one hand, coffee in the other. They’re large enough, in fact, that it always takes a moment or two to gather them. Maybe that’s why Sara feels justified calling them jugs.

We work at the same place, so I hear this quip quite often. On this particular morning, I quipped back.

“Oh great,” I groaned. “Your annual jug joke.”

Annual. Annual meaning anything that happens at a recurring, predictable time. Annual being a synonym for periodically, of course.

“That’s not what annual means,” said Sara. “Annual means yearly.”

“No it doesn’t, it means…” I could tell from her expression that she was correct.

“You’re just kidding around with me,” she said. “Right?”

I wish I could say I was. I’m 33 years old and, until that moment, I was mistaken on the definition of the word annual.

I blame the American public schooling system. No, that’s not fair. If anyone’s responsible for my education or lack thereof, it’s me, since I wasn’t much of a student. Whatever the reason for my gaff, it was especially embarrassing because I am, according to my Instagram bio, a writer of some sort. I should probably know the correct meaning of a simple three-syllable adjective.

Sara was nice enough about it. I mean, she didn’t point and laugh, and she only brought it up again three more times. But it could’ve been worse. And ever since, I’ve been on hyper alert with my vocabulary. It’s like my whole life is a lie. What other words have I been flubbing? I ask myself. Is that even the proper application of the word “flubbing”? Or “proper”? Or “that”?

It’s been difficult to move on. Irrationally so. I drink from my jugs annually—or what I thought was annually—so whenever I sip, I hear a little voice whispering, “I bet you don’t even know what ‘gubernatorial’ means.”

“I don’t!” I want to sob back. “I don’t know what ‘gubernatorial’ means, okay!? I just heard it in Deadpool & Wolverine and thought it sounded funny.”

At least I’m right about that. Gubernatorial does sound funny. And, according to the New Oxford American Dictionary, it means “relating to a state governor or the office of state governor.”

This is all well and good, but it underscores a flaw in the English language: It’s nonsensical.

Even native speakers agree. Why is there an elaborate rhyme to remind us which letter comes first: “I” or “E”? Why do silent letters exist? Why do “P” plus “H” equal “F”? Why, I ask you, does annual mean yearly, and not what I thought it meant?

The answer to these questions, and any others you might concoct about English, is the same: Nobody knows. Dictionaries might provide explanations, but the truth is a collective shrug and a sigh and a lazy assertion that that’s just how it is.

Words are like a teenager’s parents:

Sure, we love them, but they’re also, like, so embarrassing. For example, as I typed that aforementioned silly word gubernatorial (which sounds like an alien from Star Wars), my search suggested the word “guber.” This is apparently also a real word, not to be confused with the homophone “goober,” which is what our dog walker friend calls our dog Osi, because Osi is, in fact, a goober.

Guber means, according to the New Oxford Dictionary, “relating to a governor; gubernatorial.” These are their examples: “scores of guber candidates and aspirants attended the rally; the guber election.”

No one has ever used that word in that context or any other, ever. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if people who write dictionaries, a.k.a. dictionarians, are just making up words at this point so they retain their jobs. And you know what? According to both New Oxford and spellcheck, “dictionarians” isn’t even a word. It sure sounds like a word to me!

See? Language makes us look, feel, and sometimes act like dopes. Words have meanings we’re unaware of. Words exist when they shouldn’t, and others don’t exist when they should.

So where does that leave us? Should I float some Aaron Rodgers-esque conspiracy theory about dictionarians and their attempts to bend society to their will? No thanks—that guy gets enough attention as it is. Instead, I’ll conclude with this. Maybe words aren’t like parents of teenagers. Maybe they’re more like my jugs—and again, I don’t mean my breasts. They’re bulky and awkward, and sometimes they don’t fit into the spaces they should. And even given the occasional spill (i.e. the misuse of a word or two), there’s still sustenance within.

Now it’s time for me to drink up. I need my annual jug of coffee.

The World Without Teeth

January 29, 2024 / Kyle A. Massa

Smile!

