Hypothetically Speaking . . .

. . . . . . . . Because Humor Matters

Piano for Dummies…or for Michaels

Written By: Humor Mike - Jan• 06•19

This time next year, I will know how to play “Ode to Joy.”

When I was just a little boy, you know, back in 1858, I had big dreams of what I would become when I grew up. I don’t remember ever wanting to be a teacher, or a doctor, or a bus driver. Instead, I wanted to be famous. I didn’t know how I would become famous, exactly, but I knew it would involve me being either a rapper, an actor, a singer, a dancer or a stripper. Perhaps I’d be a dancer who stripped, or a stripper who danced. Either way would work as long as my name was in lights.

At some point, my mother thought tap dance lessons would be a good idea. Apparently, she forgot to factor in that we were from the hood. As if I didn’t have enough things working against me, if I had ever walked out that front door wearing tap shoes, I wouldn’t have made it down the block. The only safe place for me to tap dance in Baltimore was in the closet, and there just wasn’t enough space for that. The closet was also my bedroom and recreation area.

Furthermore, coordination has never really been my strongest suit. Whereas some people seem to dance with ease, it has always taken a lot of focus and brain power for me to get these legs and hands to do exactly what I want them to, when I want them to. It appears that my arms hear jazz while my hands hear country and my legs hear hip hop. It also doesn’t help that I thought I had arthritis at the age of five because my grandma kept saying she had it and I wanted to fit in.

After trying out for the dance team at school and being shown the door, I tried my hand at singing. For some reason, I thought that my singing in soft, low tones was beautiful. I called myself mastering a Mariah Carey song before trying out for the choir. I was halfway through the first verse when the teacher escorted me out of the room and told me not to come back until I had a better voice, which is pretty harsh when you’re 7.

Even as a child, some would say that I had a flair for the dramatic, so, naturally, I enrolled in drama class. At that point, I was getting smart. I knew better than to try out for optional, after-school activities. Instead, because it was an actual class, I figured the teacher would be stuck with me. That’s right, I had the drama teacher by the gills. No matter what I brought to the table, he would have to invest time in me and make me an Oscar-winning actor.

Or so I thought.

My drama teacher absolutely hated me. And not just some typical teacher-student general hate. Oh no. My teacher’s hate for me was on that same level of hate that you get for simply writing “good morning” on Twitter. As I’ve learned the hard way, nobody wants or has time for your funky little positivity on there. As a matter of fact, maybe my drama teacher started Twitter. Hmmm. I’ll look into it.

Although my teacher couldn’t exactly fire me as a student, he did have incredible power. Instead of me ever having anything close to a leading role, I was always cast in single-word, offstage parts. My teacher pulled me to the side and explained, “Michael, there are no small parts, only small actors. And you, Michael, are very small.” He then went on to tell me that I was not going to ruin whatever Shakespeare play we were working on under any circumstances. Not on his watch!

Of course, my next stop on the road to fame was to take up piano. When I think about it, I was truly an innovator with my thought process because I chose piano before people like John Legend, Lady Gaga, and Alicia Keys made it cool. Ok, so maybe I didn’t decide this before Elton John was a thing, but he’s at least 362, so not many people can say that they did anything before he did. After all, he invented the piano.

I have mastered this one note!

As it turns out, the piano wasn’t exactly my groove. I thought you could sit there and go from playing “Mary Had A Little Lamb” to playing Beethoven or Mozart in one or two sessions. Unfortunately, I was wrong. On day one my instructor started talking about reading music and knowing octaves, so my brain shut off. Because I almost died of boredom during that session, I voted piano lessons off the island at the next tribal council. My mom was actually happy about this because it allowed her to save $3 a week, which was equivalent to one month’s rent.

Now that I’m an adult and somewhat more mature, my desire to learn to sing and play piano has returned. Well, if I’m being honest, I’m trying to find relaxing activities to get into to offset the stress of Big Macs being 2 for $5 when I specifically asked McDonald’s to reduce them down to $1 a piece at most. See, that’s the problem with the world today. Nobody listens.

Surprisingly, even though it’s 2019, if you want to learn piano, there still hasn’t been any major advancements in that area. There isn’t a pill or a quick course you can take that will have you playing like a professional within a few minutes. I just wish I had known that before I put the ad out on Craigslist to be the musical guest at several weddings. And maybe I shouldn’t have tried to join the orchestra until I knew how to do more than find middle C, which is still the only note I know.

Fortunately, this time around, I didn’t have to sign up for classes, which I think would have killed me. As a matter of fact, while we’re on the subject, perhaps forced piano lessons should be used as capital punishment for citizens who choose to break the law by going 36 in a 35 mile-per-hour zone. Clearly, I’m no criminal justice major, so perhaps forced piano lessons may be a bit excessive as a punishment, but it should at least be considered.

