Write something funny, they said. It will be fun, they said. Here is the thing, to be funny, say or be able to write something funny, is a craft, and that craft has not taken a liking to me. Professor Camdon wants us to, and I quote, ‘Let our funny side out. Make your paper laugh.’ I now understand why nobody takes summer classes; nobody wants to see their teacher shimmy when giving out instructions.
To pass this class, I need to figure out something funny to write about. I am no comedian, just an ordinary person born on March 27, 1997, gifted with the name Ross Bosman, and am about to turn twenty-three, whoop-de-doo! Comedians engage with their audience, making them laugh at some stupidly hilarious comment while being absolutely stoic. That’s not me. I’m the guy in the audience who does not understand the supposed laugh-inducing comments made by the person up on stage. So, picture me, trying to whip out a joke from my back pocket. I will only keep digging through my pocket, which accurately resembles the bottom of Santa Clause’s red bag once Christmas is over.
The morning after Professor Camdon dished out my idea of torture, I left my house at 7:35 a.m to go on a walk to get my ‘creative juices’ flowing. I should have known better; no sane person gets up this early. The earliest I have woken up is noon. But I thought today would be the perfect day to get some funny inspiration and what better way to exercise the mind than going on a walk.
All I wanted to do is go on a peaceful walk, but the speedwalking moms’ group is out combing the neighborhood and if I do not act fast, I will find myself knee-deep is some conversation about their concerns about my personal life that they have no right to indulge themselves in. I frantically scan my surroundings and see the moms come closer with their power walking arms, bright neon track wear and high ponytails. This cannot be happening. I zero in on a bush three feet ahead and make the executive decision to become well acquainted with said bush. I take one quick look at the group closing in and leap into the bush, landing with a hard thud. Yeah, not my brightest idea, but a mans gotta do what a mans gotta do.
I stay close to the ground, my face pressed to the dirt, and wait for the thunderous steps to pass. They do—eventually. Who knew how traumatic a walk can be. I mean, I have not gone on an actual walk since pre-k when my mother was apart of the speed walking moms group. I don’t know how she survived, how I survived such knowledge of knowing my mom decked out in bright, neon gear for early morning walks. Bless her heart; bless my heart.
I peak my head out and check left, then right and roll out of the bush. Score one for Ross, point zero for the walking moms!
I brush the dirt that is bound to stain, and won’t want to deal with, off of my green shirt and navy shorts. I run my hands through my hair a couple of times to get rid of any leaves and twigs that have nestled in my hair.
I look up from preening, noticing a couple coming towards me, caught up in their own conversation. I turn my back towards them and comb through my hair once last time and freeze. There is a bug. In my hair! Not just any bug, but one of those disgusting, slimy, big belly roly-polys.
I retract my hand with lighting speed and flail around screaming. By now the couple has reached me and I can feel their judgmental looks piercing my back. I shimmy, my arms flying back up to my hair to flick the pest off, but I regret to inform you that my hand never reached my head. My hand reached the man and thwacked him in the neck, not his face, the neck where his jugular now pulses. My parents blessed me with the dominant trait of shortness. I am 5’7 and this man has ought to be 6’3. Luck is not on my side. I am about to be flattened, steamrolled over! The face would have been better than getting the wind knocked out.
My shoulder cave in on themselves as I turned around to notice the predicament I have landed myself in. Apparently, the woman was walking behind the man to move around me without invading my personal bubble, and so when I accidentally karate chopped his neck, his body jerked backward that forced his girlfriend to stumble back and into the bush. My bush to be exact; I like to think the bush and I are now tight.
. The boyfriend, might I add, is also a reincarnate of The Rock and could pummel me in a second without much effort, looked me dead in the eye, steam escaping his ears and the ever famous, popping vein in the neck. Let’s name the vein Carl; Carl suits that angry vein. I have stared too long at Carl. The man, who we shall now call DJ, short for Dwayne Johnson, is saying something that has not registered with my brain yet. This is one of the times that I am very grateful for my slowness. His lips are moving and I hear nothing. Maybe I am going deaf. Wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen.
By the time I finished my internal dialogue, DJ has stopped huffing and puffing and turned to help his girlfriend. Why he did not do that first, is a mystery to me. I use this small window to skedaddle my scrawny self out of this confrontational moment to run to the next corner that will lead me away from DJ.
I round the corner, stopping short when a group of turkeys catches my eye. There are at least twelve of them, chilling in the Jones front yard. I’ve never seen so many together. They all look soft though. Would their feathers be smooth like silk or soft like velvet? I want to find out; scratch that, I am going to find out. You know the saying, ‘curiosity killed the cat’? Yeah, I’m the cat.
I slowly made my way up to the flock, exaggerating my steps to alert the group of my presence. I’m not that stupid. All at the same time, their heads turn towards me, and right then I should have backed away and left them alone. Maybe I am a little clueless.
I walk closer and channel my inner turkey. “Gobble, gobble.” I pause, waiting to see what they will do next.
“Gobble, gobble.” I try again stepping closer.
“Gobble, gob- go away!” I have trespassed. The turkeys are gearing up, fluffing up their feathers and squawking, squealing … whatever noise turkeys make. I am too young to die.
I regain some sense of composure and move away from the flock, snail-paced with my hands out in front of me as a flag of surrender. I am only a couple more steps away from the corner that will lead me home, but the turkey leader lets out the shrillest battle cry and I know it is every man for himself at this point.
I whisper an ‘I’m sorry’ before bolting around the corner, skidding until I am able to regain my balance. I pass my bush, risking a glance behind me and see the flock falling behind except for those few special turkeys who make it their mission to train every day for a 5k.
I have my front door insight and push my legs faster than they’ve ever moved before. I don’t remember running this fast since I pulled my sister’s hair and she charged at me. I have never touched her hair since; it was a very traumatizing moment. I run and slam my front door, making sure to double-check the lock is in place before I allow myself to rest and suck in a gulp of air. I slump against the door as my legs give out and land on the ground, with a force that is bound to bruise my tailbone. Great. I don’t think I’ll be going to go on a walk any time soon. Once every twenty or so years is good enough for me.
Write with Alice 