Or don’t. Because in this hypothetical alternate universe, nobody has teeth. That’s the nightmarish scenario we are examining today in our ongoing “World Without” series.

But fear not, dear reader. I think there would be upsides to this world, too. So, without further ado, let’s get into it. In a world without teeth…

…Vampires Would Have It Worst

Humans need teeth to chew, but there’s still lots of food we can eat without them (I’ll be addressing this topic shortly). But think of the poor vampires.

Without teeth, how would they extract blood? A needle, I’m guessing, though I’m pretty sure you need a medical license for that. Maybe they’d just use a knife or a letter opener, but those feel too inelegant—not to mention messy—for any self-respecting vampire.

Now I suppose we could compare who has it worse: Dracula or Edward Cullen. But I’d rather not. Suffice it to say that all the vampires out there would be bummed.

…A Lot of Songs Wouldn’t Exist

In no particular order:

“Teeth” by Lady Gaga
“Brush Your Teeth” by Raffi
“Smile” by Wolf Alice
“Smile” by Avril Lavigne
“Smile” by Katy Perry

The Wolf Alice song is my favorite in the above list, though the Raffi tune comes in a close second, because it makes brushing my daughter’s teeth a little easier.

…Pictures Would Be a Lot More Awkward

Unless you’re a Civil War general circa 1863, your first instinct in a picture is probably smiling. But in a world without teeth, smiling becomes a lot less attractive.

Perhaps we’d go back to the 1800s approach, which means glaring sternly into the lens. Not exactly profile pic material, but necessary, considering the circumstances.

…The Tooth Fairy Would Go Out of Business

Because if she’s not collecting teeth in exchange for money, what other jettisoned scrap of the human body is she collecting? Hair? Toenails? Probably best not to speculate.

…The Gruel Market Would Explode

And I don’t mean literally (unless there’s a gruel-based chemical reaction I’m not aware of). Rather, in a world where you can’t chew, I believe gruel would be the food of choice.

What is gruel, exactly? I’m unsure. I think it’s the stuff they feed to prisoners in the Gulag. Whatever it is, it sounds funny, and I suspect it tastes something like grits, only better.

Of course, other foods would still be viable. Soups, smoothies, and the like would work. Also, baby food, some of which is surprisingly tasty. Just ask my wife, Sara, who enjoys our daughter’s puréed pears.

In fact, now that I think about it, babies are the prime example of a toothless world. Fortunately, most of them seem pretty happy—though maybe that’s because they can poop their pants whenever they want and someone else will deal with the mess.

Also, babies’ lack of teeth adds to their cuteness. Even when they do their gum-smiles, it’s adorable. I imagine it would be less adorable if someone like me, for example, a 31-year-old man with mushroom-shaped hair, were to do it.

I mean, if I smiled at you with no teeth, I doubt you’d be thinking, Aww, how cute! Instead, you’d probably be wondering, How much crack has that man smoked?

…Or Maybe the Denture Market Would Explode, Instead? Maybe?

Dentures are the standard substitute for teeth, yet in a world without teeth, would we have any concept of dentures? Maybe we’d all just slurp our gruel in ignorance of what could’ve been.

…Halloween Would End. (And I Don’t Mean Like That Movie, “Halloween Ends”—I Mean Literally.)

That’s because most Halloween candy requires teeth to consume. Snickers bars? Yes. Candy corn? Definitely. Taffy? You bet your ass.

I suppose you could continue the tradition of dressing up and visiting other people’s houses. But without the promise of candy, what exactly are you demanding from the people you visit? More gruel?

…Dentistry Wouldn’t Exist

Depending on your dentist, this might not be a bad thing. I don’t mean to be critical, but some dentists can be hyper critical.

“Your teeth are two different colors.” “You’re not flossing enough.” “You appear to have an alien tracking device lodged inside your molar.” These are all statements I’ve heard dentists say to myself or people I know. Except that last one—I got that from The X-Files.

…Cats Would Be Cool With It

Because many cats, including my parents-in-laws’ cat, Spice, have diseased teeth pulled later in life. When Sara and I heard this happened to Spice, we were aghast.