This time around, because I know that in-person lessons or working my way through a piano book on my own would make me feel like I was on death row, I have become like a toddler who purchases millions of apps on his mom’s iPad to keep me entertained. So far, I think it’s working. After several weeks of practice, I can find middle C a lot quicker. Although I can’t do it when I’m blindfolded and acting out scenes from Bird Box, I have high hopes that I will master that at any moment now.

On the flip side, although I embarked on this piano journey to help relieve stress, I have to say that the stress seems to return every month when I see the cost of the app subscriptions. As Homer Simpson would say, my bank statement gives me many reasons to slap my hand against my head and go, “D’oh!” Apparently, learning a new instrument isn’t cheap even if you have a Groupon. Maybe I’ll have to go back to stripping.

If you want me to play “We Are The Champions” at your wedding, I may be able to do that!

Michael Rochelle
Humor blog: http://www.humormike.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1
Instagram: humor_mike_
Twitter: @mikeyllo

Becoming Michael

Written By: Humor Mike - Dec• 23•18

Me and Bugsy

First of all, I’m sure you’ve probably heard the news about me filing that lawsuit against Michelle Obama for releasing her new book Becoming. It is truly unfortunate, but I can assure you it’s not my fault. It is no secret that I copyrighted the titles Becoming Michael and Becoming Michelle years ago. If she wanted to use either one of them, she could have simply asked. If there is one thing that people always say about me, it’s that I’m reasonable. If there is another thing said about me, it’s that I’m beautiful.

I know what you’re wondering. Why did I copyright both titles? Well, I like to keep my options open. Today I feel like a Michael, but tomorrow, maybe I’ll feel like a Michelle. Who knows? I believe in equality. That noted, I have also copyrighted Becoming Steve, Becoming Ted, and Becoming Nancy just in case. Govern yourselves accordingly.

Anyway, I tried to give Michelle the benefit of the doubt. I tried to be understanding, but the more I thought about it, the more the thievery seemed intentional. I mean, where else would she have gotten the title? It’s not like Michael and Michelle are common names. She didn’t choose those randomly. Clearly, she reads my blog and pilfered the idea. As a matter of fact, even her book cover looks just like the picture I took a few moments ago.

Exhibit A – Proof!!!!!

Look at the hair. Look at that smile. Clearly, she copied me. I have a case.

On the flip side, since her version of my book has sold a zillion copies, there is now renewed interest in my memoir. Apparently, there is a market for my life story. Several publishers believe they can sell at least three copies in the first week. That noted, I’m considering all offers. If any publishers believe they can sell four copies in the first week, I’m quitting my job on the spot and signing on that dotted line.

Now that Michelle has released her book, I guess I can no longer publish the story of how I met Barack and how we keep things together after all these years. However, I can share that I went to Los Angeles a few weeks ago and I was almost discovered. By “almost discovered,” I mean that I crossed a street that I’m sure Steven Spielberg drove down several years ago. If only I had timed my visit better, perhaps I would have gotten my big break in the original Jurassic Park movie playing one of the raptors.

After saving up for 75 years, I finally had enough money to make a return trip to Los Angeles. I had gone a few years ago, but had very limited time then, so I needed to go back to make my big break. I mean, I expected to bump into Oprah or Will Smith within moments of my arrival. I thought I’d be standing in a parking lot evaluating whatever writing, acting, singing, or modeling contract they wanted to offer me. I mean, if I’m anything, I’m versatile.

Once it became clear that I wasn’t going to be discovered while tying my shoe in front of a Rite Aid, I had to make hotel arrangements. I was sure Will and Jada would have let me sleep on his couch, but since he left me hanging, I had to make other plans. That noted, let me give you guys a word of advice when searching for hotels. If the room costs $5 or less per night, there is probably a good reason why. If the location has less than one star on Yelp, I would avoid it if you value your life or your wallet. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I had to learn this the hard way.

After spending the first night hiding under the bed and ignoring the sound of gunshots outside the window and in the hallway, I decided to use what seemed like it could be my last day on earth to do some studio backlot tours. If the studio execs weren’t ready to come to me, I was going to go to them with a prepared monologue, a song, and a dance number that I could execute at any moment.

When I learned that The Ellen DeGeneres Show filmed at Warner Bros. Studio, I made their backlot tour my first stop. Of course, Ellen would have me on her show! I was sure of it. If worse came to worst, and she needed a little nudging, I could simply remind her about how I used to coach her back in the 70s. If we are being completely honest, some of those comedy routines and dance moves are clearly mine. Everyone knows that. Maybe I should sue her too.

