Category: Randomness (Page 1 of 2)

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.

My Most Embarrassing Writing Fails

January 26, 2022 / Kyle A. Massa

Bad Writing

My grandparents on my dad’s side were famous for never wasting anything. This is not a statement of hyperbole.

For instance, instead of killing dandelions in her yard, my grandmother served them as salad toppers. Also, my grandfather once removed every rusty nail from every board of a dismantled shed, then stored the nails in buckets in the basement for future use.

See? Nothing wasted.

I take after them in this respect, though my waste refusal has nothing to do with dandelions or rusty nails. Mine is all about writing.

I can’t discard my writing. No matter how bad it is, no matter how unreadable, I can’t write anything without using it somehow. So, this blog post is all about my lousiest work. I could (probably should) throw it out, but instead I’m sharing it with you. Hope you get a kick out of it—and maybe a few helpful tips along the way.

Pages of the Mirror

This pretentiously artsy script was my senior thesis project at Ithaca College in 2014. This was back when I feared nobody would take me seriously if I wrote comedy, so the resulting piece is emo, dull, and ultimately lousy.

Pages of the Mirror is about some dude named Danny who lives in a small town and is beloved by everyone, for some reason. When his equally beloved Uncle Jack (car mechanic with tattoos who listens to Metallica, of course) gets murdered, Danny becomes the prime suspect.

Plus, there’s an intertwined story of a mysterious fellow mysteriously named “The Writer” who’s working on a mysterious book and who continues to be generally mysterious, because I decided all this mystery would be intriguing. We soon discover this is a story within a story; the Writer is writing about Danny.

At the time, I thought this was clever. Looking back, the connection between the two stories was probably immediately obvious. Plus, it’s a classically egomaniacal story for a writer to write. (What if my writing became so good it came to life!?) I recall pulling an all-nighter the night before it was due, which is probably why I only got a B. But look at me now—I got blog content out of it.

My takeaway from this project: When you’re developing your voice, you might strike a few sour notes. Just clear your throat and keep singing.

“Apocalypse Now…or Never”

It’s hard to believe, but I’ve been writing on this here blog now for 10 years. If you explore my archives, you’ll find some bad writing. Perhaps the worst was my first ever blog post, entitled “Apocalypse Now…or Never.”

The title isn’t terrible; it’s the rest that’s ugly. Just check out this leadoff sentence:

“I’m having a hard time buying this ‘2012: World is Going to End’ crap.”

I wrote this sentence when I was 19, yet it makes me sound like I’m 60. Also, I’m pretty sure the punctuation is incorrect.

Things don’t improve from there. My intro paragraph is a block of text, and I somehow venture into a rant about Ozzy Osbourne possibly being a zombie. I don’t even address my anti-apocalypse stance until paragraph eight, and when I finally get to it, I use a funfetti cake as a metaphor.

If you want to read just how bad this blog post was, you can find it here. My takeaway: Writing gets better with age. I’m not some premier blogger, but this blog is certainly better than it was a decade ago. Second takeaway: I was right about the world not ending in 2012. Yay me.

Pleasant Street

This is another college project, though Pleasant Street was a short story, not a script. It’s so bad that I’ve actually written about it before. Not sure this is something I should brag about, but here goes…

This story has it all: A doofus protagonist, heavy-handed symbolism, clumsy language, geriatric cannibals. What more could you ask for?

Well, if you’re asking for competent plotting, compelling characters, or an interesting setting, look elsewhere. Pleasant Street is about a first-time cop named Officer Green (I warned you about the heavy-handedness) who’s assigned to walk the beat in a neighborhood called Pleasant Street. See? Because it’s called Pleasant Street, you’d never expect anything bad might happen. Brilliant misdirection.

As it happens, the residents of Pleasant Street have achieved eternal life via cannibalism. (I partially lifted this idea from an episode of The X-Files, so my apologies to Mulder and Scully.) Rather predictably, the story concludes with the main character being cooked and eaten. I would’ve offered a spoiler warning, but no one will ever read this story again—I’ve made sure of it.

As for the grade on this assignment, I don’t recall it. Perhaps my mind is repressing it to defend me. But here’s what I do remember: I never collected feedback on this piece. If I did, maybe someone might’ve told me it needed work. So that’s our takeaway for this story. Get feedback from people you trust, then use it if it works.

“10 Bold Predictions for the Future of Magic: The Gathering”

Yes, I know most readers will not care about Magic, let alone understand it. If you were to browse this article, you’d find such esoteric phrases as “enemy fetch lands,” “two-block paradigm,” and “Kaseto comes along in the new Commander product.”

