This Is Twittering: Meta-Commentary Digest, Episode 86

You know the drill.

STUPID:

Try it.

REACTION:

But that eighth impression, that’s when I really shine.

WISDOM:

This tweet is based on actual events.

WISDOM:

I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is yes.

STUPID:

It’s tempting to cook a fancy meal, but you never know which luminaries of the past and present are picky eaters and would prefer the warm, cheesy goodness that no one can resist.

WISDOM:

“Haha, you have hopes and dreams. What a moron!”

WISDOM:

You can’t spell failure without T-R-Y.

WISDOM:

This is just a joke. I still think they should be shot.

WISDOM:

“Mnemonic” comes from the Latin mnemonicus from the Greek mnemonikos from mnemon, meaning “mindful”, as in “Do you mind that this spelling is bonkers? I’m sure you don’t, you have bigger problems to worry about.”

That concludes this episode of This Is Twittering: Meta-Commentary Digest.

This Is Twittering: Meta-Commentary Digest, Episode 85

Sometimes I tell jokes on Twitter, then I add commentary here, and This Is Twittering.

REACTION:

I hope these women appreciate the gold they’re ignoring. Gold!

REACTION:

I follow candy developments pretty closely, and this is an interesting one. Presumably, companies want to deflect some of their blame for making people fat by suggesting that larger portions are for multiple people. It’s an interesting strategy. Also, this is a good joke.

WISDOM:

I think it’s funny to check on someone to make sure their dead, and it’s funny to prefer someone be dead. So this is funny for two reasons (assuming you like dead people).

STUPID:

Incel? More like inhair!

WISDOM:

This just makes me laugh. I’m a funny guy.

WISDOM:

What would you do if you were already dead? Imagine the freedom. You could do literally anything. I’d probably take a nap.

WISDOM:

Sorry, ugly kids, but you know it’s true.

WISDOM:

What I’m saying here is, it’s not a limited resource. Also, maybe something about castration?

WISDOM:

It’s simple.

REACTION:

Destroying the moon has been on my to-do list for some time.

WISDOM:

In reality, it would be an overactive spidey sense that would probably fail to warn you of approaching goblins.

REACTION:

Divorce is a funny thing.

WISDOM:

It’s easy to discount young people’s feelings because they are stupid, which they are. But that doesn’t make them less real. And feelings are powerful things. When you get down to it, maybe they’re the only things.

WISDOM:

This makes sense.

REACTION:

What I’m saying is, I stink. But this is a joke, so really I only stink in the figurative sense.

REACTION:

I write the best self-diss tracks in my head. They’re really catchy—lyrics, melody—like I wish I could write that well when I didn’t wish I was dead.

WISDOM:

Yes; punctuation.

WORDPLAY:

Did you know the library has over 40,000 books about the Earth being round, but only one about the Earth being flat? Why is that? Chem-trails. Look it up. But not at the library. Use the interNOT LIES. Crisis actors are coming to take away your sheep. Deep state. It’s simple.

That concludes this episode of This Is Twittering: Meta-Commentary Digest.

This Is Twittering: Meta-Commentary Digest, Episode 84

Sometimes I tell jokes on Twitter, then I add commentary here, and This Is Twittering.

WORDPLAY:

Let me guess… Does it rhyme with ‘a lot’?

REACTION:

I play out scenarios so often in my imagination that anything that happens in real life has already happened multiple times in my head. It’s easy to confuse the two.

REACTION:

Freak, nut, crank, kook, turtle, crackpot, human, bozo, wonderful dude.

WISDOM:

This could be about how I don’t want to meet people because I am a misanthrope, but actually it’s about you being disappointment by my real-life person.

REACTION:

This is a sick burn on both the Grammys and my Grammy (who we never actually called “Grammy”).

WISDOM:

Tribalism is more about the tribe than what the tribe is about.

REACTION:

Comments sections are made for hate.

STUPID:

This makes no sense.

WORDPLAY:

KA-BAM!

WISDOM:

Valentine’s Day is a day to celebrate loving the unlovable. That’s what love is.

WISDOM:

I love jokes like this, that are true and also funny and also so very wise.

WISDOM:

I WILL KILL YOU!

WISDOM:

Again: funny, true, wise.

WISDOM:

I don’t get why inspirational people are such pessimists when it comes to hating yourself.

WORDPLAY:

“It” being the packages she delivers, see.

WISDOM:

I like Daylight Saving Time.

WISDOM:

Fool me three times, I WILL KILL YOU!

REACTION:

I only post this tweet here for the same reason.

WORDPLAY:

Luckily I was able to get down OK, no thanks to you.