Since I am no fool, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to just walk on the backlot and see Ellen. I assumed there would be a whole security process involved. Well, as soon as I saw someone who looked like they had some authority and clout, I burst into a very Michael rendition of “Shallow” from A Star is Born. Because I’m a professional, I did both the Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper parts. Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do. The show must always go on.

During my big finale, I did a quick shuffle and a high kick before launching into a Shim Sham Shimmy with arms-arms and a crossover then finished with a step-ball-change. As I held the final position and tried to catch my breath while ignoring the bead of sweat rolling down my nose, the observer asked, “Was that for me?” When I assured him it was, he informed me that he was the janitor. Despite that, on a scale of one to ten, he gave me a solid two, patted me on the head, and encouraged me to keep trying.

When it became clear that I would not be seeing Ellen during my visit, I decided to go to Universal Studios Hollywood instead. I figured that I would run into Jimmy Fallon, who was sure to be way more reasonable than the janitor at Warner Bros. If not, perhaps Kristen Bell would be filming The Good Place and would want some notes on her performance, which I was more than willing to provide. As I walked around the lot, I decided I would not do a single dance step until I knew I was performing for the right people. I had learned my lesson. That mistake was not going to happen to me more than once in a single day.

As you may have guessed, I didn’t run into Jimmy Fallon or Kristen Bell. However, I did meet some very lovely security guards who escorted me off the premises for appearing suspicious. I asked them if they had any idea who they were dealing with. They didn’t. I was shocked they didn’t know that I had come up with the original idea for Becoming. Here Michael or Michelle was standing there right before them and they couldn’t have cared less. I’m adding that to the lawsuit.

One Sweet Day!

Michael Rochelle
Humor blog: www.humormike.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1
Instagram: www.instagram.com/HumorMike
Twitter: www.twitter.com/mikeyllo

And That’s When You Go Cry in Your Closet

Written By: Humor Mike - Dec• 09•18

Is he crying or hitting the Mariah Carey high note, who knows?

So, during one of my recent daily appointments with my team of shrinks, one of them had some pretty interesting feedback for me. Of course, I don’t just take any random person’s opinion at face value—even if I’m paying them for it and they just so happen to have multiple degrees on the subject matter. Instead, I did what any normal person would do, I made my team of shrinks take a vote on it. When I didn’t like the outcome, I demanded a recount, and rightfully so.

Apparently, my shrinks seem to think that I hold stuff inside and they suggested I stop burying my feelings. I thought this was a bit odd. I mean, I have a whole blog and all. Isn’t that the very definition of sharing? As a matter of fact, some would say I overshare. I remember that post where I wrote about my experiencing menopause at age 25, which was tough for me to admit because I’m kind of a guy. After I politely asked my shrinks to mind their business, they told me I needed to work on accepting feedback, so I fired them—all of them.

Fortunately, I keep a few backup shrinks on standby just for these types of moments. When my favorite backup shrink agreed with my former shrinks, I began to think that maybe their opinion had some merit. I decided to give being more open a try. I started by telling my shrink that she was my best friend in the whole world and I gave her a big hug. That’s when she broke up with me and had me escorted out of the building. She said something about the nature of our relationship being inappropriate. See, that’s exactly what happens when you share your feelings with people.

Anyway, the feedback to share more led me to call my dad the other day. I had something on my heart that I really wanted to get out. When he answered, I asked him if he was sitting down and if now was a good time to talk. Because he knew this was a serious matter that would require his full attention, he took a shot of tequila, a shot of vodka, and then had a rum chaser. When he was ready, I took a deep breath and began to let it all out.

I put all my cards on the table. As warm tears rolled down my cheeks, I asked my dad what he had against dogs wearing Christmas sweaters. For the life of me, I don’t have any childhood memories of our furry dog friends having cute outfits. I told him it was his fault and it was still bothering me as an adult. Perhaps I would have more confidence in myself if only I had seen our dogs strutting around in winter jackets and matching mittens.

At that point, my dad said something about barely having the money to put food on the table and to keep the lights on. I knew he would go there, so I was prepared. I told him that was not the point, and that his not having money shouldn’t be his answer for everything. He got a tad bit upset, but I had been advised by people with degrees to share more, and so I did. Twenty minutes later, he was still yelling and using terms like “ungrateful” and “I wished I never had a son.” My dad can be really dramatic at times. He should probably see someone about that.

Now that I think about it, maybe my request for all the dogs to have Christmas sweaters was a bit unreasonable. Although it may have been fine for us to dress up the smaller dogs in cocktail dresses for special occasions, I couldn’t imagine trying to put a black mini dress on a Rottweiler. And what if the dog didn’t like Christmas? Would it be fair to dress up our German Shepherd like Santa if celebrating the holiday is against its religion? I certainly don’t think so.