However, I’m including this article because of my low success rate on these so-called bold predictions. To be clear, the writing is actually passable; I had some decent wisecracks, including a dig at Jar-Jar Binks (timeless). The issue is, I only got five of my 10 predictions right!

I won’t bore you with the details. I’ll just say this: We must deliver on our promises to our readers—especially when the promise is right in the title.

“Someday”

I’ve saved the worst for last. You think my poetry is bad now? Just check out this poem from May 5th, 2011, for a creative writing class at Ithaca College.

“Someday soon,
We’ll touch the moon.
Ride the stars to the sun.
Someday soon,
We will commune.
And then we shall be one.”

This is weird pseudo-hippy crap that sounds like something you’d cringe at if you heard someone singing it with an acoustic on the campus quad. And it’s only an excerpt! I feel like I should apologize to you for forcing you to read it. I’m sorry.

The lesson learned here is clear: Don’t F with poetry. Bad poetry is more offensive than bad prose. My poetry is still pretty bad, but at least I’m reading and studying the craft before I write more. And I’m definitely not trying to rhyme.

Summing It All Up

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again here: I think it’s healthy to review your old work, no matter how nauseated it makes you feel. I may not be a great writer, but at least I’m better than I used to be. And sometimes, that reminder is all we need.

(P.S. I hope I made my grandparents proud. Waste not, want not!)

The Best Worst Holiday Gifts of the 2021 Giving Season

December 13, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

‘Tis the gift-giving season, which means there’s no better time to buy useless trinkets for people who may or may not want them. If you’re looking for odd products of dubious usefulness, look no further than this article (which is itself dubiously useful). And here we go!

The Backseat Driver GPS

Traveling for the holidays? You probably navigate with an app on your phone. But does your app offer the added benefit of criticizing your driving?

The Backseat Driver GPS does! It gives immediate and constant feedback, whether or not you want it. Just enter your destination and let your device berate you the rest of the way. Here are several suggestions you might receive:

“Come on, just go, they’re letting you in!”
“That’s not how you parallel park.”
“Honk at that guy! Honk at him!”

And so on. As you can see, the Backseat Driver GPS combines the convenience of voice navigation with the added frustration of a backseat driver. Never leave home without it.

A Subscription to Christmas Prime Plus +

Christmas Prime Plus + is the newest streaming service designed for the people who watched The Princess Switch enough to turn it into a trilogy. If you want a catalog composed of sappy, formulaic Christmas movies, you’ve got it. Here’s the basic template of all our films:

A plucky, career-oriented young woman who works at [insert for-profit office job in major metropolitan city] returns home to [some midwestern town people would describe as “cozy”] for the holidays and reconnects with [dude name], an old high school flame who’s [handsome, sensitive, a little vacant, but handsome, beloved by the townsfolk, successful, and very handsome]. Now she must choose between the career she has and the life she always wanted, [something wholesome, like a bakery shop owner]. But will she do it? [Yes.]

Start your free trial of Christmas Prime Plus + today!

The Pre-Stuffed Stocking

Stocking stuffers are a mainstay of the holiday season—not that any of us understand why. The little tchotchkes shouldn’t take the shine from the big-ticket items. So let us do the stuffing for you.

Candy canes, fuzzy socks, Amazon gift cards—they’re all mindlessly jammed inside so you don’t have to do it. Just note: The material is highly flammable, so if you hang these on the mantel, have a fire extinguisher handy.

(Disclaimer: Fire extinguisher not included.)

The Little Drummer Boy

We all know this holiday hit made famous by Justin Bieber. And there’s nothing we want more than to hear it over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. And over.

Fortunately, we’ve got a solution. The Little Drummer Boy himself! This eight-inch-tall animatronic plastic little boy just plays “The Little Drummer Boy” on repeat, over and over and over and over again. His favorite line is “ba-rumpa-bum-bum,” and he says it constantly.

Best of all, there’s no volume control or power switch, and the batteries are tucked beneath a bulletproof glass shield. So once this little lad starts drumming, there’s no stopping him until at least 2033. Talk about Christmas cheer!

Wrapping Paper Scraps

Ever noticed how babies are more interested in wrapping paper than the actual gift inside? Well, what if the gift inside the wrapping paper was…more wrapping paper?

This product comes in a variety of textures, colors, and shapes. Just scatter some on the floor and watch in amazement as your baby ignores her brand new hundred-dollar life-sized teddy bear. Plus, the paper is acid-free, so if your dog eats it, you’ll save on your vet bill!