“Oh no,” we said. “Is she alright?”

Sara’s mom, Karen, only shrugged and said, “She still eats the same food. It’s not all that different.”

So there you have it. Without teeth, cats would be just as unimpressed as usual.

…I Would’ve Been a Less Dangerous Child

Yes, I was a biter, and I didn’t even have rabies. I don’t know why—I just enjoyed biting people. My mom tells me she got regular reports of me biting other children at school, which must’ve been alarming, to say the least. What’s more, I have a vague memory of biting my sister when she beat me at a friendly game of Horse. Sorry, Emily.

Problem is, bites can hurt just as much without teeth, as I experienced with my daughter, Sasha, when she was an infant. One time she tried eating a scrap of construction paper, and when I reached in there to fish it out, it felt like a garage door slamming on my finger.

Sashie isn’t an aggressive biter, but she does bite. Like, sometimes we’ll be hugging each other, and she’ll rest her chin on my shoulder, and it’ll seem like a sweet father-daughter moment until I feel a pinch and realize she’s gnawing on my collarbone. I suspect she’ll draw blood soon, and I’ll have no one to blame but myself. That’s how karma works.

Anyhoo, in a world without teeth, I would’ve been a little safer. But now that Sasha’s teeth have grown in, I’m in serious danger.

…The World Would Be Far Different

So I guess we can smile, because teeth still exist. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go eat something crunchy. I’ve made myself very hungry…

Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include five books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

You can read more from the “World Without” blog series here. And if you want to see a specific topic, email kyle@kyleamassa.com.

Thoughts on Crocs

January 7, 2024 / Kyle A. Massa

As part of my ongoing attempt to make a complete ass of myself, let me tell you about my new Crocs.

I got them for Christmas. (Shout out to my mother-in-law, Karen.) They’re the Moon Jelly variety, which is a weird way of saying they’re periwinkle. This color is a bit more feminine than it appeared on the website, but that doesn’t stop me from wearing them. Everywhere.

I wear them on dog walks. I wear them shopping. I considered wearing them to a restaurant recently, though I opted not to embarrass my wife, Sara, by association.

This is the conflict every Croc-wearer must consider when venturing into public. Humiliation or contentment. Ridicule or comfort. To Croc, or not to Croc. We all know which Hamlet would choose.

It’s a constant struggle. No one in their right mind would wear shoes that look like hardened blocks of Swiss cheese with the handle of a child’s pail attached to the back unless they were extraordinarily comfortable.

Speaking of children, they can actually pull off Crocs. On kids, Crocs look cute, whereas on adults, they look like a mistake. My daughter Sasha has four pairs—yes, you read that right—and she loves all of them. She even puts them on her baby dolls, proving that she understands the rules.

Despite my newfound admiration for my new footwear, I draw the line at gibbets. Not to be confused with the giblets from inside a turkey, gibbets are those little tchotchkes you stuff into the holes of your Crocs so you can look even more silly.

Gibbets or no, I used to be very judgmental about Crocs. Man, I’d think to myself, Those shoes sure look dumb. Then, one day, I needed foot protection down in my unfinished basement. I practice music down there, plus it’s where our cats poop (these two events rarely happen simultaneously). Sneakers felt like too much work, my work shoes required dress socks, and our dog had stolen my slippers. All that was left were Sara’s Crocs. So I wore them into the basement.

Something strange happened over the next few weeks. I’d be out in public, getting gas or buying groceries, and I’d look down to find Sara’s Crocs attached to my feet.

Man, I’d think to myself, These shoes still look dumb. But then other thoughts crept in: Hey, that’s a nice breeze coming through the holes. I didn’t even need to bend down to tie any laces. And I thought that handle on my ankle might chafe, only I can barely feel it.

After a while, I was wearing Sara’s Crocs more than Sara. It was only a matter of time until I got a pair of my own. Not that I bought them—I’m too cheap to buy nice things. Even Crocs.

I’m wearing them as I write this, and I must admit, they’re a marvel. What other shoe comes with both a sport and a leisure mode? What other product slips on easy as a sandal, yet hides my hairy hobbit feet so well?

