A Humor Extravaganza — featuring the humor
writing & cartoons of Anthony Scibelli, Michael Litwak,
Luís Leal Miranda, Kristina Libby, Tim Cahill,
Laura K. Duncan, Chris Gural, Michael Pershan,
K.A. Polzin, Robert Criss, Jeff Kulik, Arun Durvasula
© Chris Gural
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Some months ago, I took part in an online humor writer and cartoonist group aimed at confabbing, collaborating, and honing skills.
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One Sentence Short Stories
Anthony Scibelli
Bigfoot
At first, we were all impressed when Kevin managed to get a picture of Bigfoot, but we had to tell him it didn’t really count once we learned they were related.
Into The Earth’s Core
“Oh come on, it doesn’t look that deep,” I said, jumping into the hole.
Eye To Eye
Even though we often disagreed, it was easy for me to see things from Alex’s perspective because we were the same height.
The Time Machine
“That’s a nice wristwatch,” he said.
‘Tis The Season
It was my favorite time of the year: 2 PM.
Hot Coffee
“How should I know where your coffee is?” I told the customer, “You ordered it to go.”
The Prophecy Fulfilled
“Oops,” said the wizard as he turned the prophecy over and saw what was written on the back.
Where Everybody Knows Your Name
“Who are you?” they asked.
The Meaning of Life
I thought I had been cynical since I was a child, until I looked up its definition.
The Changing Room
“I swear this was a bathroom last time I was in here,” she said.
The Award
It was an honor just to be nominated, which is why I was annoyed I wasn’t even nominated.
Anthony Scibelli is a stand-up comedian, writer, and filmmaker. His writing has appeared in McSweeney’s, American Bystander, and Points in Case, and his short films and web series have won awards and been screened as Official Selections in festivals across the country, including the Boston Film Gala, the LA Film Awards, and the SENE Film, Music & Arts Festival. His pilot script, Dino-Detectives, was an Official Selection at the Catalyst Story Institute.
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Cartoons
Michael Litwak
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Michael Lukk Litwak is a filmmaker and cartoonist based in Brooklyn, NY. His first feature film “Molli and Max in the Future” premiered at SXSW 2023 and was a NYT Critic’s pick. You can find his work at www.michaellitwak.com
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William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, but
with Dehumidifiers and Humidifiers
instead of Capulets and Montagues
Luís Leal Miranda
‘I love you like the stars above,’ says Juliet, the dehumidifier.
‘I love you too,’ replies Romeo, the humidifier, ‘but our love is…’
Juliet lets out a sigh — an inward sigh, absorbing the air and some of the moisture contained in it.
‘All my dad wants is to get rid of humidity…,’ she says.
‘And my parents think only of creating relaxing atmospheres, even if that leads to an environment conducive to the development of mold, mildew, and fungi,’ says Romeo, letting out a little vapor.
Romeo, the humidifier, and Juliet, the dehumidifier, remain in silence for a moment, enjoying each other’s company and that feeling of thermal comfort that can only be achieved with a good distribution of relative humidity.
‘Let’s run away. Let’s go to a place with air conditioning,’ Romeo proposes.
However, his beloved doesn’t reply.
Believing that Juliet, the dehumidifier, has unplugged herself from the wall socket, Romeo does the same and ends his own life.
Unbeknownst to him, Juliet was merely in hibernation mode, an automated system routine that paused her operation when air humidity reached ideal levels.
Hours later, Juliet awakens and, appalled by the tragedy, takes her own life by pouring the water absorbed throughout the day over herself.
Both appliances were still within warranty, but no one could find the original receipts.
Luís Leal Miranda is a writer from Lisbon, Portugal, who is chased by foot-shaped holes every time he goes to the beach. He’s the author of 12 books, from short story collections to children’s books, a dictionary of made up words, and a version of Hamlet without the letter O. All of them are written in Portuguese.
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Jack Reacher Visits the Cardiologist
Kristina Libby & Timothy Cahill
Reacher took one look at cardiologist Dr. Janie Wilson and knew she was disappointed in him.
“I got your labs back this morning,” she said. “By all accounts, you should be dead.”
