That’s What She Said

My, it is warm.

That’s what she said.

Well, I said.

Well, I wrote.

Are you going to eat that?

That’s what she said.

Well, I said.

Well, I wrote.

My, but you are being literal.

That’s what she said.

Well, I said.

Well, I wrote.

Totally violating the figurative, innuendo nature of the “that’s what she said” format.

What can I say?

I don’t like subtext.

I prefer text.

That’s what…you know, you are making it awfully difficult to pretend you mean sexy things underneath the cover of innocent statements.

I know.

I defy your subtext.

I am like an exorcist of passive-aggression.

If there were such a thing.

There is really no known cure for passive-aggression.

Well, maybe death.

But if there is an afterlife, or a zombie apocalypse, or a haunting in the offing, I assume you would have a passive-aggressive soul/zombie/ghost.

Which would be so very, very much worse than the regular, direct kinds.

The passive-aggressive soul, one assumes, would go to hell, for surely there is no passive aggression in heaven.

Plus it would really lighten the workload for the demons.

The rest of the damned would suffer for the company of the passive-aggressives.

I suppose a passive-aggressive ghost would try to scare you without it being obvious or admitting that it was trying to scare you, and would make you out to be the bad guy for trying to get it exorcised when it wasn’t even trying to scare you.

A passive-aggressive zombie would have it a little harder, as it would still need to eat you…I suppose it could rely on the classic passive-aggressive strategy of relentless denial. Denying that it is eating you around a mouthful of your flesh.

I could flesh (haha, zombie pun) these ideas out more, but for now, moving on
…because passive-aggression feels ishy, even fictional-horror-character passive-aggression…though a passive-aggressive chainsaw murderer could be sort of amusing…aside from the death by chainsaw part.

I am so stuffy.

That’s what she said.

Yes, that is what I said. Wrote. Just now.

But…y’know…

Just can’t let go of the bit, huh?

That’s what she said.

Fine, fine.

Wow, your penis is enormous and rigid.

That’s wh…aw, come on, it doesn’t work if you come right out and say something sexual.

There is just no pleasing you.

That’s what she said. Ha! Only that is kind of a downer.

Your schtick is far too narrow.

That’s what she said. Ahhh! Thanks.

No problem. Satisfied?

That’s wh…you know what? I am. Thanks.

Perhaps we can move on.

I suppose.

But I find it so difficult to talk about anything of substance. I rely on silly standard call-and-response joke formats to enable me to communicate with others.

It is a lonely way to live.

Well, perhaps if you stopped acting like everything everyone says is something some subtext-obsessed woman is saying, and really listened, and gave thoughtful responses, maybe you would be able to build some real intimacy in your life, and you would start feeling connected instead of lonely.

I…er….well, I…uhhhh….

I understand it will take time and practice. Go ahead.

THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!!!

Feel better?

Yes, I do.

Okay, I am going to talk to someone else for a while, you really need to go and work these things out with professional assistance.

(footsteps, door creak, door slam, more muffled retreating footsteps, silence)

Oh, great, now I am on my own.

That’s what I said.

Well, anyway, onward and upward.

That’s what I said.

I am getting bored with this.

That’s what I said.

It’s just the same thing, over and over.

That’s what I said.

My ear is itchy.

That’s what I said.

My nose is stuffy.

That’s what I said.

Oh, bother!

That’s what Pooh said.

Up and atom!

That’s what Radioactive Man said.

Up and at them!

That’s what Simpsons Schwarzenegger said.

We have nothing to fear but fear itself.

That’s what FDR said.

The sun will come out tomorrow.

That’s what Annie said.

Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?

That’s what Juliet said.

Po Po Zow.

That’s what Mr. Britney Spears said.

I like tacos.

That’s what a lot of people said, especially on Tuesday.

Where’s the can?

That’s what the guy who had to poop said.

Where are my keys?

That’s what the guy who had to poop said.

What the hell do keys and poop have to do with each other?

That’s what you said.

…I thought you left.

I did. I just came back, because otherwise where were you going to go with that?

Oh. Thanks. Maybe time to wrap this up.

That’s what she said?

Yes. Yes, it is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Lisa Hurley
lisamariehurley.com

An Immodest Proposal, Part 1

The news, both domestic and international, is rife with stories of horrific violence, abuses of power, and general douchefuckery.

I think, after pretty much the whole of human history has tested the “Violence will solve our problems” hypothesis and found it wanting, it is time for a new approach.

Sure, sure, there’s pacifism, but that will hardly satisfy the desires of those with destructive tendencies and a desire to subjugate, and it does tend to leave a lot of vulnerable bodies in the paths of projectiles fired by those of a decidedly non-pacifist bent. Besides, going from global arms proliferation to beating our swords into plowshares is a little cold-turkey for most human beings.

We need an in-between phase, a step-down.

One can argue that being hooked on methadone is worse than being hooked on nothing, but some members of the medical and law enforcement communities, at least, seem to view being hooked on methadone as preferable to being hooked on heroin.

So what is the metaphorical methadone maintenance that will get us off our smack-like addiction to destruction and carnage, and one step closer to the clean-living of a swordless, plowshare-abundant utopia?

This is my proposal for a metaphorical methadone maintenance of lesser destructiveness: assemble teams of preadolescent mean girls to act as consultants to teach nonviolent strategies for destroying the confidence and self-esteem of opponents, rather than exploding their homes or tearing their fragile bodies to shreds with various projectiles.

Unkind, even harmful?

Indeed.