None other. Like the One Ring, there is only one supreme power, and its name is Crocs.

Not only are these shoes cushy—they’re sustainable. I hear they’re made from boiled cabbage or something, which sounds unbelievable until you feel them. The material is not quite plastic and not quite styrofoam. I suspect alien skin has a similar texture.

Though Crocs feel strange and look even stranger, their semi-edible quality is just another point in their favor. Imagine you’re stranded on an island like Tom Hanks in Castaway, but instead of befriending a volleyball, you only have your shoes as company.

Think you could roast your Jordans over a fire and get any nutritional value? Please. If you had Crocs, why, they’d make for not one, but two scrumptious island meals. Now that’s comfort.

That’s what Crocs provide. Comfort. Not just comfort for my weird hairy hobbit feet, not just the comfort of a meal in a pinch, but comfort for my ego, which is protected like organs beneath a bulletproof vest. Can any words harm me while I’m wearing something as goofy as Crocs? I’m insulting myself enough already. There’s nothing anyone can say to hurt me worse.

So, in the everlasting conflict between functionality and fashion, I’ll opt for the former. After all, if style is a battle, then Crocs are the proverbial white flag—or, in my case, the Moon Jelly flag. I’ll wave it high. I’ll wave it proud.

Kyle A. Massa is an author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include five books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

911, What’s Your Emergency?

November 19, 2023 / Kyle A. Massa

An animated GIF of a 911 call making a smartphone buzz.

Here in the United States, if you’ve got an emergency, you’re probably calling one of two numbers: 911, or your mother. In this blog post, we’ll discuss the former.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

This is how 911 operators always answer the phone, and I think it’s a good policy. Otherwise, you might have situations like this…

…[Dial tone.]…

“Hello?”

“HELP! The call was coming from inside the house and now some masked psychopath is trying to murder me!”

“I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number. This is Arby’s. May I take your order?”

You may be wondering how my hypothetical victim dialed Arby’s instead of an emergency hotline, and the simple answer is, I have no idea. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, modern 911 operators know what they’re doing.

You can see it in their choice of question. “What’s your emergency?” Presumptuous, maybe, but also warranted, considering one only calls in dire situations. Surely nobody would ever do something like this…

…[Dial tone.]…

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Just watching the Giants game. You?”

“This number is for emergencies only.”

“I know, that’s why I called. Have you seen Tommy DeVito play quarterback?”

The “what’s your emergency line” isn’t one of those movie inventions, by the way. It’s real. I’ve had occasion to call the police twice in my life, and I assure you, these are the first words spoken when you call.

Now if you’re a cold-hearted individual, that might give you an idea. You might wonder if this job could be outsourced to AI. After all, if all one does is utter a pre-written line and record information, couldn’t that task be automated?

I certainly hope not. Imagine, for example, you found yourself in a life-or-death situation, and when you called 911 looking for help, Siri answered. Here’s the transcript of your conversation…

…[Dial tone.]…

“Siri here, what’s your emergency?”

“Help me, Siri, the masked psychopath has returned! I’m being murdered again!”

“On it…”

“Huh?”

“Here’s what I found on the web for ‘masked psychopath.'”

Then she’d serve you results for discount Halloween costumes, which would be great if only you weren’t getting disemboweled.

With Siri, this is par for the course. I frequently ask her questions (e.g. “At what level does Charizard learn Flamethrower?”), and rather than giving me a straight answer, she farms out the work to a web search. It could be worse—she could be using Bing instead of Google. But there’s never any compassion, which is why I don’t want Siri or any other AI fielding my call. I want a trained operator, dammit.

I know I took a jab at movies a few paragraphs ago, but if we’ve learned anything from them, it’s that 911 operators are dedicated individuals, albeit a little psycho-obsessive sometimes. For a perfect example, see Jake Gyllenhaal in The Guilty. If you’re in a pinch, you’d prefer someone who will literally—spoiler—go to jail for you. Not freaking Siri.

