Tag: Satire

The Museum of Knuckleheads – Exhibit A: The Credit Card Burial

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Daily writing prompt
If you could have something named after you, what would it be?
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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

The last time this question was asked, this was what I had to say about it:

The Knucklehead Museum

So, I decided today, what if I turned this cute moment between my wife and I into something else? Here’s what I came up with…

Docent Notes, Entry No. 1: Exhibit A – The Credit Card Burial

Welcome to the Museum of Knuckleheads. Admission is free. Consequences are not.

If you’re here, chances are you’re curious, lost, mildly disappointed with your life trajectory—or just trying to kill ten minutes before the Wi-Fi comes back. All valid. This museum wasn’t built for the elite, the wise, or the well-adjusted. It was built for people like me. People like you. People who have stared into the mirror mid-shower and muttered, “Well… that was a choice.”

Let’s begin the tour.

Exhibit A: The Time I Tried to Bury a Credit Card in the Backyard to “Reset My Finances”

Yes, you read that right. That’s an actual dirt-filled display under the buzzing overhead lights. A plastic shovel from a gas station. A laminated credit card. A tiny American flag, for irony.

This was during a phase I call “financial experimentalism,” which is what you call it when you’re broke but still wildly confident. The plan was simple: if burning sage can cleanse a house, why not dig a shallow grave for debt?

I buried the card behind the shed. Said a few words. Patted the soil like it was a dog I was letting go. And then I waited. For what? Honestly, I don’t know. Divine intervention. A good credit score. A sitcom-style reset button.

Spoiler: Capital One does not care if your card is underground. Interest kept growing as if it were photosynthesizing.

Lessons, If You’re the Type Who Learns

  • Debt doesn’t decompose.
  • Just because an idea feels spiritual doesn’t mean it isn’t objectively stupid.
  • Always check where underground sprinklers are before committing to symbolic rituals.

The exhibit still smells faintly like wet dirt and a bad decision you swore you’d only make once. Sometimes, I swear the card shifts positions overnight. Like it’s clawing its way back up.

People laugh when I tell them this one. They assume it’s exaggerated. I let them believe that. It’s easier than admitting it was the most hopeful I’d felt in months.

Closing Notes from the Docent

This museum isn’t here to mock you. It’s here to reflect you—bad choices and all. You may not see yourself in this exhibit. Not yet. But wait a bit. Everyone’s got a shovel moment.

Next time: Exhibit B – Neck Tattoos I Almost Got at 3 A.M.

Until then, take a number. You’ll be up soon.

—Docent, Senior Raconteur
Museum of Knuckleheads

Share your own Exhibit

Ever made a decision so irrational that it felt oddly brilliant at the time? Leave it in the comments. One day, we might just build a wing for you. Don’t be shy …

As always, I’d like to shout out the folks who provided inspiration.

Ragtag Daily Prompt

Fandango

Thank you guys for doing what you do

Skywriting – 081820231422

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

I’m unsure if I always enjoyed the clouds, but I know I loved the rain. Lately, in my part of the world, cloudy skies are normal. So, when I walked out and saw clear skies, I should have known there was going to be some shit this morning.

There I was standing in front of the vending machine trying to decide what salty, sugary, or this might be good, but tastes like poo, treat I going to get. This is when happened….

“What?…What?” exclaimed the strange person walking up the stairs.

I have a blank look on face, because my caffiene levels are in the red. I’ve learned from eperience not to respond without being properly caffienated.

“First thing in tbe morning you at the dog – gone vending machine.”

I stand dumbfounded at her choice of vernacular. A young person using “Dog-Gone” tells me she spent time with her elders which pleases me. She went on with some indiscript chattering. I was only make out a word here and there.

Then another one appeared with a plate in her hands. Mistakenly I did the following.

“What is this?” I asked with a puzzled look on my face.

“It’s healthy, now eat it!” says the sassy short person.

Here’s the funny thing about sassy short people they believe they whatever the hell the want and we just have to take it. Now, what’s about these two sassy individuals is they are just a millimeter from being stubby. I’ve dealt with stubby folks on occasion, they’re not so bad ; pleasant even. So close!

Now, to complete this motley quartet is a regular sized person. Now, she sat there like she had no idea what was going on. Ya’ll know I wasn’t what they was selling no even a little bit. The shit was adorable; coochie-coo!

I defended myself by saying something outlandish; to only be met with walking away giggling with one hand waving in the air.

“I can’t …I can’t!” they muttered in unison all walking away in different directions.

The meal was tasty, but the love behind it was amazing.

Is it Really that Simple?

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHT

For months, I’ve refused to acknowledge ownership of the feral cats in my house. Yes, I realize what I just said, allow me to explain. It happened several months ago when one showed up pregnant looking all cuddly and whatnot.

There is a considerable amount more to the story and I tried to end plain the particulars to my lady. She gracious listened and asked the following question.

“Do you feed them?”

“Yes.”

“Then they are your cats.”

I started to protest, because their obvious factors she wasn’t considering. Her eyebrow raised, she gave the look that every woman gives their man when he being ridiculous. I relented and went to pick up some kibble. They really love the salmon and rice stuff.

Is it really that simple?

The Bionic Kid who wanted to be a Gymnast

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Have you ever had surgery? What for?