Once my dad calmed down a bit and offered to put me back into his will, I told him not to worry about it. Sure, we were the only family on the block who didn’t buy their dogs pink ankle boots, but maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world. After all, if the dogs had a problem with their lack of clothing and accessories, it was on them to communicate that.

Speaking of letting things out, there is something about the combination of the wind and cold that happens this time of year that bothers my eyes. For some reason, a cold breeze makes me tear up faster than a romantic comedy where everyone dies at the end. Before my shrink broke up with me, I had asked her to take a look to see if she could find out what was going on. She explained to me that eye care was not her expertise. I ignored it, told her she was a doctor, and asked her to get her stethoscope.

Because my shrink couldn’t solve my problem, my eyes have been leaking all over the city. I’ve leaked on the Metro. I’ve leaked at Starbucks. I leaked while trying to have a conversation with a homeless guy on the street. As I repeatedly dabbed at my eyes, he asked if I was crying. I told him it was just the wind, to which he replied, “That’s what they all say.” I laughed and leaked a little more right there on the curb.

At that point, the homeless guy told me it was ok to cry. I thanked him for the support and said I was going to go leak in the privacy of my office. He then told me that I didn’t have to cry alone. He patted his shoulder and said, “You can cry right here, buddy.” Three hours later, his jacket was completely soaked, but I felt so much better. Who knew that crying on a stranger’s shoulder could feel so good! I recommend you find the nearest stranger and leak all over them for as long as you need to.

And the Oscar should really go to Michael here! Look at all that fake emotion! Yes.

The good thing about my bonding with the homeless guy was that it came at a time when I really needed it. I mean, since my shrink broke up with me, I was looking for someone to fill that gap. Since I had already leaked all over him, who better to deal with my mental health matters than the homeless guy? I should probably learn his name, and I have to figure out if he accepts my insurance, but so far, he’s doing great. While I sit there pouring my heart out, we both collect change from passersby, which is an extra bonus that my original shrinks didn’t offer.

I write all of this to say that you don’t have to be afraid to let it out. If you want to cry in the middle of Target, go right ahead. If you want to leak all over your Quarter Pounder in the middle of McDonald’s, feel free. And if you want to lay your head on a homeless guy’s chest, more power to you. Hey, you never know where it could lead: a new friend, a new therapist, maybe a new baby daddy. The options are truly limitless.

Michael Rochelle
Humor blog: http://www.humormike.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1
Instagram: humor_mike_
Twitter: @mikeyllo

What Happens in Vegas, Is Right Here on My Blog

Written By: Humor Mike - Nov• 23•18

It’s just a Mirage.

In case you missed my recent press releases or my surprise appearance on Dr. Phil last week, you are probably unaware that I just returned home from Las Vegas a few days ago. The trip was a real learning experience for me. Apparently, my mom had heard about all the drinking and sinning that allegedly goes on there from her church friends, Bertha and Myrtle, so she was up in arms about my visit the whole time I was there.

Now, I’ve never been one to gossip unless it’s for a good cause, but although they love to shake their heads and wag their fingers at other people, both Bertha and Myrtle somehow manage to fly to Vegas three or four times a year themselves. As a matter of fact, I ran into a shirtless Chippendales dancer on the Strip and he immediately asked if I knew Bertha and if she still had that lower back tattoo. Well, I ain’t one to tell people’s business, so you certainly ain’t heard it from me, but the answer is yes.

Anyway, because of Bertha and Myrtle’s feedback, my plane had barely landed before my mom started calling every two seconds to make sure I was making “good decisions.” She informed me that if any YouTube footage of me passed out in a ditch leaked—again, she would be forced to disown me—again.

Sadly, despite my best efforts, there actually is new footage of me passed out circulating the internet, but not for the reasons you would think. The moment I hit the Las Vegas Strip, my status as a full-fledge grandma kicked in and I went to sleep anywhere I could: on park benches, in line for dinner, and in the fountain at the Bellagio. While other people’s nights were just getting started at 11 PM, I, myself, had already been asleep for at least six hours by then.

When I wasn’t laid out in a bush due to exhaustion, I certainly passed out a few times based on food prices. Whether I needed only a pack of gum or a buffet dinner, the cost seemed to be no less than $200. I tried to negotiate, but if I wanted fresh breath, the lowest I could get the salesperson down to was $183. If you plan to go to Vegas, govern yourselves accordingly. Take out cash, a credit card, and a bank loan when you arrive.

Now, before you start judging me for sleeping through my Vegas trip, it’s not exactly my fault. First of all, my body never quite adjusted to the time change from Eastern to Pacific, so I woke up at 3 AM every single morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. I tossed and turned and did math equations for hours until it was time to head out for the day.