So here’s to all the 911 operators out there. You’re all heroes, or at least better at your job than AI would be. I salute you, I commend you, and when you ask me what my emergency is, I’ll gladly tell you. And thanks for asking.

Birds, Bets, and Sarcastic Texts

February 20, 2023 / Kyle A. Massa

My text message began like this: Hello everyone. You’re invited to join us for the Super Bowl this year! It ended like this: Fair warning, if you root for the Eagles, you will be asked to leave. See you soon!

The recipients were 18 friends and family members. To some of them, that second bit might’ve come off as a playful joke. It wasn’t.

I despise the Philadelphia Eagles. Imagine the hatred Anakin felt toward Obi-Wan after being left for dead on Mustafar, then multiply it by the population of Pennsylvania. I despise them, one, because they’re a division rival of my New York Giants, and two, because Philly sports fans are, on the whole, obnoxious.

Need evidence? We got it at the 2023 Super Bowl. Prior to kickoff, the NFL recognized Dallas Cowboys quarterback Dak Prescott for earning the Walter Payton Man of the Year Award, a prestigious honor given for “commitment to philanthropy and community impact” (this according to an official NFL announcement).

Yet humanitarianism didn’t preclude Philly fans from booing Dak. Loudly.

To be honest, I booed, too, though only for a moment. (Eagles and Giants fans share a common enemy in the Cowboys.) When I realized the purpose of Dak’s appearance, I stopped.

The Philly fans did not. In fact, they seemed to take pride in their booing.

But Dak wasn’t the only person suffering harassment by Eagles fans. I have two college friends who root for “The Birds,” as they like to call them. These friends (who shall remain nameless) sent me several taunting texts during the NFC Divisional Round, where their stupid Birds demolished my Giants. On the morning of the Super Bowl, they sent even more texts, at least half of them featuring that accursed eagle emoji.

These are the kind of people we’re dealing with. My wife Sara’s cousins are the only nice Eagles fans I’ve ever met. The rest are loud, combative, and probably practice cannibalism.

To add more stress to my stress, I had money riding on the Super Bowl. Not much money, mind you, but just enough to get me riled. I’ve never tried sports betting before, but, lured by the promise of a $50 referral bonus for my brother-in-law, I opened a FanDuel account and added $10. This I wagered on the Chiefs to beat the Bengals in the previous round, earning me a hefty sum of $9.80. With that and the $50 free bet, I had cash to burn.

I won’t bore you by enumerating my bets. Suffice it to say, each was silly, vindictive, or some combination of both. For example, I placed $1 on any player to record an “Octopus,” which is, according to FanDuel, when you score a touchdown and a two-point conversion on the same drive. I also risked $3 on Eagles tight end Dallas Goedert accruing under 50.5 yards, because he seems like a deuche.

I thought I’d feel excitement after placing my bets. Instead, I felt only regret. Every dollar gained outsized value (even the free referral bucks). I considered all the things I might’ve purchased with that cash: breakfast at Dunkin’, Valentine’s Day chocolates, Magic cards. Why not all three?

Maybe it’ll get more fun once the game begins, I suggested to myself. (Spoiler: It didn’t.)

The Game Begins

I was jittery at kickoff. This was partly because of my nameless Philly frenemies, partly because of my shoddy bets, and partly because my friend Jimmy showed up wearing a Terrell Owens jersey. Jimmy isn’t a big football fan, but he is a fan of trolling me, so he bought the jersey on EBay a week prior.

“It’s in great condition,” he kept saying, rubbing the green texture between his fingers. “Pretty good for $20.” I begrudgingly admitted that it was.

For not being an Eagles fan, Jimmy did an excellent impression of one. When Philly scored on their first drive, for instance, he turned to me and said, “This game is gonna be a blowout. I’m telling you, not even close.”

At this point, I silenced my phone, fearing my nameless Philly frenemies would be up to the same antics. My suppressed rage was making me sweat, and my clothing wasn’t helping; I wore a Saquon Barkley jersey over a Giants hoodie over a Daniel Jones t-shirt.