PROSE – CREATIVE NON-FICTION

I’ve been under the blade a few times in my short time on this side of the veil. I’m not precisely accident-prone but in the words of Pop. “If you gonna do anything, do it right.” I might as well scream at the top of my lungs, “Yes sir!” like those military folks in boot camp. You know, as you see on the shows.

Today, I’d like to direct your attention 1976. I was a wee lad. I hadn’t graduated from Wrigley’s to Bazooka Joe yet. Col. Steve Austin was on the airwaves doing fantastic with his bionic parts. So, I ran around making sounds heard every time he used his bionics.

I thought this was so cool

As it happens, 1976 was the year Kurt Thomas competed in the Summer Olympics. I watched that guy do his thing, and I was floored. He was so good; my grandma let me watch him every time he was on the TV. Now this was a woman who firmly believed in children going outside to play. I can only think of one exception; rain “cause you’d catch cold.”

You see that? Badass

So, at the start of the school year, I decided to show off my new gymnast skills. These skills comprised doing a back flip off the swing set and crossing the creek on a fallen tree. Now this didn’t qualify me to become a gymnast by any stretch, but by God, not a soul was going to me any different.

In gym class, I decided to jump off the top of the jungle gym. The first time was a disaster; I didn’t nail the landing. I fell back, can you believe it? Just shameful. The second attempt was perfect dismount; since I failed the first time, I went for broke. I did a triple somersault with a one-half twist. That’s right, un-huh, I was showing out. Perfect execution. I nailed the landing. Things went to hell from there.

Well, I broke my hip. I can only remember fragments of that period, but I can remember hollering as they rolled me to surgery, “I don’t want a bionic leg!”, “I don’t want to be the Six Million Dollar Man.” I ended up in traction, then a body cast. Good times for all, especially my mother because had to change my bedpan.

The Blabbering Idiot

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POETRY – HUMOR

Allow me to introduce myself
I’m a blabbering idiot
it’s nice to meet you.
Then I crack the mirror.

~thank you for reading~

Pulling the Pen

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Daily writing prompt
How do you want to retire?
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SHORT FICTION – PROSE/LIGHT RANT

Harold Shea is an ordinary fellow, as fellows go. He has no grand stories about this girl or that girl. He is a simple chap who eats tuna on toasted rye. Harold and I are clerks at the Ministry of Useless Facts and Random Memories. A person becomes a clerk if they have a knack for remembering and cataloging trivial information. Our job is to sift through old documents and archives, searching for forgotten tidbits of knowledge that may one day prove useful.

Harold is a diligent worker, and he takes pride in his work. He always arrives early and stays late, poring over old manuscripts and dusty tomes. He has a particular fondness for historical trivia and, from time to time, found regaling his coworker Venus Milo with tales of obscure battles and forgotten rulers.

Despite his unremarkable nature and unassuming demeanor, Harold is a valuable member of our team. Without his tireless efforts, many of the useless facts and random memories that we collect would be lost to the sands of time.

Harold is also a kind and thoughtful person. He is always willing to lend a helping hand to his coworkers. Last week, for instance, one of our colleagues was struggling to find a particular piece of information for a project. Harold spent hours searching through old records until he found what she was looking for. He did all of this without expecting anything in return.

Despite his many admirable qualities, Harold is not without his quirks. For one thing, he can be a bit absent-minded at times. On more than one occasion, he has misplaced important documents or forgotten to submit reports on time. However, his forgetfulness is more than made up for by his enthusiasm and dedication.

Everything changed about six months ago. I came into the office, and everyone was in a tizzy. It isn’t like it was the first time the office was in this state. Harold usually got things in order rather quickly. However today, no Harold. He has never been late a day in thirty years. I tended to the disaster but never took my mind off what could have possibly happened to Harold. Then I was called into the Director’s office.

“Thank you for sorting out that dreadful mess.” said the Director

“It was nothing, Ma’am,” I replied.

“Harold?” She asked. I shrugged and walked out.

After stopping by Harold’s weekly for the next six months, I received a package at the Ministry. The package sat on my desk for another month before I remembered it. When I opened the package, there was a letter from Harold.

Dear Seamus,
I know this package has been sitting on your desk for about a month. I’m well. Venus and I have retired and living in my favorite place. Do you remember? Of course you do, you don’t forget anything. I miss you, ole chap. I haven’t had a decent conversation in months. Perhaps, you can down and keep Venus and me company.

~H

Well, that rascal, I thought. I had no idea that he and Venus had a thing. Why wouldn’t he tell me?

I guess there are a lot of things to consider when you’re thinking about “Pulling the Pen.”

A Moment of Desperation

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHT

Perhaps I’ve reached an all-time low. I spent considerable time sending out a barrage of inbox marriage proposals. In these proposals, I removed the obligation of sex, hoping to sweeten the pot. I figured taking sex off the table would increase the number of acceptance. I figured surely one of these candidates would say yes, right? The next morning, my inbox was overflowing with responses. However, all I got in the inbox was filled with laughter.

I received several images of women’s reactions to my proposal. I even got a sexually explicit image with block letters informing me I would never get what was displayed in the image. Sitting back, thinking as I closed my laptop, the whole affair was rather hilarious—the idea of someone marrying a guy like me.