The PermaTree

Whether you build a fake tree every year or chop one down in cold blood, the setup is always a pain. Lugging it in, finding the perfect spot, hanging the ornaments…it’s a backbreaking holiday tradition most likely invented by Krampus. Now we can avoid it, thanks to the PermaTree!

After a brief consultation with our installation experts, we’ll come in and root your tree. We use the verb “root” in the sense of “rooted to the spot,” because it’s not moving. Like, ever again. Our advanced poly-thyrene hypermetal setting and coating makes your tree a permanent fixture of your house. Once it’s there, it’s there for life. Now you really can have Christmas in July!

The Covid Home Test Magic 8 Ball

“Hey Magic 8 Ball, do I have the Omicron variant?”

“Reply hazy, try again.”

With a remarkable success rate of [undisclosed], the Covid Home Test Magic 8 Ball is a fun way to determine whether you should host that holiday rager you’ve always wanted. Behold as your relatives contort this into some sort of political statement!

The iDiaper

Being a parent for a month-and-a-half now, I know the pain of inspecting my daughter’s diaper. She can really poop, and it’s no fun to snuffle her rump just to find out if she’s done so recently. That’s why I personally recommend the iDiaper.

Made by everyone’s favorite Silicon Valley tech overlords, the iDiaper puts Siri in your baby’s butt. Next time she poops, pees, or even farts, Siri will give you a helpful heads-up. Just like on your phone, she even responds to verbal commands, such as…

Me: “Hey Siri, thanks for letting me know Sasha took a dump. Can you please clean it for me?”

Siri: “Oh hell no. That’s your job.”

Get your iDiaper soon, before the iDiaper 25 Max Pro Plus comes out and makes the previous model obsolete. Only $499.99 per unit!

Happy Holidays!

We hope these lousy gifts make your spirits bright this holiday season.

Kyle A. Massa is a 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 Real Reason Frodo Didn’t Ride an Eagle into Mordor

August 19, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

“Bilbo and the Eagles” by Ted Nasmith

There’s a common question posed by readers of The Lord of the Rings trilogy: Is Tom Bombadil robotripping?

Also: Why didn’t the eagles help Frodo?

No, I’m not talking about the NFL’s Philadelphia Eagles (thank god). Nor am I talking about the band (though now that you mention it, I’m down for a little “Hotel California.”) I’m talking about the Great Eagles of Middle-Earth, also known as the Eagles of Manwë, also known as something else, I’m sure, because everybody has like 10 names in Middle-Earth (i.e. Gandalf).

According to this Screen Rant article, cartographer Karen Wynn Fonstad calculated Frodo and Sam’s journey was 1,779 miles long, all on foot (hobbit feet, as it were). They rowed down rivers, stumbled through bogs, and wandered into giant spider lairs, all while they could’ve hopped on an eagle and dropped the ring into Mt. Doom.

There are many explanations, the most likely of which being that J.R.R. Tolkien wanted some actual conflict. In this post, I’d like to give you my explanation. It all started at RIA, better known as Rivendell International Airport…

“Sam,” said Frodo. “We’re late.”

If Gandalf (their travel agent) had been present, he’d have some quick rejoinder prepared. A frequent flyer is never late, Frodo Baggins… But Gandalf wasn’t present. If he was, they wouldn’t be late.

Frodo and Sam found themselves in the lobby of Rivendell International Airport. The drop-off zone outside had been a madhouse, packed with horses and ponies and passengers. It was no less chaotic inside: men, elves, and dwarves jostled and bustled like soldiers preparing for battle. All of them stood between the hobbits and their flight.

“Come on, Sam. Hurry!” Frodo, unencumbered by any bags, plunged into the fray. Sam, weighed down by all their luggage, chugged along behind.

“Do you think we can fit this all in carry-on, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked as they ran. “Should we check a bag or two?”

“No,” Frodo answered gravely. “We’d never see them again.” He swept his gaze over the crowd, noting a dwarf slurping a pint at the airport bar, an elf enjoying a kingsfoil salad, and a hooded man reading a mystery novel. “We must hasten, Sam. The Dark Lord has eyes everywhere.”

“Even in the bathrooms?”

“Especially in the bathrooms.”

“Aye, he’s evil enough for it. Hey, did you pack the…you know?”

Frodo touched his chest, feeling the solid metal between skin and shirt. It was such a small thing, such a little thing, yet it heaved on the chain about his neck like a lead weight. It was the One Ring, the ultimate weapon of the Dark Lord Sauron, the bane of Isildur, forged in the fires of Mt. Doom, retailing for $999.99 at Jared, the Galleria of Jewelry.