At least the food was good. Regina and Jeremy made chili, Emily and Tuna made dumplings, Alondra and Jacob made guac, etc. I gorged prior to kickoff, yet lost my appetite soon afterward. Only when the Chiefs replied with a touchdown and held the Eagles to a three-and-out could I eat again. I enjoyed a dumpling or six, then added a bowl of chili as the Chiefs drove another 42 yards and lined up for a field goal.

It’s all going to be okay, I assured myself. The Eagles are about to be behind.

When a football hits the uprights, most describe the sound as a “doink.” Yet I think it’s more similar to the tolling of a bell, which is synonymous with either death or AC/DC’s “Hell’s Bells.” Here, it was the former.

The bell tolled for Chiefs kicker Harrison Butker on that attempt. When his kick struck the left upright, I turned to my friends and said, “That’s a bad sign.” Jimmy gleefully agreed.

My fears were confirmed when Philly followed with a touchdown, then held the Chiefs to a three-and-out. But at least now I might make some money.

“This is my guy Tommy Townsend!” I announced to our guests. “If he punts this ball over 48.5 yards, I make $2!”

The payout was technically $1.89, but whatever. I’m sure everyone thought I’d lost my mind. I stood in a half-crouch, wide-eyed, as my guy Tommy Townsend (a player I’d never heard of two weeks ago) caught the snap and booted the ball.

Punts always disappear on a broadcast, arcing over the eye of the camera, reappearing only when they land. So it was with my guy Tommy Townsend’s punt, which thumped into the hands of the return man at the Eagles 25-yard line.

“That didn’t look like 49 yards,” said our friend Ryan, and indeed it wasn’t. It was 48. I came half a yard short.

I continued to sweat through my layers as the game progressed. A fumble touchdown followed by a regular touchdown followed by a punt and a field goal, and suddenly, it was halftime, with the goddamn Eagles leading 24-14. Worse yet, with 1:44 to go in the half, Chiefs quarterback Patrick Mahomes re-injured a high-ankle sprain he’d suffered two weeks prior. The dude was grimacing in agony on the sideline.

“Told you it wouldn’t be close,” said Jimmy, grinning evilly.

We Head To Halftime

I’d like to take a moment to thank Rihanna. I wouldn’t count myself a fan, per se, but her performance was a welcome distraction from my stress, which was building.

Mahomes is dead, and so is the dream, I thought. If Rihanna plays “Fly Eagles Fly,” I might lose it.

Instead, she played family friendly hits like “Wild Thoughts” and “Bitch Better Have My Money.” She opened with the latter, which seemed appropriate considering all the bets I was losing. She closed with “Diamonds,” and, in an effort to cheer myself up, I said aloud, “Hey, isn’t this a Pink Floyd song?” (The joke being that both Rihanna’s song and Pink Floyd’s “Shine on You Crazy Diamond” have a key noun and verb in common. Get it?)

Nobody laughed, so I repeated the joke a little louder, thinking they just hadn’t heard it. This is a strategy I employ with Sara, because I assume all my jokes are funny. She usually answers with a flat, “I heard you the first time.”

So it went here, too. Everyone heard—they just weren’t amused. Their silence was louder than the tolling of a bell.

The Game Resumes

So there I was: Overheated, overeating, losing money with FanDuel and losing patience with Jimmy, with Pat Mahomes dead on the sideline and not even a stupid joke to lighten the mood. Not for the first time, I wondered if I cared a little too much about the outcome of this game.

Sure I do, I thought to myself in return. But seriously, fuck the Eagles.

Fortunately, KC began the half with a masterful touchdown drive. Mahomes looked very much alive, despite his re-aggravated injury. Perhaps Rihanna’s performance gave the Chief’s medical staff time to inject raw HGH into his ankle—I didn’t know, and I didn’t care, so long as he won.

The Chiefs had a clear fumble-recovery touchdown taken off the board, but we won’t dwell on that. Instead, we’ll skip ahead to their next touchdown, scored by Kadarius Toney.

