Category: Thoughts on Life (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 /

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 Requiem for Tommy D.

August 30, 2025 /

A photo of my beloved Tommy Cutlets t-shirt.

When Shakespeare wrote, “It is a tale told by an idiot…signifying nothing,” he was actually writing about the New York Giants.

The ’08 and ’12 Super Bowl runs of my youth are a fading memory. Since then, it’s been misery, frustration, and a whole lot of unintentional comedy. Speaking of which, enter Tommy DeVito.

Not to be confused with Joe Pesci’s character in Goodfellas, this Tommy isn’t a mobster (as far as I’m aware). He is Italian, though. Very much so. If you weren’t tipped off by the surname, look no further than his touchdown celebration, an upturned pinched-fingers gesture with an accompanying bounce of the wrist that apparently won the 2023 Bud Light Celebration of the Year award, which feels right.

Yes, Tommy was pretty much a walking Italian-American stereotype. He was a Jersey native. He raved about his mother’s cooking. He still lived with his parents, despite being in his mid-20s and earning a six-figure salary. He even pitched this as a competitive advantage, saying, “I don’t have to worry about laundry, what I’m eating for dinner, chicken cutlets and all that is waiting for me when I get there. My mom still makes my bed. Everything is handled for me.”

I use the past tense here because Tommy DeVito is no longer employed by the New York Giants. He was cut yesterday, as I write this, and I’m devastated. I even wore my Tommy Cutlets novelty t-shirt two days in a row, in memoriam.

You must wonder why I miss Tommy so much. He was lousy in limited action last year, and although he galvanized the Giants the year prior, many argued that was detrimental to the team’s long-term plans, since they could’ve secured a better draft pick had they lost more games. Even when he was winning, analysts and podcasters remained dubious, if not downright disbelieving.

That’s because Tommy doesn’t compare favorably with other quarterbacks in the NFL. He has a relatively slight frame, along with below-average speed, accuracy, and arm strength. Stephen A. Smith even said that DeVito being the “high point” of the Giants’ ’23 season “tells you how bad they are as a team.”

Well, I must be part of the problem, because Tommy is my favorite Giant since Eli Manning. (That distinction used to belong to Saquon Barkley, but the second he signed with the Eagles, he was dead to me.)

The simple explanation is that Tommy is a meme on two legs, but I think there’s something deeper at work here. It’s not like I was the only one entertained by the guy’s antics; there were numerous articles written not only about Tommy, but about his beloved parents, and even his agent, who dresses like Frank Sinatra and appears to have made his own Wikipedia page. In short, people really enjoyed this Jersey guido. And I have a theory as to why.

When the average fan watches a quarterback like Josh Allen, I doubt they see much of themselves in him—physically, at least. Sure, Josh seems like a down-to-earth guy, but few sports fans are six-foot-five, weigh 240 pounds, sling a football 80 yards downfield, and can also truck NFL linebackers. “Freak” is often the descriptor attributed to Allen, a word defined by the New Oxford American Dictionary as a “person with unusual physical development.”

Tommy, on the other hand, isn’t all that unusual. At six-foot-two, he’s tall, but not freakishly so. He’s talented enough to make NFL rosters, but not quite good enough to keep a starting job.

This, I think, is the root of Tommy DeVito’s appeal (aside from his unabashed refusal to leave his parents’ home). He looks and acts like a more-or-less average person, give or take some quirks. He seems like somebody you could’ve gone to school with (and if you attended Syracuse University circa-2018, you actually did). For some viewers, he might not differ much from they themselves. I mean, I’m six-foot-two. I’m Italian-American. I don’t wear my initials on a gold chain around my neck, but you get my point. Tommy’s just a guy who succeeded, at least for a time, even when most thought he couldn’t.

We love sports for the outliers, yes. There’s no other person on the planet like Simone Biles, or Shohei Ohtani, or the aforementioned Josh Allen, or that hot-dog-gorging creature Joey Chestnut. But there are many people like Tommy DeVito, people who excel in the unlikeliest circumstances. And that’s why I’ll miss him.

Well, that and the merch. That was always fun.

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.

Annual Jugs

June 9, 2025 /

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.

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.

!

June 28, 2024 /

I end too many sentences with exclamation marks. I’m aware of this personal flaw, yet I can’t seem to stop myself from doing it.