“I have it,” Frodo confirmed. “But let us not speak of it. Too many ears in this airport.”

“Unfriendly eyes, unfriendly ears.” Sam shook his head. “What’ll be next? Unfriendly toes?”

As if on cue, an elf sped past and crushed Sam’s toes with a roller bag. He yelped, but Frodo didn’t notice—he was pointing ahead. “Look. The security checkpoint.” He hurried onward, leaving Sam to hobble behind.

Though Rivendell was a haven of beauty and enlightenment, its airport security was staffed by the TSA. They were a brusque people, a grouchy people, and it was said that folk who displeased them were plucked from line and cavity searched, just for the hell of it.

One such TSA agent awaited behind a kiosk, an old crone with faded blonde highlights and fingernails the size of pairing knives. Each nail was painted a vivid purple, and they clacked like the bones of a skeleton as she rapped them upon her kiosk.

“Have your passport and boarding parchment out and visible,” she growled at them.

Sam gulped. “I’m scared, Mr. Frodo.”

“Be brave, Sam. Our flight is due to board any minute.” Frodo approached the woman at the kiosk, bowed his head, and presented his documents.

The woman’s hand descended like a bird’s talon. “Name?”

“Underhill,” said Frodo, keeping his eyes down. “Mr. Underhill.” Gandalf, their travel agent, had insisted on secret names.

The woman clacked her purple fingernails, then shifted her gaze to Sam. “And you?”

Sam offered his documents. “I’m Mr., umm…Gardner?”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “That a name or a question?”

“N-neither,” Sam sputtered. “I mean, both?”

Her gaze drifted to the luggage. The woman still had yet to blink, and Frodo was beginning to wonder if she had eyelids at all. “You don’t have any razors in those bags, do you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What about aerosol cans? Firearms? Fireworks? Lithium batteries?”

They’d never heard of such things in the Shire (except the fireworks), so it was easy to shake their heads no.

“Good enough,” she said, stamping their boarding parchments. “Now get outta my sight.”

Ahead awaited more security. “Arms and armament in separate bins,” barked one of the surlier TSA agents. “Empty your pockets, and remove all metal.”

All metal. That meant…

Frodo stopped short. “Sam. The Ring. They’ll make me take it off.”

Sam frowned. “They’ll give it back, though, won’t they?”

“They might. But what if they’re servants of the Dark Lord?”

“Oh.” Sam scratched his head. “Hadn’t considered that.”

“You two!” the surly TSA agent screamed. “You’re holding up the line. Move move move!”

They moved. Sam hauled the luggage into bins, then stacked them onto the conveyer belt. They hustled ahead.

The Ring still hung around Frodo’s neck. He tried to look as innocent as possible as he stepped through the metal detector.

Beep.

“Honestly, squirt, are your ears clogged by the fur of the Cats of Queen Berúthiel?” The TSA agent beyond the metal detector jabbed a finger at him. “Back through. And make sure your pockets are empty.”

Frodo turned around, wiping sweat from his brow. He knew it would beep again, but if he removed the Ring, they’d claim it for their own. He stepped through again, and—

Beep.

“That’s it. Time for a cavity search.” With a little too much satisfaction, the TSA agent snapped on a rubber glove.

Frodo’s eyes went wide. “They’re going to take it. Then the quest will be for naught, the Dark Lord will win, and the Shire will be ruined. And we’ll have to apply for flight vouchers.”

“No, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, striking a determined expression. “Let us be rid of the TSA, once and for all.” Suddenly, the musical score swelled, and Sam stepped forward heroically. “He has…a pacemaker!”

The TSA agent blinked. “A what?”

“A pacemaker.”

“Oh.” The agent shrugged. “Why should I care?”

“Because that’s what’s setting off the metal detector. Just a pacemaker. No need to harass us further.”

“Hah. Good one. Now bend over, little man. Let’s make sure nobody’s smuggling any Longbottom Leaf…”

Sam looked stricken—but Frodo had an idea.

“Fine,” said Frodo, unbuckling his belt. “We’ll just be late to our trial.”

“Trial?”

“Yes, trial. My associate and I are lawyers.”

The TSA agent’s eyes went wide. “Lawyers?”

“Aye,” said Sam, nodding and smiling. It seemed he’d caught on to the charade. “We love suing people. We sue them all the time.”

“In fact,” added Frodo, warming to the role, “we’ve got a class-action suit pending against the Witch King of Angmar for stabbing people with his Morgul Blade. We’re suing him for all he’s worth—which isn’t much these days, but still. Care to join him?”