Second, I was in a low-key mood for most of the trip. The wildest thing I did the whole time was to have two Starbucks drinks in a single day. Oh, and there was that time I went wild and drank a Pepsi within an hour of drinking a Coke. If that doesn’t meet your definition of a party animal, I don’t know what does.

For most of the visit, I was content just looking at all the lights and activities from the comfort of my hotel room. However, when the gambling mood hit, I did put $20 into a slot machine that I thought was lucky based on the vibes it was sending me from across the room. When I walked by, it literally said, “Michael, come play me. I can change your life.” 15 seconds later when I’d lost my $20, my life had definitely been changed; I went from being kind of OK to being downright depressed just that quick.

Making bad decisions here. Don’t tell my mama.

And if I’m being completely honest, I did have a drink or two during my stay in Vegas. However, because I was going to bed so early each night, that meant I had to start drinking a little sooner than what some would consider normal. Now, I don’t want people to think that I have some sort of problem or to call my parole officer or anything, but I found 9 AM to be around about the right time to crack open the vodka with a gin chaser. Completely acceptable. I mean, it’s Vegas.

Actually, the drinking is really not my fault. After the plane landed and I was finding my way to the luggage area, I went down an escalator to find a sign that showed baggage claim in one direction and the liquor store in the other. I mean, if those are your only two choices and in you’re in Vegas, any normal person would hit the liquor store first and worry about the luggage later. And if by chance your luggage went missing, the liquor would help with that. See, I’ve thought it through.

Making things even more interesting, the store was called the Liquor Library. I immediately made the connection of me being a writer to their being a library and knew it was a sign that I just had to investigate the premises. After all, I have always loved a library. Surprisingly, there were no books inside, but there was a lot of liquor, which was fine with me. Don’t judge me and please don’t tell my mom.

I only bought it because it was pretty, not to drink it!

Instead of looking for shows or a club to attend, like a true grandma, I spent most of my time looking up food options. In case you don’t know, one of the things Vegas is known for is its buffets. I spent hours on Yelp comparing the options. It wasn’t long before all that planning went right out the window when I found a buffet that had all-you-can-drink wine and beer. Just like that, no longer did I care whether the buffet offered a one-star or a five-star menu. Instead, the all-you-can-drink offering had me at hello.

I arrived at the buffet excited because I knew what was about to go down. I was going to eat as if my life depended on it. Though I am usually a hamburger and hot dog sort of guy, I decided to broaden my horizons just this once. After all, I was in Vegas. The least I could do was add a little lettuce and a carrot or two to my diet for crying out loud. Allegedly, you only live once.

As the hostess walked me over to my table, she looked at me with an expression of great concern. Her head tilted to the side as she asked, “Are you alone? You don’t have any friends?” People can be so mean. I took a moment to think before I answered. I wasn’t exactly sure if being alone at a buffet was grounds for being kicked out, but I wasn’t taking any chances, at least not before I ate. Proudly, I hung my head high and said, “Friends? Oh, they’re on their way. They will be here any minute. You know Bertha and Myrtle, right?” She did.

After dodging that moment of judgement and being seated, I grabbed four plates and made my way to the buffet. Let me be the first to tell you that the food was well worth it. They had a little of everything: Asian food, Mexican dishes, pasta, pizza, barbecued pork chops, salad, seafood, desserts, and more. If I didn’t have a tank full of fish waiting for me back at home, I would have just stayed in Vegas and lived at the buffet for the rest of my life.

For some reason, although I usually avoid crab legs because of the many battles I’ve lost trying to crack them open, I found myself putting several on a plate. As I dipped a claw in butter, I began to have sad thoughts. I wondered just how many crabs had to die for me to have that one claw. My guess was 40. It was pretty disturbing.

All is not lost, though. Because my shrink says I need to start thinking positive, I decided in my mind that maybe 40 crabs hadn’t died at all for me to have that one claw. Maybe the claw had been lost due to natural causes. Or, maybe it was grown on a claw farm where no crabs are harmed in the making of dinner. The thought certainly made me feel better as I ate 10 more legs respectfully.

No crabs were hurt in the making of this photo, I promise.

After stuffing myself as if I was storing up for the winter, I made my way over to the Venetian Hotel. For years I’d heard about the gondola rides offered at the hotel and I had to see them with my own eyes. As I walked in and saw gondoliers navigating the canals and singing love songs to their passengers, I got excited. It looked as though it was meant for Michael. What a romantic experience for me and myself!

As I stood there in line thinking of the songs I’d want my gondolier to serenade me with, reality kicked in. I saw no one else riding alone. How would I look hugging myself longingly as my gondolier sang “Drop It Like It’s Hot” as we navigated the Grand Canal? In the end, it wasn’t the riding alone thing that made me opt not to do it. It was the $116 charge for a single rider that made me change my mind. By that point, all I had left was about $5 in food stamps on me. The gondola ride just wasn’t meant to be. Maybe next time. But at least I’ll have more time to think about song choices. Perhaps, “Thank U, Next” or “Single Ladies.” Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out.