I know it’s overdone. I know it’s inaccurate. I know Strunk and White would table-top me if they could. And yet, I do it anyway.

Why? Because I don’t want people to think I’m upset.

Perhaps I should specify. My exclamation marks appear almost exclusively in my digital communication. I’m better at excluding them from my prose, mostly because I’m afraid grammarians on Goodreads will slap me with one-star reviews. Yet texts and emails remain breeding grounds for my exclamations.

To prove this observation, I reviewed yesterday’s sent emails from my work address. Ten of my previous 10 messages contained exclamation marks. Worse yet, now that I’ve established this pattern at work, I can’t relent.

For the sake of demonstration, let’s imagine we’re coworkers. Greetings, coworker. Now let’s pretend you’ve requested help from me, and I reply thusly:

All set!

Oh that Kyle, you must be thinking, shaking your head and smiling to yourself. What a chipper fellow.

Try receiving this reply instead:

All set.

Oh no, you’d think to yourself. Is Kyle mad at me? Is everything okay? Did his cat die?

Don’t worry, both cats are very much alive. One of them just puked on the rug. But here you’ve spotted my dilemma: I’ve worked at Special Olympics New York for five years now, and over that time, I’d estimate 96.56% of my emails used an exclamation mark. When you write almost as many exclamations as periods, you’ve got a problem.

And it’s not just me. A few years back, our organization recruited a writing consultant to help improve our written communication. My wife Sara also works at Special Olympics NY, and she was among the select few invited to the seminar. Here’s what she says the consultant said:

“I’ve never encountered an organization that writes with as many exclamation marks as yours!”

His statement probably ended in a period, but I wanted to reinforce his point.

But here’s my rebuttal, writing consultant guy: Periods make texts and emails sound terse. I know they’re grammatically correct. I know they’re proper. Yet when communicating digitally, I can’t ignore the finality of that single dot. Consider this text message:

Okay.

This is how my parents text, and they’re right to do so. The vast majority of sentences should end in periods. But this sentence sounds aggressive, even though I know my parents aren’t aggressive (unless my dad’s talking to the cable company). If that example doesn’t convince you, try this one:

See you soon.

Without an exclamation mark, this sounds like a threat. In my more paranoid moments, I might even receive this text and think, Oh shit! Am I about to be assassinated!?

See? I even think in exclamation marks.

My problem is one of consistency. I’ve often daydreamed about converting to the period, about dropping all my overused exclamation marks from my texts, emails, and thoughts, becoming the diligent grammarian I know I should be. Yet I can’t. Because if I do, people will fear something’s wrong.

What’s with all the sudden periods? they’ll think as they read my emails. Is Kyle going to assassinate me?

The answer is, of course, no (unless you’re an Eagles fan, in which case, maybe). But who would know that by reading an email dominated by periods? I pretty much only use them when I’m annoyed with people and I assume they know I’m annoyed with them. No exclamation marks for you, I think as I pound the period key. Every sentence you get ends in a black hole.

I could add an addendum to my email signature explaining my change, e.g. I’ve realized I overuse exclamation marks in my emails, so you may notice their absence in future messages. This does not reflect my general mood or feelings toward you, unless it does, in which case, you know who you are. But that would make me seem like even more of a psycho than I already am.

Yet still, I’m not alone. Exclamation overuse isn’t just localized to my organization—it’s generational. As a Millennial, ours was the first generation to grow up with text messaging. Without the in-person benefits of tone, expression, and posture, our early text messaging relied on nonsense like colons combined with right-half parentheticals. Or, better yet, exclamation marks. Emojis came later, but even they haven’t killed the vertical-line-and-dot.

Perhaps this suggests that we Millennials are an empathetic generation. We want to assure our recipients that we’re not angry with them, so much so that we end most sentences with an additional press of the “Shift” key. Or, perhaps we’re all part of the problem. I couldn’t say.

But here’s what I could do: I could end this confessional with a vow to write fewer exclamation marks. I know I won’t. Instead, later today, as I sit down at my desk and browse my emails, I’ll reply with the same platitudes I always use. Sounds good! Copy that! Thanks so much! And I’ll think to myself, Well, at least you’re certain I’m not mad at you!

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 five books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.

So Long, Time

March 10, 2024 /

A clock ticks on for Daylight Savings Time.