Toney is a former New York Giant, albeit one with a checkered history. He lost half his rookie season to injury, then missed several more games in 2022 before being traded to the Chiefs. A few hours after the trade, here’s what he tweeted (and deleted):

“That Joke Would’ve Been Funny If I Was Actually Hurt Still Lol…Irrelevant people don’t get updates.”

In other words, it appears he was faking the injury to force a trade.

Still, once a Giant, always a Giant, as I always say. I placed a modest wager on Mr. Toney scoring a touchdown, so not only did he give Kansas City the lead—he added $15.60 to my bank account.

Several guests departed shortly thereafter; first Sam, then KK, then Regina and Jeremy, then Alondra and Jacob. It’s proper host etiquette to hug your friends goodbye and, to my shame, I didn’t. I shouted my goodbyes from the couch, because when friendship and loathing the Eagles go head-to-head, I think you know which one wins.

After another Kansas City touchdown, Philly answered with a touchdown of their own, plus a two-point, yielding a score of 35-35 with 5:15 to go. This is where Jimmy really came alive.

“I could win $22,000,” he whispered.

He and a co-worker had split a Super Bowl square for five and two, meaning any score concluding any quarter with the last digits of five for the Chiefs and two for the Eagles would earn a massive payout.

“People have to die to get a square in this pool,” Jimmy explained, making me wonder how many people he’d killed to get his. “If this works, I’m gonna jump through a window.”

Okay, I thought, but that would mean the Eagles would win, and we can’t have that. Also, who’s paying for the window?

While Jimmy begged the TV for an Eagles touchdown, I rocked back and forth on the couch. Every play became an eternity, like waiting on the result of a medical test. Twelve snaps and 66 yards later, the Chiefs took a three point lead, leaving eight seconds for the Eagles.

Though Jimmy’s 22k dreams were now crushed, Philly had one last shot at the end zone. Jalen Hurts dropped back to pass. He waited, waited, scanning the field for something, anything. He pulled back, let loose. The ball arced, peaked, and descended…right into the turf.

Die Eagles die.

The Aftermath

How did I feel when the Chiefs won the Super Bowl? Or, more accurately, how did I feel when the Eagles lost it?

Relieved. Not excited, not happy. Just relieved that I wouldn’t be hearing about this night for the rest of my life. Selfish, I know, but true nonetheless. The diagnosis was treatable rather than terminal. The disease had been cured.

Plus, I profited. I missed my aforementioned Dallas Goedert and Tommy Townsend bets, along with a reckless flyer on both Kelce brothers to score touchdowns. But I hit on Kadarius Toney, plus the Chiefs to win straight-up. I even hit the Octopus, achieved by none other than Eagles QB Jalen Hurts. As it turned out, I’d unwittingly bet on the Birds.

Speaking of the Birds, I had a text queued up for my nameless Philly frenemies. I typed it into my phone and almost sent it, but Sara convinced me to sleep on it.

I never did send that text. However, I think it’s a damn fine example of karmic sarcasm, so I’ll include it below.

Hey, just wanted to say, what a satisfying end to the Eagles season. Loved seeing them coast to the playoffs with an easy schedule, then bully a feel-good Giants team and a fourth-string QB on the way to the Super Bowl. Hurts put up a great fight though, especially when he chucked that final pass into the dirt. You must be so proud!

Anyway, couldn’t have happened to a more cordial and sportsmanlike fanbase. Go Birds!

Damn. Now I wish I’d sent it.

Whatever. Justice was served, our Super Bowl party was a success, and I have $91.40 to spend on a developmental editor for my next book. As far as I know, that editor is not an Eagles fan.

Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include three books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

I’m Changing My Pen Name to Squm

April 1, 2022 / Kyle A. Massa

April Fools

Samuel Clemens became Mark Twain. Lew Alcindor became Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Sméagol became Gollum. And today, Kyle A. Massa becomes Squm.

There are several reasons I’ve settled on this new pen name, and in today’s article, I’d like to enumerate them. Here’s a free reason: Squm was my invented gamer tag for Super Smash Bros. Melee way back in the day. For more, keep reading.

Squm is Thrilling

You might recall my old name, Kyle A. Massa. Unless you’re wondering what happened to the -Chusetts, it’s a pedestrian name. Time for a rebrand.