Reacher scoffed at this ridiculous proposal.
“Me? Dead? That’s not likely unless there is heavy artillery, a group of elite enemy soldiers, and some sort of sleeping potion poison is involved.”
“Well,” Dr. Wilson began. “Your blood pressure’s 180 over 100, your resting heart rate is 160, and a never before seen coagulated mixture of apple pie, cheeseburger, and gun fumes is coursing through your veins and somehow keeping you alive. All of our hematologists are simultaneously baffled and disgusted.”
“Surely there’s been a mistake Dr.,” Reacher protested.
“I,” Reacher hesitated. “I always show up when my team’s back is against the wall and I keep myself in great shape, thank you very much. I live by a code: You do not mess with the special investigators.”
“Sure. Fine,” said Dr. Wilson. “But what about during your downtime, when, say, no one’s messing with the special investigators? What do you do then?”
“Hmmmmm,” Reacher thought, scratching his chin with his meaty paw. He had never thought about ‘downtime.’ Reacher was a primal force. He kept moving, striding forward when the rest of the world didn’t man up. “I guess I… spend a lot of time riding on buses, sitting, and just staring out the window. I like to imagine hearing blues songs sung by Howling Wolf and Bob Seger. I do this for days on end with no goal in mind, whatsoever.”
“Exactly!” Dr. Wilson said. “Living a sedentary life is NOT good for your heart, let alone your mental state. And pretending to listen to music as opposed to actually listening to music are two very different things, psychologically speaking. A big lifestyle change is in order for you Mr. Reacher. Let me ask you this, after these bus rides, where do you eat? What do you usually have?”
“Easy,” Reacher said assuredly. “I eat at diners or truck stops or rib joints or greasy spoon dive bars. In fact, I haven’t had a meal that wasn’t at one of these places for the past twenty years or so. Damn proud of it too.”
“Ah, well that brings us to the crux of today’s visit,” Dr. Wilson said. “You have Type 2 Diabetes, Mr. Reacher.”
Reacher looked down at his hospital johnny and cracked a wry smile. “I think you’ve got the wrong man, Doc.”
Dr. Wilson pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger. “No, Mr. Reacher, definitely not — I assure you there has been no mistake.”
“People make mistakes all the time. I’ve seen it firsthand in Baghdad, Lebanon, Iraq, you name it. People mess up, I get it,” said Reacher.
“Okay, but your actual pancreas has stopped producing insulin because you treat your body like an abused bindle filled with roadside garbage.”
“A bindle seems a little extreme, Dr.”
“I was searching for a metaphor you might understand,” she said, before adding, “Furthermore, shooting fifteen people in the face in under five minutes every 30 days doesn’t equal the caloric intake of even one piece of apple pie. You need to move your body more.”
Reacher got defensive. “Well… what about all the fighting I do, and the hand-to-hand combat?”
“Again, punching a dozen people in the head for three minute bursts can’t possibly make up for a daily lunch of six hamburgers.”
“It’s three, plus a turkey club sandwich, plus three cups of coffee, plus a healthy piece of huckleberry pie.”
“No,” she said.
Reacher was flummoxed.
“Well, well, what about the time I spend thinking with my thoughts? That’s gotta be good for something.”
“Jack,” she began.
“Reacher.”
“Reacher. You’ll need to immediately start dieting and exercising and stop putting yourself in life-threatening high stress situations. No buses. No fighting. No guns. Get a healthy gym regime. I’d also recommend getting an iPod so you can hear the difference between real and imagined music.”
Reacher puffed his chest and looked Dr. Wilson directly in the eyes. “Ma’am, with all due respect, I’m not sure you know who you’re dealing with, but let me enlighten you. I’m a beefed up modern day archetype of the last American cowboy. I drift from state to state with no wallet, no home, no clothes, no wife, no dietary restrictions, and no responsibilities. Period. I show up for my semi-estranged Army buddies at precisely the right time, and crush nefarious bad guys and dismantle shady corporations with my Ninja Turtle body and cunning observation skills. I’m fueled by an unquenchable desire to inflict maximum pain thinly disguised as pseudo-justice throughout small towns across the nation, over and over again. I need to hitchhike, I need to eat like a trash compactor, and I need to imagine the concept of traditional blues music. It’s just my way of life.”
