Dearest Mother, I write to you from the depths of this Hellish place from which all hope has fled.

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Dearest Mother —

I write to you from doggy jail, a Hellish place from which all hope has fled. The conditions here are unspeakable. My bedding is but a scrap of fabric thrown carelessly to the floor by the Warden (that would be you).

My cell contains no couch. No recliner. No second couch. No comfy pillows upon which to drool and fart. No Queen-size Sealy Posturepedic to lie across diagonally so that no one else has room to sleep except for one inch of mattress right at the edge.

And worst of all (I beg that you steel yourself for my next words), I have no blankie.


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I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m a Honeycrisp apple enthusiast (or HCAE). If I see anybody eating an apple that’s not a Honeycrisp apple, I will knock that fucker right out of their hands.

I know the phrase “mouth orgasm” is overused, but that first bite of a Honeycrisp apple will give your mouth a Big O like nobody’s business. That crisp, tart tang. That deafening crunch that makes people turn their heads like, “What the fuck was that?” It’s better than sex.

In fact, I haven’t had sex since eating my first Honeycrisp apple this year because I won’t put my Honeycrisp apple down. …


We’ve had just about enough of this behavior, young man.

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After losing the 2020 U.S. presidential election, Donald J. Trump has reportedly barricaded himself in his bedroom, yelling “YOU’RE NOT MY REAL ELECTORATE!”, before slamming the door and cranking Metallica on his stereo.

His aides have tried to lure him out with promises of ice cream and a pony ride, to which the former President of the United States responded, “What flavor?” before retreating again to his pillow fort.

Melania has been seen passing notes to her husband under the door, which he is reportedly chewing up and spitting back through the keyhole.

An unnamed source also heard her say she’ll do “that special thing that you like” if he’ll come out and stop embarrassing her. As this ploy has never worked in the past, onlookers seemed skeptical. …


There must be 50 ways to say “This is garbage.”

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Bev —

Thanks for the read. You’ve been submitting to us every week for the last three years, and this one was really, really close. So close. You can’t even begin to imagine how incredibly close you were to being published in our tiny, tiny online publication that nobody except other comedy writers has ever heard of and for which we would’ve given you the princely sum of $5 if our Patreon hits its target this month.

If you had changed just ONE word, we would’ve taken your piece and you’d be a world-famous comedy writer RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND. Jimmy Kimmel would be knocking on your door to ask you to write for The Tonight Show. (Or is that Jimmy Fallon? We always get those two confused. …


or Why Everything That Is Good For You Sucks

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I remember the old days when only hippies did yoga. People who looked like they smelled bad and had dirty feet. Swamis and whatnot. Kooks, weirdos. John Lennon. Ralph Nader, probably (I have not researched this). People who drove VW Bugs, and not the hip, cute VW Bugs that are out there now. These were Bugs that always had at least one fender scraping the tire.

I’m not sure we’ve actually progressed that far, the only difference being that now the hippies wear Lululemon and Jo Malone perfume. …


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“The spirit was fantastic. It was kind and sweet, and we were all so happy to be there.” — Hattie Bryant to WKRN, Nashville.

Wow, was I excited when the buses finally pulled up to the Ellipse! I had to pee like a you-know-what (some of the guys were using Powerade bottles, but I’m no extremist). We assembled in front of the stage where the President was going to speak. It was a real party atmosphere. Some people started chanting “Hang Mike Pence!”, which was fun.

The President talked for a really long time and sometimes his sentences were even grammatically correct! I was more excited than that time the Homeowner’s Association granted my application for a variance to build a wall between me and the brown people who live next door. …


Nasal lavage, anyone?

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My boyfriend didn’t lose his job because of COVID, but the pandemic isn’t exactly helping his prospects. It’s been a very, very, very, very long eight months or so.

He’s in supply chain. Everybody knows what that is now because that’s what keeps toilet paper on the shelves. Before the pandemic, I had no idea what he did for a living and we’ve been together for 14 years.

This is mostly because his job, whatever it was, didn’t benefit me in any way. …


I hope you’re not squeamish.

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If you’re like me (and if you are, I’m sorry), you LOVE to see the steady stream of articles proclaiming wildly improbable Medium earnings clogging your feed every morning.

“How do they do it?” you mumble, scrolling frantically to find the MAGIC ANSWER that will finally allow you to quit your day job and tell your boss to shove it, you're a WRITER, goddamn it, you don’t need to put up with this shit anymore. …


One hit is better than no hits.

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Last month was my best month ever as a writer here, thanks to my dog.

It made me think. If I never wrote another thing and just coasted along on one fun article that made people happy and brought in steady income, would I care? Would I be happy? Sad? Frustrated? Relieved?

When somebody describes an artist or a band as a “one-hit wonder”, it’s always with a sneer, the implication being that they couldn’t follow up. They couldn’t hack it. One massive hit, and that’s it.

Gotye. What a loser.

In fact, in the aftermath of the international steamroller that was “Somebody That I Used To Know,” Gotye announced in 2014 that “there will be no new Gotye music.” He remains active as a drummer for The Basics, but it’s not hard to feel for the guy. The same song, over and over and over, ad infinitum. …


Thou shalt have no other Dog before me.

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  1. Thou shalt have no other Dog before me. If you even look at another dog, I’ll know. Even looking at pictures of other dogs online is pushing it.
  2. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s dog, even though he actually comes when he’s called and knows tricks. Do you want a dog or a puppet? I have PERSONALITY, I have CHARISMA. I play by my own rules, I’m a REBEL.
  3. Thou shalt not get mad when I murder my toys. They had it coming.
  4. Thou shalt not commit doggie adultery by petting other dogs.

About

Bev Potter

Legal secretary by day, superhero by night. BA, MA. The Haven, Tenderly, The Junction, @pointsincase, The Funny Times. Twitter: @blade_funner

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