Squm Has Nice Search Engine Potential

If you Google Squm right now, you’ll find Urban Dictionary results that are, shall we say, obscene. But that’s to be expected from Urban Dictionary. Plus, there is a pretty positive definition from December 2020:

“A hip word to describe a whacky occurrence – More commonly used as an exclamation.

Did you see that thing Mimi said? Holy SQUM was that weird.”

See? People already dig the name. Also, FYI, I’m still securing my new domain. www.squm.com is currently a French website with the following acronym:

Service
Qualité
Usinage
Maintenance

I wouldn’t recommend a visit, since my browser tells me this site isn’t secure. Don’t worry—it will be once I buy the URL.

Squm is Enigmatic

Is that a male or female name? Is it even a name, or just a typo? Is the person who invented it a complete weirdo? These are some questions that will no doubt occur to readers when they read my new name. All for the better.

Squm Looks Good on a Cover

Just look at my updated books:

Behold the space I’m saving! Now I’ll have more room for quotes about what a cool name Squm is.

Squm is Catchy

Don’t you just love saying Squm? I sure do. My wife does, too. She calls me Squm about 30% of the time (this is not an exaggeration, you can ask her). From now on, call me Squm 100% of the time.

Squm Rhymes with Rum

Point of clarification: Rum makes me a little queasy. Even so, many other people enjoy it (Jack Sparrow, for instance), meaning they might draw a positive association from me.

…Or they might recall a puke-laden college bender. But who am I to judge?

Squm is Pithy

Countless celebrities throughout history have made it big with mononyms, from Homer and Satan to Cher and Zendaya. Plus, you get to be mononymous, which means, according to Wikipedia, “an individual who is known and addressed by a single name.” If that’s not cool, I don’t know what is.

Squm is Just an April Fools’ Joke

If you haven’t checked your calendar yet, today is April Fools’ Day. I’m not really changing my pen name to Squm. However, I am running a site-wide sale on all my ebooks from now until April 10th. They’re all 50%, so feel free to browse. I promise none of them have the word “Squm” on them.

Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include two books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

The Last Blog Post of My 20s

February 22, 2022 / Kyle A. Massa

Turning 30

On March 6, 2022, I’m turning 30. However, I suspect some part of me has always been 30.

For instance, I wear sandals with socks whenever the weather allows. I’ve prefer old music to most anything trending today (except for Lady Gaga, who’s timeless). I pre-date Facebook, Justin Bieber, and Magic: The Gathering. And as of four months ago, I became a parent.

Oddly, being a dad makes me feel young—at least for now. This is because, since my daughter Sasha is so little and she’s our first, most people call my wife and I “young parents.” Even at our most overwhelmed and sleep deprived, the mere mention of the adjective “young” makes one feel spryer (assuming “spryer” is an actual word).

But I doubt this feeling will last long. Sasha’s already said “hello,” plus her recent favorite activity is screaming incoherently, which means she’ll be talking soon. It’s only a matter of time before she asks me what my first silent movie was, or which side I fought on during the Civil War. I already know not to invite her to guess my age; I tried that when I was a counselor at a summer camp in college, and the kids guessed 44.

So I don’t feel too old yet, but I suspect I will soon. And if you couldn’t tell by the increasingly indecisive quality of this blog post, my feelings on turning 30 vary by the moment.

For instance, if I compare myself to other 30-year-olds, I’ll start feeling old—or maybe just inadequate. Derek Jeter had four World Series titles by the time he turned 30. Quick mental tally for me and…I have zero. Does this mean I’ve squandered my first three decades?

No. Of course it doesn’t! I may have spent countless hours playing Pokemon, Rock Band, and Civilization V, but that’s not the point. The point is, every 30-year-old turns 30 in their own way (unless you’re part of the 27 Club, in which case, RIP). And on March 6, it’s my turn. From then on, to borrow a phrase from Frank Sinatra, the best is yet to come.

And hey, Frank recorded that song when he was long past 30. So maybe he was onto something.