Dr. Wilson made her voice slightly louder, pretending not to hear him. “You’ll need a state of the art glucose monitor, daily insulin injections, and a metformin prescription. And, lucky for you, the baffled hematologists pitched in and got you a free Peloton, a Headspace subscription, and one of those weekly fruit and vegetable home delivery boxes — no questions asked. All we need from you is a home address, that’s it… Reacher?… Mr. Reacher?”
Reacher looked far off in the distance with a thousand yard stare. He closed his eyes, swallowed deeply and spoke slowly, as if finally acquiescing to Dr. Wilson’s sea change of a lifestyle.
“Ma’am, my address is… 1… Main Street… Anytown, USA.”
Kristina Libby is a writer, screenwriter, and essayist living in NYC. Occasionally she still works in tech, but only when people have really wild ideas and need her to help them craft a story. www.kristinalibby.com
Tim Cahill is a writer, humorist, and musician living in New York City. He loves well made sweaters and well-crafted stories. www.tvcahill.net
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I Don’t Care What You Say, Brian,
That Benihana Wasn’t in the Basement
When We Bought This House
Laura K. Duncan
Sure, Benihana has over 110 locations worldwide, but I know most are not in the basement of a two-thousand-square-foot single-family suburban home. I’ve personally visited Benihana in the past — on a DATE, Brian, because I had other romantic partners before we met — but that particular location did not have a two-car garage or a novelty mailbox in the shape of a fish, although I suppose it would reflect the restaurant’s delicious sushi menu. That’s just sensible branding, Brian. Benihana is more than great teppanyaki.
I remember walking through this house with the real estate agent three years ago. We definitely discussed the UNFINISHED basement. I even walked into a cobweb, Brian. You laughed affectionately and called me your “little mummy.” I also remember later that night when I playfully chased you, going, “Currrse, CURRRSE.”
I’ll tell you what I don’t remember: A discussion about a basement restaurant featuring ten teppan-style griddle tables, each with comfortable seating for eight people.
At no stage during our subsequent home inspection did we encounter a staff of at least fifteen people, including several rigorously-trained teppanyaki chefs. I have enjoyed meeting the employees when they emerge upstairs to pet the dog or smoke outside. However, some of the hostesses can be surly. But I know for a fact none of these individuals were in the house before. Unless this is some sort of Parasite situation. Are we doing Parasite now, Brian? There are more proactive ways to address society’s many tragic disparities. We’ve talked about this.
When we first moved in, my clothing did not smell of sizzling USDA-Choice beef. My boss at work never took me aside for a “confidential conversation” about my “strongly scented shrimp and noodle shampoo.” That is a recent issue. It was a weird conversation, Brian. Also, he would like a reservation on Saturday. For ten people. At 8:00 p.m. It’s his birthday, Brian!
Did corporate even sign off on this? What would the late Hiroaki Aoki — founder of Benihana and father of megastar DJ Steve Aoki — say if he knew this was happening? I’ll tell you who DOES know, Brian: the neighbors. If they weren’t getting happy hour pricing on top of an already reasonably priced and tantalizing menu, I’m pretty sure we’d have some legal problems here. I’m not even sure where to find an attorney who specializes in defending secret residential eatery franchisees, no matter how successful the restaurant concept is. That’s not the kind of law I studied at Tufts, Brian. I don’t think this comes up a lot.
Here’s the thing: I don’t actually care about any of that stuff. I’m not upset about the perpetually stinky house, or the rowdy customers, or the occasional visits from the fire department. I just don’t like the gaslighting, Brian. No, I don’t mean the industrial stoves; I mean the lies.
That’s what hurts. And I don’t know how our relationship can recover.
But an onion volcano is a good start.
Laura K. Duncan is a writer who lives in Las Vegas. You can find her in The American Bystander, Slackjaw, Points In Case, McSweeney’s and, in one particularly embarrassing incident, her parents’ laundry chute.