Gondola ride for one, please!

All that aside, for what it’s worth, I can say I thoroughly enjoyed myself in Vegas. I made the experience my own and I’m pretty satisfied with it. I didn’t lose my car or my dad in a game of poker or roulette like I did last year. And as tempting as it was, I didn’t audition to be in the Australia’s Thunder from Down Under strip show or to be a Hooter’s girl. I’m absolutely OK with it. After all, there is always next year! Gives me more time to work on my abs.

Michael Rochelle
Humor blog: http://www.humormike.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1
Instagram: humor_mike_
Twitter: @mikeyllo

Filters and Fashion Nova Grandpas

Written By: Humor Mike - Nov• 04•18

Fashion Nova Grandpas Model

OK, so the word is out. I’m officially 39. If you do the math, that means this time next year I’ll be 40. Wait…let me double check those numbers. Carry the 3. Add a 9. Subtract 5. Yup, 40. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. 40 may be coming for me faster than Michael Meyers in a horror movie, but it’s not exactly here just yet. I’m going to enjoy these last days of my 30s the same way people enjoy fresh chicken at a buffet.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been challenged about my age. Some of my alleged friends claim that I turned 39 several years ago. However, Dear Readers, I’m here to tell you not to listen to them. Most of my two friends are felons, so they shouldn’t be trusted. Govern yourselves accordingly.

People have been asking what I did for my birthday. My therapist said that it was ok for me to share that I spent most of the day crying in my closet. This wasn’t because I was depressed. No, I take handfuls of pills for that. Instead, I’d decided to take my car to the mechanic because I had a coupon for a $25 maintenance checkup and a free T-shirt, but they found $900 worth of crap wrong with my Pinto.

According to the mechanic, after he shared the news, I passed out and landed in a pool of oil. That would certainly explain the knot I found on the side of my forehead when I came to. I was actually happy to learn that the puddle was used motor oil instead of being the result of my having had an accident on myself at the shop—again. The last time my urine was that dark, I ended up in the hospital for two weeks due to severe dehydration. With a $900 mechanic bill to take care of, I certainly had no funds left over to pay for a hospital visit.

I tried to bargain with the mechanic, but my skills of persuasion may have been a tad bit rusty. He shook his head ferociously and informed me that if I didn’t have the work done, I would lose my transmission before I made it out of the parking lot. It was then that I pulled out a single dollar bill and asked if that would change his mind on the diagnosis. He shook his head in disgust.

Since he was playing hardball, I knew I would have to break out the big guns. I slowly started to sway side to side and wiggled my way out of my jacket. If Michael couldn’t talk the price down, maybe a dance routine from my stripper alter ego, Caramel Macchiato Thunder, would change his mind. I think he was into it until I snatched his wrench from his toolkit and waived it in the air. If it wasn’t the wrench thing, it could have been the lap dance that sent things over the edge. I’m not sure. Either way, he threw up on his shirt a few times and raised the price by $200.

Because of the unexpected repair cost, I was forced to think small for my birthday. Instead of taking a road trip, I spent the day doing laundry and repotting my houseplants. I would later learn that my plants had actually been happy with their original soil. After the change, all of them died except Gertrude and Ricky, who are both now hanging on by a leaf. Sometimes it’s just best to leave things alone. My heart was in the right place though.

In addition to murdering my plants and laundering my clothes, I decided to go wild and crazy and mop my floors. I even dug in the back of the cabinet and pulled out the good Pine-Sol. I mean, you only turn 39 once. If anybody was worthy of having clean floors, it was me the birthday boy. Sure, I may have been broke, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t have a little fun with my mop. I did a dance number with it as if I were Fred Astaire or Michael Jackson. You should have seen me.

The thing I have learned about being 39 is that I should probably take things a little slower than I used to. In my 20s, I used to be able to drop it like it was hot on demand, but now I need to lower it with some prayer, planning and Aspirin on deck. I can never be sure whether my knees or my back are going to go with the flow or not. It’s like they have a mind of their own, and they do what they want to do when they want to do it. I have absolutely no say in the matter.

Although my car repair did wipe out my entire 401K fund, I did manage to treat myself to an iPad. From my perspective, I consider it a business need. After all, I’m allegedly a writer and I need gadgets to keep me connected to my two readers. Unfortunately, the iPad came with a camera that made my pics a lot less flattering than I thought they should be. It wasn’t long before I realized that it wasn’t the camera; instead, the photos were showing what I look like at 39!

