[stylist] Writing exercise: satire and humor

[Bridgit Pollpeter]

In the interest of getting to some actual writing here, I'm posing a new
writing exercise for us to attempt.

Try writing something with humor and/or satire. In my personal life, I
tend to approach things with humor; in my writing however... I find it
difficult at times to achieve a humorous tone that others fully
appreciate.

Here is my exercise. I actually wrote this a while ago. I have an
incredibly odd sense of humor at times which tends to lean towards
cynicism. Not everyone understands or appreciates this type of humor, so
prepare for a completely sardonic tone in this piece. I wrote it with a
conversational tone as well, attempting to capture on the page how I
would tell this story in a real convo. There are some very visual
elements such as bolding, italics and all caps for style, but unless
reading visually or with Braille, you probably won't pick up on them.
FYI, There is also some strong language.

Bite Remarks

I stand waiting at the curb to cross the street.  Listening to the
traffic on Center Street in front of me and the traffic on Paddock Road
to my right, I prepare to cross.  As a person who is blind, I listen to
the sound of traffic to help me cross a street, and yes, it is safe to
do this.  Still not sure?  How many sighted people get into accidents?
I rest my case.
Once the light changes, it is quick and I must zip across.  I wait and
wait and wait-the red light (red as in I have the right-away) is a
freakin' fifteen-seconds long, but when they have the green, I stand
here forever.  I check the time, three o' clock on the dot.  Come on.  I
tap my long white cane on the pavement out of boredom.
Suddenly (this is exactly what happens, quickly, spontaneously) I'm
being grabbed by the elbow from behind.  With cars on Center Street
still zooming by, a crazed pedestrian is forcing me into oncoming
traffic.  I can not stop so I continue this farce as Crazy Carly drags
me across the street.  Cars whiz and rumble by, and I have no choice but
to keep truckin'.
Reaching the other side (finally) I slap the strangers hand away and
cry, "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Are you good?" Crazy Carly asks, ignoring my question.
"Are you insane?  You can see, right?  Clearly we did not have the
right-away.  Shit!"
Crazy Carly (who, I swear,  is about to meet her fate back out on Center
Street) tries grabbing my arm again.  Grabbing her wrist, I ask, "Do I
know you?  No, so what gives you the idea I want a complete stranger
touching me?"
"Can you make it home from here?"
I stare in her direction.  Is she deaf?
"Uh, I think I'm good.  How the hell do you think I was getting around
before you, like a maniac, drove me across the street?"
"Have a good day.  Ya' sure you can get home okay?"
Throwing my backpack down, I shout, "O-H MY GOD!  Fuck you!"  Grabbing
my bag, I turn and stomp off towards my apartment complex.

At twenty-nine, I'm finally growing comfortable with the idea of Me, the
potential of Me.  I like me for a change.  Sooo, I've learned to bite.
Actually, it's nothing new, but I've learned how to bite with my words.
Don't mess with me.  I will declare war so fast with my written words of
terrorism (this is what me hubby calls it) you won't know what to do
with my passive-aggressive attack.  It's not new, just a sophisticated
style of biting.