The TSA agent glowered at the hobbits. His eyes flicked from one to the other, as if sizing them up. “A pacemaker. Aye.” He snarled at them, like a rabid dog, then waved them through.

Sam gathered their belongings and hoisted them onto his back. He was still hobbling from the damage to his toes, but he did his best to keep up with Frodo. They raced through the terminal.

“We’re at Gate whatever-that-is,” Frodo huffed, pointing at the swirly Elvish runes. “Hurry, Sam!”

They hurried. They hurried through dwarves families, elvish business professionals, human tourists, and finally, they arrived at their gate…

Just in time to see their flight take off.

They were meant to fly on the back of a great eagle, a hulking golden bird with a wing span wide enough to blot out the sun. It sped down the runway, cawed, and with three beats of its massive wings (both stamped with the words “Southwest Airlines”), it lifted off and soared into the distance.

Frodo slumped against the glass. Sam collapsed beside him.

“Cheer up, Mr. Frodo. We can always book a new flight to Mordor.”

“But Sam. We’d have to go through customer service.”

They glanced at the customer service desk. Thousands of people stood before it. Most were dead on their feet, their corpses rotting and stinking, while the living were blanketed by cobwebs and dust.

Frodo shook his head. “No, that way lies doom and despair. We have no choice but to walk, or take an Uber. And I left my phone at home.”

“Dropped mine in the toilet,” sighed Sam. “Suppose we’re walking, then. Think anyone will join us?”

“I’m sure Gandalf can book us some companions.” Frodo slapped his friend on the shoulder, then stood. “Fuck it, Sam. Let’s form a fellowship.”

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their cats, and their dog. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories that make readers laugh.

Why I Find the Charmin Bears Revolting

August 4, 2021 / Kyle A. Massa

The Charmin Bears are an abomination.

…

I might be coming in a little hot there. But really, the Charmin Bears are gross.

You know them. They’re that pack of multicolored ursine cartoons that hold regular family meetings about the quality, texture, and thickness of their toilet paper. They also tend to dance crazily, rub their faces on the paper, and, worst of all, wiggle their (thankfully clean) butts at the camera.

Talk about TMI. Do we really need to watch an egg ricochet off a stack of toilet paper? Do we really need to watch a disembodied arm smear some blue substance off its wrist? (Both happen in almost every Charmin ad.)

No. No we don’t. For these reasons and so many more, I’ve had it with the Charmin Bears. Enough to write this here blog post.

I get it. Toilet paper is pretty much essential. Most people use it multiple times a day, and for good reason. The thing is, we don’t need to talk about it—especially not with such gleeful detail.

When’s the last time you had a conversation about how soft your toilet paper is, or how many ply it is? And god forbid you ever demonstrate the virtue of your toilet paper brand by dumping some thick blue liquid onto it. I understand the allure of creating cartoon characters to your products, but please. Invent some cartoons that are less obsessed with the bathroom and what goes on in it.

Take, for example, this commercial:

For those too nervous to watch the above video, it depicts two Charmin Bears sprinting down the beach in slow motion, presumably because they urgently need to poop. This is just poor planning on their part, because nobody wants to use a porta-potty, let alone one at the beach. (Also, why do we need the close-up on the bouncing butts? Also, whose idea was it to bastardize the theme from 2001?)

Some readers might be surprised by my contempt for these vile bears. I’ve been known to laugh at a bathroom joke or several in my day, and I’ll continue to do so.

But the problem here is context. Many people watch television while eating, which means you might be trying to enjoy your dinner when suddenly a Charmin Bear appears, waving its ass in your face and complaining that a competing brand left pieces behind. Thanks a lot, Charmin. I just lost my appetite for shrimp and rice.

Furthermore, the Charmin Bears need a serious review of priorities. I don’t know any other family that spends so much time discussing such frivolous topics. I’ve certainly never met a family that rubs toilet paper on their faces or debates how many pounds it can hold without ripping. Why not discuss some normal topics, like school, or sports, or the weather, or, I don’t know, anything else?

I can’t vouch for bears, but most humans use toilet paper and never discuss its merits. Sure, once in a while you’ll get some brand that’s especially crappy. But otherwise, toilet paper should be like the roof of a house: necessary, but rarely spoken of.

Now I should acknowledge that these advertisements are clearly working. Hell, I’m writing an entire blog post about them, which would delight any advertiser reading it, regardless of whether or not I actually like the ads. Perhaps that’s their strategy.

But for the time being, my distaste will rage on. Please, Charmin Bears, scale back the toilet paper talk. For the sake of us all!