Filters Applied

The iPad photos made me scream and run around my apartment as if my hair was on fire. So many thoughts ran through my head. I mean, what if I went to jail for a really good cause and had my mugshot taken with an iPad camera? There was no way I’d look like the hot felon without a couple filters. Or, what if I finally decided to take the leap and market myself on Match.com or KindaChristianMingles? I would definitely have to invest in Photoshop—and then have my Photoshopped pictures Photoshopped.

Fortunately, it wasn’t long before I learned that my fears were all in my head, which was exactly what my team of shrinks had said. Within minutes of me posting my picture on Instagram, Fashion Nova contacted me and asked if I’d be available to model for their new Grandpa line. I was ecstatic about the offer. It made me realize that, although I’m officially a senior citizen, life isn’t exactly over for me just yet. I mean, I have at least two more good years ahead of me. That’s more than enough to accomplish a thing or two before Michael Meyers catches up with me.

That noted, with my remaining two years, I set a few goals for myself. First, I’m going to be the biggest Fashion Nova model ever. Years from now, people will talk about how Naomi Campbell, Tyson Beckford, Cindy Crawford and I changed the game. I can promise you that I won’t let my Fashion Nova Grandpa model status go to my head. After all, I will always be the handsome, smart, talented, incredible, fabulous, amazing, and humble person you’ve come to know and love. That will never change.

Second, I’ve always wanted to learn a second language, so I’ve officially decided that I will learn English over the next year. I mean, who knows what the future is going to hold! From my perspective, maybe being fluent in English may be helpful somewhere down the line. Hell, at some point it may even be required. In any case, it’s on my to-do list.

Third, a few magazines I’ve read recommended that I try something that seems impossible. That noted, I’ve set a goal for myself to make it to work on time at least once over the next year. Granted, I know that there are other more realistic goals that I could set for myself. Perhaps running a 5K or climbing Mount Everest would be more reasonable, but I believe that if I set my mind to it, I can absolutely make it to work within an hour of my official start time, which I consider to be on time. At least I’ll try.

Michael Rochelle
Humor blog: http://www.humormike.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1
Instagram: humor_mike_
Twitter: @mikeyllo

Jennifer Lopez, Ricky Martin and Magic Mike Birthday Wishes

Written By: Humor Mike - Oct• 14•18

Kohl’s Model In The Making

As many of my two readers know, in a few weeks I will be having yet another birthday. This is disturbing for several reasons. First, I could’ve sworn I just had a birthday yesterday. Second, I’m inching closer and closer to learning what happens to people when they hit 40. Third, my metabolism is acting more refurbished with each passing day. I’m expecting it to quit or go on strike at any moment.

Anyway, as the big day draws near, I’m happy to report that I’m becoming more responsible as a person. Although I still wake up eating bacon every morning, I’ve avoided going to Kohl’s for the last month or so. Just to ensure that I’d kicked my Kohl’s habit, I recently stopped by to see if I could resist the urge to buy something. It was a true test of my will power.

If you must know, my visit to Kohl’s was very successful. I only spent $250 on things that I really needed, like this one flannel shirt that perfectly matched this pair of khakis I just had lying around. For your information, that shirt has added versatility to my wardrobe that I didn’t have before. An absolutely necessary purchase. You’ll see.

If I’m completely honest, the $250 doesn’t exactly include the $100 blazer I accidentally purchased for the blog photo. I know what you’re thinking. “Michael,” you say, “you actually spent $350.” Well, technically, yes. However, I consider the blazer a necessary business cost. Clearly, my readers aren’t just here for the spectacular writing. You’re also here for the photos. You look forward to it just as much as you do the cover photos of Oprah’s magazine and People or Good Housekeeping. I completely understand.

I haven’t exactly figured out what I will do for my birthday. However, because of the way my bank account is set up, any birthday activities will need to be less than $10 in total. Since I’ve made my big day a four-day weekend, I’ll have a spending allowance of about $2.50 per day. Don’t worry, though. If I see another awesome suit jacket in my travels, I’ll find a way to acquire it. No, I won’t steal it. I’m not that type of person anymore. But I may stand outside the store and ask for voluntary contributions.

At this age, Women’s Day magazine recommended that I see a gynecologist. Honestly, I can’t believe I’ve gone this long without seeing one. Knowing your reproductive health status is very important. Although I don’t have any immediate plans for having puppies of my own, who knows what the future holds? Unfortunately, each time I call to set up an appointment, the receptionist just laughs at me and hangs up. Some people can be so immature. It’s OK. I’ll just go as a walk-in.

In addition to seeing a gynecologist for my birthday, I’ve been thinking about taking some sort of road trip. Of course, I have to keep in mind my $10 budget, but maybe I could make it work. I mean, if Jesus fed a whole crowd with two fish and five loaves, the least I can do is have a little faith.