STUPID:

Banking is complicated.

REACTION:

This is not a joke; it is a truth. At the end of the day, when I figuratively can’t take it anymore, I stop, and that is a relief.

WISDOM:

Honor thy father and mother, and you’ll never work a day in thy life.

WISDOM:

It’s better to regret the mistakes you make in my favor than to regret the things you haven’t done.

REACTION:

This is a sad commentary on the current state of affairs.

REACTION:

No offense to old folks and people who want to coexist, but it just looks tacky.

STUPID:

“I hope your Today is This Morning” would have been funny too, if I had actually known the name of the CBS morning show.

WISDOM:

Yeah, man. Who has the energy to, like, find a drug dealer or to party all the time or to do whatever you people do? As for me, I’ll just sit at home and continuously eat ice cream and pizza until my heart gives out.

STUPID:

Cultural mix-ups are funny.

WORDPLAY:

This is just a joke.

REACTION:

This is true. One: In a speech class, I started two speeches with similar jokes and got marked down because each speech should stand alone. But each speech did stand alone with the individual joke as it was. The fact that the second was a callback was just a bonus for people who were paying attention. Two: I gave a speech where I acted like I didn’t care what I was saying. It was one of my final assignments in college, and the speech was about how I regretted not working harder in school. It was very meta. My instructor later told me it seemed like I didn’t take the assignment seriously. No doy.

WISDOM:

If you’re into catching flies. I just swat them, personally.

WORDPLAY:

I can’t believe more people didn’t get this joke. Just kidding, I can believe it; I’m not that incredulous.

That concludes this episode of This Is Twittering: Meta-Commentary Digest.

This Is Twittering: Meta-Commentary Digest, Episode 83

I say things on Twitter. Then I comment on those things here. This is Twittering.

STUPID:

You’re better off doing it early. You don’t want them to find out about it on the school playground.

WORDPLAY:

Or “More nookies, less cookies (for Santa Claus, because you don’t have kids to lie to).”

STUPID:

Love County is a real place. I don’t know the stats on its contraceptive use.

WIDSOM:

Sad, but true. Or maybe it isn’t true. I don’t know. I can’t do anything right.

WISDOM:

This is just a joke. Don’t murder anyone, even assholes.

WISDOM:

It’ll last longer too.

WORDPLAY:

This is a very good joke.

RAP:

This rap uses Beastie Boys-style phrasing, and I don’t think it translates well to the written word.

STUPID:

That’s s’no way to talk to an Inuit.

(Snow.)

That concludes this episode of This Is Twittering: Meta-Commentary Digest.

This Is Twittering: Meta-Commentary Digest, Episode 82

I say things on Twitter. Then I comment on those things here. This is Twittering.

STUPID:

There’s no such thing as a stupid tweet.

WISDOM:

Even you. Maybe especially you.

STUPID:

I like this because it doesn’t make sense.

STUPID:

The conversation every parent dreads: Who are you?

STUPID:

This is funny because it’s true.

WORDPLAY:

And by “learned sign language” I mean I flip people off a lot.

STUPID:

We’re all like heroin addicts in some ways. Especially if we’re addicted to heroin.

REACTION:

It was a simpler time.

WORDPLAY:

If you don’t know how to pronounce bon mot, you won’t understand these jokes.

WISDOM:

I don’t know why people are so dumb.

WORDPLAY:

This is one of my favorites. You should retweet it.

WORDPLAY:

This is another good one. I was on a roll (bike joke).

WISDOM:

Sometimes what you really need is someone to tell you to quit being such a stupid asshole.

WORDPLAY:

If you don’t know how to pronounce Djibouti, you won’t understand this joke. Actually, if you don’t know how to pronounce Djibouti, you won’t understand any of my jokes.

That concludes this episode of This Is Twittering: Meta-Commentary Digest.

The Cliff

I’m on the side of a mountain. It’s more of a cliff, I guess. Well, it’s between a mountainside and a cliff. It’s dirt, like a mountain, but steep, like a cliff. It’s, like, a 70-degree angle, if that’s a steep angle. I’m no good with geometry.

There’s no foliage or significant landmarks. It’s just dirt, pebbles and rocks of assorted sizes, and twigs and other pointy bits of nature.

By turning my feet outward and pressing them flat against the earth, I can sort of squeeze the surface with my thighs to hang on. It’s Thigh Master: Mountain Edition.

With arms outstretched, my fingers dig into the soft earth. Here or there, a stray boulder or root offers a place to hold on.

The earth is cool against my cheek.