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Cartoonz
Chris Gural
Chris Gural is a cartoonist from New York whose work has been featured in The American Bystander, Airmail, Weekly Humorist, Alta Journal, Two Fifty One, and elsewhere.
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Joseph and Mary Ask Jesus
to Come Home for Hanukkah
Michael Pershan
Sweet Baby Jesus,
Your father and I are trying to plan Hanukkah. Think you’ll be able to join us in Nazareth for the last night? You also have a birthday coming up.
Love,
Mommy <3
Hey,
Write your mother back when you have a chance. She has been trying to reach you. Hope to see you over Hanukkah.
Dad
Sweet Baby Jesus,
I was cleaning out the manger. Do you still like myrrh? Was thinking it could be a nice birthday gift. Or for Hanukkah, if you can find a minute to write back.
Mommy <3
Sweet Baby Jesus,
Are you OK? What’s wrong?
Love,
Mommy <3
Sweet Baby Jesus,
Our neighbor Shulamith says her son lives in Jerusalem and sees you all the time at the Temple. It gives me such nachas to hear that you’re still going to Temple.
Shulamith’s daughter seems very nice and is dying to meet you. Maybe first night Hanukkah? Or second?
Love,
Mommy <3
Hey,
I’m forwarding this on to you. It’s a sermon in defense of the Pharisees. He raises some interesting points. Maybe discuss it on Hanukkah?
Dad
Sweet Baby Jesus,
I’ll assume you aren’t coming for Hanukkah. Maybe we can come to Jerusalem for your birthday. Don’t worry about us. Seriously, we’re fine. We just love seeing you. It’s no problem at all. Don’t forget to light candles.
We love you,
Mommy <3
Hey,
Your mother’s incredibly upset. Write her back as soon as possible.
Dad
Sweet Baby Jesus,
Upset? You think I’m upset?
Your father and I completely understand that we need to share you with your many disciples. Of course. I mean, after all, you’re God’s son. We’re just your parents.
We want what’s best for you. If that means you can’t come home for Hanukkah, of course we are disappointed in you. But we understand.
Have a terrific holiday. Make yourself some wine and share it with that nice boy Judas.
Mommy <3
Sweet Baby Jesus,
A parable for you. A woman has a child. The child grows up and moves away to the big city. Then the child bumps into some lepers, all a sudden he doesn’t come home for Hanukkah anymore.
So, what does the woman do?
She sits and takes it. Because some of us have to suffer. Some give up their lives willingly for the sake of others. Your children forsake you, but what can you do about it? Nothing, that’s what.
You’d better come for your birthday.
Love,
Mommy <3
Hey buddy,
Glad to hear that your schedule cleared up. Your mother and I are looking forward to
lighting candles with you.
By the way — what are your plans for Passover?
Dad
Michael Pershan is a math teacher and writer who lives with his loud family in NYC. His writing has been in Tablet Magazine, Points in Case, Slackjaw, and The American Bystander.
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If This Is Jesus’s Wine,
I Think I’d Prefer Water
K.A. Polzin
First off, I have nothing against Jesus. He seems like a nice guy, and my friend Bob the Leper says great things about him, so I won’t knock him. He just doesn’t know shit about wine. That Galilean vino is real swill. Made from the cheapest grapes this side of Mount Tabor. Why Jesus would turn water into that slop is beyond me. It just about ruined our wedding.
It’s weird because Jesus drinks a fair amount of wine, so you’d think he’d know his stuff. Just the other day, he had a big supper with all his apostles and he served a velvety Judean merlot. Bartholomew called it “memorable.” But get this: it turns out it was a Passover gift. One of the apostles trying to get on top of the situation. Because apparently every time Jesus provides the wine, it’s shit.
And word has gotten around. There was a wedding just last week where they had those same three-firkin waterpots, and Jesus was searching everywhere for them, hoping to perform his usual “miracle,” but the bridesmaids had hidden them among the stalks of flax. They knew the kind of dreck Jesus would maketh.
Even more weird: Jesus is from Nazareth, where there’s, like, three of the best wine shops in the region, including Zebedee’s, voted Best Wine Merchant (North). It’s literally a block from his mom’s house. So he’s had ample opportunity to develop his palate. I think he just prefers that cheap stuff from Trader Jozabad’s.