This week’s post is a poem—or rather, a gripe. Maybe a poetic gripe. Whatever it is, it goes like this:

Crankiness. Bleariness. Sadness. Despair.

But Daylight Savings Time doesn’t care.

That is all. Get a nap if you can.

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 five books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

The 7 Types of Karaoke Singers

February 26, 2024 /

The 7 Types of Karaoke Singers

Karaoke is an art form I’m passionate about. Perhaps a bit too passionate.

After all, I’ve already written an essay (published) and a short story (unpublished) on this very subject. It’s the next best thing to actually singing karaoke, which I haven’t done in quite some time. Nonetheless, if I can’t do it, I’ll write about it.

With all that experience, there’s something I’ve noticed about karaoke singers: They come in archetypes. In no particular order, here they are.

No. 1: The Overqualifier

The Overqualifier is often a member of their community a cappella group, a karaoke regular, or both. Whoever they are, they’re way too good to be singing at karaoke, because their talent defeats the entire purpose.

I mean, in what other context are lousy singers not only accepted, but encouraged? Speaking as a C+ singer myself, we’re unwelcome in most places. I’m not even welcome in my own home, sometimes, like when I endlessly repeat lines from King Gizzard’s “The Dripping Tap” and my wife loses patience. Sorry, Sara.

What I’m trying to say is, there’s only one place lousy singers can sing publicly, and it’s karaoke. Talented singers get to sing everywhere else, including outdoor stages, concert halls, and TV shows with critical yet occasionally touchingly supportive British judges.

They’ll select an expert-level song, probably something from Wicked or something by Adele, and they’ll sing it note-for-note. If you’ve ever gotten dirty looks from the average joes in the bar after nailing the high note in Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody,” you might be the Overqualifier.

No. 2: The Drunk

The Drunk might be talented. They might not be. It’s hard to tell, because all that alcohol is making them sound like Chewbacca.

Still, the Drunk is not without a certain charm (so long as they’re not vomiting). After all, alcohol is an essential add-on to the karaoke experience, like amphetamines at an EDM show. That said, the drunk has a short shelf life. They can be entertaining for a while, but when they start slurring the words to “Wonderwall,” they should probably head out.

If you sing karaoke while drunk, you’re probably the Drunk.

No. 3: The Screen Starer

You know that moment when your cat stares into the corner of the room without blinking, and you look into the same corner, only you don’t see anything, but the cat keeps on staring, and after a while you wonder if a ghost is crouched in the corner staring back, and you whisper, “Loon? What is it? Is someone there?”, and your cat still stares at the corner for another minute or two, and then she finally stops and you realize you peed yourself a little? That’s essentially what happens with the Screen Starer. (The staring part, not the peeing part.)

The Screen Starer is someone who doesn’t sing karaoke often, so they’re a little nervous. They probably know the lyrics, but don’t trust themselves enough to overcome stage fright. As a result, they sing their entire song to the prompter, like a cat staring at a ghost in a corner.

If your contacts pop out because you went three minutes and 26 seconds without blinking because you were staring at the scrolling lyrics to Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab,” you might be the Screen Starer.

No. 4: The Boss

I don’t mean Bruce Springsteen, although a Boss might sing Bruce’s “Jungleland.” The Boss is that person who picks a lengthy rock epic, even when they shouldn’t.

If you would even consider singing any of the following songs at karaoke, you are the Boss: 

  • “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin
  • “Free Bird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd
  • “The End” by The Doors
  • The double-digit-minute version of “All Too Well” by Taylor Swift
  • Any song from a live Phish album

The Boss can be intimidating because they only care about their own satisfaction. They want to sing a song, usually a long one, and they don’t care if you like it or not—you’re gonna hear it, anyway.

No. 5: The Downer

Similar to the Boss, the Downer has a complete inability to read a room. Thus, they select songs like Johnny Cash’s “Hurt” while there’s a bachelorette party going on in the corner.

If anyone’s ever inquired about your wellbeing after your karaoke performance, you might be the Downer.

No. 6: The Gesticulator

The Gesticulator isn’t as talented as the Overqualifier, and they know it. That’s why they gesticulate. They’re relying on theatrics to distract from their voice, which may or may not sound like Moe Szyslak.