I haven’t moved for what feels like hours. I can see an alcove above, where the steep mountainside levels off a bit. At least, I think that’s what I see. It’s maybe a hundred feet straight up the soft, sheer face of the mountain. With my muscles aching and the unpredictability of the terrain, the relative safety of that little landing seems impossibly far away.

I slowly crane my head downward, dragging it along the dirt. I can feel the clumps of soil collecting in the ridges of my ear, but I can’t lean back without risking losing my balance.

I look down. The wall stretches forever, as far as I can see, into blackness. I can’t see it, but I know what’s down there. Death.

I close my eyes.

After a moment, I open them. I inhale slowly. I cautiously slide my right foot higher and dig it into the earth. A fair amount of dirt and debris slide away, but I’m able to compact enough of it to make a relatively firm foothold.

I reach higher with my left hand. My fingers dig into the dirt above my head, as the earth crumbles in my hand. Eventually my curled-up claw latches on.

I lift my left foot.

The sweat has started up again. The dirt sticks to my forehead and drips into my eyes. I can’t risk losing my grip, so I let it be. I just narrow my eyes to slits and hope my eyelashes do their job.

I reach with my right hand.

It goes on like this.

Right foot. Left hand. Left foot. Right hand. Right foot. Left hand. Left foot. Right hand.

I lose count of how many cycles I’ve gone through, not that it matters. The landing appears just as far away as it did before. If I had to guess, I’d say I climbed 40 feet. But I’m no good at distances.

But I’m moving forward. I’m able to deal with the little things that come up along the way, and I keep moving forward.

As I reach up again with my left hand, the ground beneath my feet gives way. Maybe it’s an unexpected obstacle. Maybe I make a mistake. My face hits the wall and I begin sliding. Maybe someone says something mean. Maybe I say the wrong thing. I claw furiously at the earth, but the dirt just crumbles between my fingers. Sliding, skidding. My legs flail. I can’t get a hold. My heart is racing. I feel my face and arms get scraped and sliced by tiny rocks and prickly twigs. I sense the darkness, the emptiness below. Panicking now. With every bit of strength I can muster, I stab my fingers into the earth, deep, reaching, searching for anything to hold onto.

My fingers hook a buried root. I jolt to a stop and a dust cloud puffs out around me like in a cartoon. As soon as my brain registers the situation, I dig in my feet to create pseudo-footholds. It’s a good thing too, because as soon as I regain my footing the tree root I’m holding onto gives way. But I’m able to maintain my hold and toss the root down the slope.

Once I catch my breath, I survey the situation. My clothes are torn and bloody. The fingernail on my left ring finger has ripped halfway off. My self-esteem is rubbed raw. Above me I see the path of my slide. It’s a long way.

I’ve lost all the ground I spent the last few hours, days, years climbing. In fact, several yards above me I see where I had started my original ascent. I’ve fallen even farther. I’ve wasted my energy, I’ve wasted my time. All for nothing. Why did I even try in the first place?

The blood starts to coagulate. The feeling in my fingers, my feelings, go numb. What now?

I look up. The ledge is still impossibly far away.

I close my eyes, resting my forehead against the dirt. My heart feels tight in my chest. All my muscles ache with exhaustion.

After a minute—or a few minutes, I don’t really know—I open my eyes and lean over to look down.

The sheer mountain side still stretches down into blackness.

I close my eyes again. I shift the sides of my feet in the loose dirt to gain a little more traction. I dig my bloody fingers deeper into the dirt to hold on. I exhale and allow my body to relax, only slightly, just a little.

If I try to climb higher, I’m sure I’ll end up slipping again. I’ll slide lower, maybe lower than I am right now. Maybe I’ll slide so far that I fall all the way down. Into the blackness.

I can’t move anymore. What would be the point? I can either stay planted here, hoping for something, anything, some miracle to come along and rescue me. Or I can risk death. Probable death. Likely death. I’ll die.

I don’t move. I cling to the soft mountainside.

I wait.

It’s all I can do.


“Very interesting,” says Dr. Van Nostrand, nodding slowly. “Is that how you feel?”

“Yeah. It’s a metaphor,” I say.

“No duh,” he says. “It’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“I guess so.”

I slouch down, pressing myself deeper into the arm chair, and stare at a trapezoid of sunlight on the carpet.

“It wasn’t meant to be subtle,” I say.

“Well, our time is up for today,” he says. “Before we meet tomorrow, I’d like you to think about what’s the top of the mountain. In reality, not metaphorically.”

“OK.”

As I walk down the hall back to my room, I pass another resident who’s curled up on the ground, softly singing the theme song to Happy Days.