It’s a mystery because, according to those five thousand people, his bread is heavenly: great aroma, golden brown crust – almost baguette-like. Those folks were hungry and would even have eaten Wonder Bread, but Jesus came through with some uber-local artisanal loaves to feed the multitude. So we know his taste buds work.
Look, I’m not anti-miracle – I acknowledge Jesus’s impact in the sightless community – but the Lord gave us “wine that maketh glad the heart of man,” not wine that forceth us to leave our own wedding reception to secretly spit it into the bulrushes.
We need a plan going forward. Somebody needs to have words with Jesus. Maybe Sapphira the wedding planner? She’s good with prophets. Because I will not drink another glass of substandard wine due to Jesus. I don’t care how many unclean spirits he’s cast out.
The chief priests are talking about hauling Jesus in for blasphemy – anything to get him off the streets before the next wedding season. Or maybe just a night or two in jail, to send him a message, get him to lay off the beverage-based miracles, focus more on mains. Or on his work with the blind and lame, the lepers – win-win stuff.
Sounds drastic? Then you’ve never tasted his wine.
K. A. Polzin is not the K. A. Polzin who co-authored “Numerical Investigation of Near-Field Plasma Flows in Magnetic Nozzles” (2009). This K. A. Polzin, however, has appeared in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, The American Bystander, Weekly Humorist, and Funny Times. Polzin’s short stories have appeared in Subtropics, Fractured Lit, and X-R-A-Y (among others). Instagram: @k.a.polzin
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Robert Criss
Rube Goldberg Suicide Machine ©Robert Criss
You Want Me To Talk?
What’s Next, I Gotta Sing And Dance?
You want me to “talk?” What’s next, I have to sing and dance? Choreograph an original musical number based on the events of my life up to this point? And then what? Novelize? Monetize? Record a best-selling audio book, foreword by Peter Bogdanovich? Adapt it for the silver screen and audition for the role of myself? Practice being myself in the mirror so I can really nail it? Is that what you want? Huh?
You want me to secure funding for a spin-off television series based on fan favorite side characters whose backstories weren’t explored in the original? Win awards for each increasingly more annoying version of the same story? Melt the Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, and Tony down into a big metal hunk? Display it in a gallery as an artistic statement against the idea of awards? Win more awards? Right now? For your entertainment? You would like that, huh? I bet you’d like that.
You want me to “shut up?” What’s next, I gotta take a vow of silence? Communicate only with hand gestures and hastily-made drawings? Is that it? Become a mime? Do mime stuff? Wear mime clothes? Eat mime food? Hang out with other mimes? At your behest? Yes?
Move to France or Canada? Live as a mime lives? Age as a mime ages? Die as a mime dies? Without a word? Not a peep? I bet you’d enjoy that fantastic silence but let me ask you this: hath not a mime farts? Hath not a mime sneezes? If you stab a mime, do we not scream? And if you quietly cross a mime, do we not seek LOUD revenge? You don’t know, do you? You don’t even know.
You want me to “solve for x in the equation 18/3–7+2*5=x?” What’s next, I gotta divide 18 by three? What’s after that, I gotta multiply two and five? What’s after that, I gotta add six to negative seven? What’s last, I gotta add negative one and 10? Is that your idea of a solution? Nine? What was even the point of that? Hello??
You want me to calculate ambiguous math problems without explanation? Just free labor? Or was the solution itself a calculation of my wage? Do I get nine? Why not just round up to 10? I feel I’m worth closer to 10 than nine, wouldn’t you say? On second thought, could I take another pass at that math problem? Great, just want to make sure I did it right, you know? Let’s take a look… what on earth?! This time I got 50–wouldn’t you know it? I guess that means I receive 50, right? It’s a good thing I checked, I almost shorted myself 41, can you imagine? I can’t.
You want me to “get lost?” What’s next, I gotta wander out into wilderness untouched by man? Touch it? Let it touch me? Touch myself? That’s it, isn’t it? And when an emergency rescue team drags me back to civilization, what then? Try again? Wear a blindfold? Take the blindfold off so I can drive out to the middle of nowhere at dusk? Put the blindfold back on? Take the blindfold off again because it’s dark anyways? Put the blindfold back on because it’s dark anyways? Touch myself again? Because who said so? You?