Capable of dissolving a human body into a “pink mist”?

No.

So, one would have to concede, an improvement; at least, one would have to make such a concession if one enjoys being possessed of a consciousness, however damaged, housed in a non-liquified form. I know I certainly do.

Will everyone be on board with this, especially in the early phases of implementation? Undoubtedly not, but those who foolishly hold on to the violent methods of the past will soon be at a massive disadvantage.

Sure, okay, maybe you are facing off against a neighboring state where nuclear weapons are proliferating at a rate that suggests its scientists have successfully engineered nuclear rabbits, capable of shagging and producing litter after litter of adorable-but-deadly atomic baby bunnies. Putting aside your own state-funded “Project: Hippity-Hop Bang/Boom!” might seem foolhardy at best, and at worst like an invitation for your country to be overrun by leporine legion of fluffy foreign fauna, with each individual atomic fluffball possessed of enough destructive force to level entire cities.

What you need to bear in mind, though, is that if you find an adept mean girl to coach you, and you really practice the lessons she teaches, you will actually find yourself in possession of something far more devastating than a brace of atomic bunnies.

Picture it: your neighbor state’s United Nations rep has just gone off on a long, fiery, rhetoric-riddled rabbit-y rant before the Security Council. You have sat silently throughout, wearing a blank expression of abject boredom. Maybe you have sent a few covert texts to some of the reps from your ally states, and wryly smirked at each other from across the chamber, but mostly you have been focused on inspecting your manicure.

Said rep rambles to a close.

It is your turn for a rebuttal.

You pause, make some rep-to-rep eye contact, and then, with an utter lack of inflection, you give your reply:

“Rabbits. Cool.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Lisa Hurley
lisamariehurley.com

Sad Libs, #2: I wish I’d gone (noun, mode of transport, not named after a dog of any kind, preferably something with heated seats and not quite so many inebriated evangelists aboard)

Generating fun fill-in-the-blanks times,
tailored to the specific mind-numbing scenarios in which friends find themselves trying desperately to pass the time.

I am pretty sure these seats are made of (noun, substance scratchier than sandpaper, less yielding than rock, yet possessed of an otherworldly capacity for both absorbing and transferring not only all manner of fluids and germs, but also the quiet devastation of true despair).

How long has it been since we got on this (noun, motorized and bewheeled metal box full of all manner of infectious forms of fluids, germs, and the quiet devastation of true despair, populated by all of the assorted whack-a-do’s and malcontents who are responsible for the unseen backside of life’s rich tapestry being moldily stuck to the castle wall of existence while slowly destroying the scenes of great battles and triumphs of the human spirit on its front with greenish-black blossoms of ick).

Two hours? No (adjective, aggressively profane, implies outrage, bewilderment, and despair…though the latter may simply be emanating from the upholstery) way has it only been two hours. It has been at least a (noun, made-up word for a very, very, very large number) years.

If I smother the gentleman in the seat in front of me who keeps (verb, present tense, whatever is the most insignificant-yet rage-inducing action you can imagine) with the sweatshirt I have been trying to use simultaneously as a pillow and a blanket, I am pretty sure I could claim (noun, whatever you think is most in keeping with what the zeitgeist presently designates as a justifiable defense for a lethal sweatshirt-smothering). I would never serve time.

If I could produce even a ten-second cellphone video clip of his (aforementioned rage-inducing verb-ing), the jury would not only find me “not guilty,” they would weep, with pity for me and the plight I suffered, and with admiration for my superhuman moral fortitude in peacefully enduring it for as unbelievably long as I did.

Then they would stand up, and they would slow-clap for me, like the crescendo of a TV-movie about teens and the troubles teens face.

Then they would throw me a parade.

Then, after the parade, they would throw me a sex party.

Because parades are not that fun, usually.

They could get (proper noun, name, don’t write it down, I don’t need to know your inner erotic fantasy life that well. Or at all. I can already tell it is weird, you weirdo. Everyone can tell. You aren’t paranoid. You are just weird. Freaky-deaky weird, and none of us are cool with it. Stop looking at me with your weird eyes. It better not be me. Oh god it is me!) to be the Grand Marshal of BOTH events.

That would totally work, especially when you consider how…oh, man! The WiFi is out! And I was just about to Google some stuff to add to my (undisclosed erotic fantasy proper noun’s name) Pinterest page. This whole trip can suck my (balls)!

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Lisa Hurley
lisamariehurley.com

Sad Libs, #1: Go (noun, fast dog known for chasing a mechanical rabbit around a track)!

Generating fun fill-in-the-blanks times, tailored to the specific mind-numbing scenarios in which friends find themselves trying desperately to pass the time.

Oh man, I can’t believe my (profane adjective) car broke down two days’ drive from home. Now we have to take the (noun, form of public transportation). That is going to take two days. Two days on the (noun, form of public transportation that is nobody’s first choice, ever, if we are being honest). I hope we get seats together, and far away from the (noun, euphemistic term for what is a latrine, only grosser due to being housed on a vehicle which takes wide turns and has poor shocks). If we can’t sit together, we should both pretend to be dead. Otherwise people might try to talk to us about (proper noun, invisible skyman name), or Tupperware, or how they have cysts on their (not a fill-in-the-blank; left blank to shield your delicate sensibilities). If we do get to sit together, I hope someone makes up a Sad Lib that describes our situation, but leaves some of the word-choosing fun for us. Otherwise, the next two days are going to suck (balls).

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Lisa Hurley
lisamariehurley.com