The Gesticulator has a difficult balance to manage. Anything too choreographed seems trite, while anything too spontaneous seems chaotic. The best tactics often involve humor, such as doing the River Dance during the bagpipe solo in AC/DC’s “It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ‘n’ Roll).” Some Gesticulators employ props, such as chairs, martini glasses, or their own removed clothing.

If you’ve ever earned a cheer from a karaoke crowd by doing something other than singing, you’re probably the Gesticulator.

No. 7: The Scott Stapp

Look, anyone who has the gumption to sing Creed at karaoke deserves their own category, which I’ve named after Creed’s singer. Creed is the preeminent example of an unofficial subgenre I call “Douchebag Rock.” It’s basically any artist where their lyrics make you sound like an asshole just by singing them, yet everyone agrees they’re catchy enough to earn a pass. Nickelback and Matchbox Twenty are in there as well.

Truth is, I myself am a Scott Stapp. I hope you haven’t lost respect for me (if you hadn’t already). But have you ever tried singing the chorus to “One Last Breath” without tearing up? It can’t be done, I tell you.

There You Have It

Confession time: In addition to the Scott Stapp, I’m a Gesticulator and a bit of a Screen Starer. Which type of karaoke singer are you?

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.

Thoughts on Crocs

January 7, 2024 /

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 /

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.

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.

For the Love of the Gut

October 9, 2023 /

A cartoon GIF of a stomach—or some may say the "gut"—digesting a hamburger.

Gut.

It’s a word that’s existed for centuries, though nowadays it’s become more popular than ever (or maybe I’m just noticing it more). My question is this: Why?

It’s not like “gut” is a descriptive term. It’s unpleasant to hear—and to say, for that matter. Try saying it. “Gut.” It’s so guttural.

Furthermore, this word always gives me the same visual: Someone’s soft, flabby stomach getting slapped and/or punched. “Slugged in the gut.” That’s what comes to mind.

Despite its shortcomings, I hear this term everywhere, especially in the fields of sports, nutrition, and dating. “Gut check.” “Great for your gut health.” “Do you have a fire in your gut?”

That last question was recently posed by Arizona Cardinals head coach Jonathan Gannon. He was addressing a roomful of NFL players, and his speech was meant to be a motivational rallying cry and/or a practical joke. Either way, millions of internet pundits found it hilarious, including me, partly because of Gannon’s gratuitous invocation of the “gut.”

It only gets worse in health contexts. “Gut health” has become a catchall term for the stomach, or maybe the gastrointestinal system, or maybe, I dunno, the gallbladder. I’m uncertain because so-called “health experts” on Instagram insist on using the word in all their content, though they never define it. It’s like a contractor pointing at your roof and saying, “Your house has a leaky hat.” There’s no faster way to kill your credibility.

Aside from sports and health, the place I hear “gut” most often is on the Bachelor franchise, which is the most damming evidence one can present. Contestants on the show constantly refer to their gut as if it’s a personal confidant, e.g. “At the end of the day, I had to go with my gut.”

This conjures an image of the gut as a wise counselor, some shriveled, pink, slimy mass of tissue in your abdomen that holds a notepad and wears glasses. When you present a moral quandary to your gut such as, “Should I trust Chad even though he has toxic masculinity issues?”, your gut replies with a sagely, “No, but the producers will appreciate it if you keep him around a few more weeks.”

In this context, the gut is like one’s own personal Yoda, only it can’t use the Force and its home address lies somewhere between your pancreas and spleen.

Or not. And this is my issue with the term to begin with. Its meanings are so varied it has no meaning.

According to the New Oxford American Dictionary, for instance, the noun “gut” has five different definitions, from “entrails that have been removed or exposed in violence or by a butcher” to “a narrow passage or strait.” It’s also applicable as a verb, or as a component of common phrases such as “hat[ing] someone’s guts.”

Is it possible to hate the guts of the word “gut”? Because I’m getting there.

I believe the primary application of the word should be comedic, and more specifically, ironic. For example, if you were to say, “I went with my gut and gave myself a gut check because there’s a fire in my gut, and I should probably go to the hospital to get it checked out,” then I salute you. Otherwise, I think it’s overused.

So next time you’re tempted to use the G-word, heed my warning. It might just change your life.

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 five books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

Birds, Bets, and Sarcastic Texts

February 20, 2023 /

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.

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