I was a strange child, no, really, my mom tells me all the time.  Okay,
here it is, I had a thing for biting people.  Shocking, right?  I'm not
entirely sure where the desire to pierce human flesh came from.  I am
not even sure when this behavior started.  I would crawl around on all
fours waiting for the next victim.  I was four, maybe five, and I would
survey my territory.  Hearing noises in the kitchen, I would creep
towards the door.  Sure enough, Mom was standing at the kitchen sink
washing dishes.  I looked at the back of her slender calves and licked
my lips.  Slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y, I inched towards her.  My long ponytail
swinging off my shoulder, I opened wide and BIT.  As I scurried out of
the room, Mom turned, slapping a towel on the counter, and said,
"Bridgit!  You have got to stop this."
I eventually grew out of this phase with one exception.  It was my
favorite weapon in my arsenal when waging warfare against my younger
sister.  Brook and I are two-years apart, and usually, we would get
along just fine.  I would tell her what to do and as long as she
followed orders, there was no problem.  Every now and then, though,
Brook would find some cojones and disturb our peaceful hierarchy.  Who
remembers what we fought about?  (Seriously, what were we fighting
about?)
We stood staring at one another.  Both ready to rumble.
"You better stop it Bridgit, or I'll tell Mom," Brook said in a gravelly
voice not normal in most seven-year-old kids.
I narrowed my eyes and clenched my fist.  At nine, I was tall for my age
(hmmm, what happened?) and I looked down at my sister's creamy
complexion.  "Oh yeah?  I'll kill you."
Brook moved her eyes towards the stairwell leading downstairs, ready to
dart down.  I stood near the top of the stairs though.  There was no
getting past me.  She turned back to my snarling face.  Still holding
onto her courage, Brook decided to make a run for it.  You know those
movies where bitches have a slap fight?  Well imagine that, but with a
seven-year-old and nine-year-old.  We smacked arms, chest, shoulders,
heads.  Then we brought out our personal weapons of choice.
Standing on either side of my bedroom, we glared at one another.
Huffing, puffing, we prepared for the inevitable.  I clenched my jaw and
gnashed my teeth.  I pierced her with my blue eyes.  Brook looked
nervous, but she balled and unballed her hands reflexively.  She moved
her thick, red hair from her face.  I heard that whistling western song
in my head.  Oh, it was on.  We lunged.  Brook dug her pointed nails
into my wrist; I bit down on her upper arm.  Howling and shouting, this
continued until Mom pulled us apart.  Brook began crying like a baby.  I
knew damage control was required.
"Mom, Mom, look at what Brook did," I sobbed reaching out my arm
exposing the bloody crescents in my wrist.
Mom grounded me.  I was always grounded.  It was not my fault that Brook
did not follow direction well, played with my toys, rode my bike,
watched something I didn't want to watch, had stupid friends, touched my
things.  I was triumphant though.  I could still see the impression of
my work on her arms.

So I don't practice vampirism anymore.  I bite just the same.  Do not
worry; I have learned to keep my mouth shut (literally and
metaphorically).  Well.  At least I don't always flap my mouth.  I have
no problem speaking up though.  I defend myself, and others, when need
be.  I want to poke my nose where it doesn't always belong.  I lash out
when I, or others, hurt.
My husband, Ross, applied for a job.  It wasn't an amazing job, but we
needed change, he needed change.  We also needed money.  He was perfect
for the job.  He is bright, funny and not bad on the eyes.  (I've been
told this and I choose to believe this).  He had style, he had flare, he
was there-whoopsy!  One of the great advantages was that three out of
the four interviewees were friends of ours.  He was a shoe-in.  Wrong
shoe.  This, we discovered, was the one thing keeping Ross from being a
candidate for the job:  He was nervous and fidgeted.  Really?  During an
interview, how shocking!  I could not simply send a "fuck you" email,
but I planned my battle, I bided my time
A couple of weeks later, we had dinner with some of the people who had
been involved in Ross's interview process.  We discussed a banquet we
were planning.  The food was good (I had mini prime meat burgers with
gouda cheese).  Conversation flowed, laughter emanated from our table.
Among the clink of silverware on dishes, the rattle of ice in glasses
and the soft smacking and swallowing sounds made as food was consumed, I
entered the battle field.
"So, I would like to have Ross present the certificates to the employers
we want to recognize," I said.
A couple of, "Sounds good," were heard round the table.
"Now I know there has been some concern with Ross's speaking ability in
public, but as we are all friends and you know Ross, I know this will
not be a problem."
Ross choked on his Pepsi while a silence covered the atmosphere.  Ross
gripped my leg under the table.  I knew this was a signal for, "Shit,
I'm trying not to laugh.  I can't believe you said that!"
What can I say?  I make bite remarks.  I was simply defending my man's
honor.  I guess I haven't grown out of this terrible behavior.
Now I have new reasons to bite people.  I'm blind, sooo what.  I don't
have limitations, it does not take me longer to do things, I'm not in
constant danger, blah, blah, blah.  All you need to know is this:  If
you see me walking around, tapping my long white cane in front of me,
moving along, assume I am good.  Actually, if I don't ask for
assistance, assume I'm good.  And for the record, the cane sticks out
inches in front of me, take in the visual, think of the logistics before
telling me (or in some cases shouting at me) to, "WATCH OUT FOR THAT
TREE!"
WOW, sorry about that.  It just comes over me, this desire to bite.  I
guess you really can't teach old dogs new tricks.

Sincerely,
Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
Read my blog at:
http://blogs.livewellnebraska.com/author/bpollpeter/
 
"History is not what happened; history is what was written down."
The Expected One- Kathleen McGowan