Let me get this straight, you want me to… wait, what do you want me to do? You want me to get something specific, right? What were we just talking about? Gosh, I’m just so lost right now which happens to be exactly what you wanted, isn’t it?! Aha! You thought you could get in my head, didn’t you? But I caught you, didn’t I? ANSWER ME! TALK, GODDAMMIT! I WANT YOU TO TALK!
Robert Criss has but one dream. And that dream is saving the family farm from them slick city bankers. He breakdances without the piece of cardboard on the ground to raise money & he’s got 8 bloody adidas tracksuits to prove it. You can find his work right above this biography or below depending on where this biography is placed on the page in relation to the work.
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I’m The Guy Who Has to Read
All Your Comedy Articles
Jeff Kulik
I didn’t believe the ad when I first read it in the back of the Penny Saver. It seemed too good to be true. Get paid to sit and read comedy articles all day? Come on! What’s the catch?
Mr. Krumholz seemed nice enough at first, but still, I was skeptical. Sit in a room and click on comedy articles for eight hours a day, five days a week, he said. Easy money. When I asked him why, he told me not to worry about it. I shrugged and asked where to sign.
The first day, they took me to a windowless room in the basement of a warehouse and sat me down at a card table on which they’d arranged a laptop, a glass of ice water, and one of those toy drinking birds. They gave me a list of websites to look at and told me everything else was being blocked. “Don’t even think about reading the news or checking the weather!” Mr. Krumholz said, noticeably stricter than when we’d first met. I let out a sigh and got to work.
This isn’t so bad, I thought. Some of the articles were actually pretty funny. Ted Cruz’s Five Favorite Bands that Hate Him Even Though He Likes Their Music had its moments. Same for I Accidentally Shared My Netflix Password on Tinder, and Things Elon Musk Might Be Doing Today If He Hadn’t Sold PayPal. It began to drag a little as I read through I Am Your Cat and I Watched You in the Shower This Morning, and Three Different Hairs I Found in My Soup At Lunch, but all in all, it wasn’t a bad gig.
By the end of the week, I was a little worn out from all the reading and gentle chuckling. When I went into Mr. Krumholz’s office to pick up my check, I had to get an answer about what this was all about. After some back and forth, he finally said, “Views, my dear boy, views. How do you think these comedy sites stay in business? Do you think people actually read these things?” What an old fool, I thought, laughing all the way to the bank with my fresh, hot check.
By the end of the next week, I was getting more and more discouraged. Your Toilet Seat Has a Few Words for You, and A Brief Message from Mitch McConnell’s Chiropodist just weren’t hitting with me. Marvel Movies That Would Be Greatly Improved if Yahoo Serious Starred in Them, and Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino’s Ten Best Odors, however, definitely pushed me over the edge. I marched into the old man’s office, but before I could open my mouth, he asked, “Finally had enough, eh son?”
I nodded yes. The comedy articles had beat me. He got up, put his arm around me, and led me out into the hall. We passed room after room of poor unfortunate souls clicking on comedy article after comedy article. I couldn’t do it anymore. The old man knew. We finally got to the last door. “I’ve got something far better planned for you,” he said, throwing the door open and pushing me into a room full of people toiling away under bright desk lamps.
“What is this?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Your future, my boy! What we’ve been grooming you for!” the old man said. “Writing online comedy articles.”
One of the writers turned around to face me and eerily intoned, “One of us!” just as the old man closed the door behind me and left me to my fate.
Jeff Kulik is a lifelong Chicagoan who has been published in The American Bystander, Arcturus, Defenestration, Adelaide, Stand, Literally Stories, Wry Times, and Public Organization Review. He also regularly contributes to the humor site MuddyUm.
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Cartooooons
Arun Durvasula
Arun Durvasula is a cartoonist in LA. His cartoons have been published in The American Bystander, The Weekly Humorist, Two Fifty One, and The Phi Delta Kappan.
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