Tyra Banks has noting on me!

Speaking of fish, my fish and I have been talking about going back to Atlantic City. I’m not so sure about this. My fish are very well trained and all, but after releasing them into the ocean for a few hours last time, it was a nightmare trying to get them back into their tank. I had to remind them that they were freshwater fish, and that they wouldn’t last very long in the salt water. That did it. You should have seen them flopping around and begging to get back into the aquarium. Fortunately for them, I have a heart.

If not Atlantic City, I could finally make my way up to Niagara Falls. But now that summer has passed, I have to consider how much fun the trip will be if it’s 50 degrees outside. The idea of being cold and damp puts a bit of a downer on the trip. I’m not sure how enjoyable it will be to look at the waterfalls while my teeth are chattering and my bronchitis is rearing its ugly head. Maybe I should reconsider.

The good news is that, even if the road trip thing doesn’t work out, I do have a trip to Las Vegas coming up within the next few weeks. I’m going for work, but perhaps I can repurpose the trip to tackle some items on my bucket list. Maybe I’ll be able to squeeze in opening for Celine Dion during that trip. However, she and I will have to talk about that. She has some concerns that I may show her up if I go on first, so perhaps I’ll make some minor adjustments to my show. We’ll see.

If that doesn’t work out, because I did those two push-ups back in 1996, maybe I can finally agree to be the lead in the Magic Mike Live show. I keep explaining to them that I don’t do magic, but they say that’s not a problem. For some reason, they’re only concerned about whether I have leather chaps, cowboy boots, assorted tear-away pants, and glitter. Fortunately, I never leave home without any of those things.

While I’m in Vegas, perhaps serving as a backup dancer for Jennifer Lopez or Ricky Martin may be an option. I should call and let them both know I’m coming so that they can go ahead and start fighting over me now. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t. No one should be subject to receiving a right hook from Jennifer Lopez. Absolutely no one. But, honestly, how they sort this out is really none of my business. They are two partially responsible adults. If they opt to fight over me instead of having a dance off, that is really on them.

At the end of the day, my point is that my birthday is coming up. That noted, you should govern yourselves accordingly. Since my birthday funds are running a tad-bit low, I’ll be accepting donations in the form of cash, credit, snack cakes, and juice boxes. On the other hand, if you opt to see me open for Celine Dion, please stay for her show after my performance. Having half the audience and the entire front row leave when I exit the stage can be a little disturbing. She is super sensitive about those sorts of things.

If you opt to see me in the Magic Mike Live show, please respect my privacy and do not take pictures or videos. I know that my performance will be the highlight of some people’s whole lives, but the last time my routine ended up on YouTube, Barack and Michelle were not happy about it at all. Lastly, if you see Jennifer or Ricky with bruises over the next few weeks, please just nod understandingly and don’t make a scene. Whereas Ricky may be willing to talk about the fight over me, Jennifer will not be so gracious. You’ve been warned.

Michael Rochelle
Humor blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1
Instagram: humor_mike_
Twitter: @mikeyllo

Of iPhones And Men

Written By: Humor Mike - Sep• 24•18

All My Children

If you know anything about me, you know that I make a major life decision every September. Because I’m allegedly a responsible adult, I never take this decision lightly out of respect for the millions who have had to make this choice before me. You probably guessed it. It’s the decision of whether to get out of bed or not. But after making that judgment call, I then have to make a choice that I’ll have to live with for the next year or two. To upgrade, or not to upgrade my iPhone: that is the question.

When faced with such a potentially life altering decision, I usually consult my team of shrinks and my grandma for guidance. Grandma once said that I could always count on her to be of assistance with life’s little dilemmas. Apparently, when she made that statement, she’d forgotten about her sleep schedule, which leaves me about 45 minutes each day when she is awake to offer support. Geez.

When neither my grandma nor my team of shrinks are available, I take more drastic measures. That’s right, I pray to the ghosts of iPhones past for their perspective. I mean, it’s what any normal person would do. And although I use this option only as a last resort, I must say it’s refreshing to not have to worry about having to pay a copay like I do when I consult my shrinks or my grandma. At this point, my grandma only takes American Express. According to her, cash is so last season.

So, before you start judging and thinking I’m one of those Apple fanatics who takes off work and stands in line for several weeks just to buy a new phone, I am not—well, not anymore. My boss has firmly said she could no longer tolerate me calling out sick for three weeks every year. I countered her statement by telling her that the stores have Wi-Fi, so I could work remotely while waiting in line, but she rejected that too. Some people have no sense of what’s truly important.

Honestly, I can’t really blame my boss for her lack of support. Last year, she took a slight issue to my being on sick leave when I could clearly be seen sitting outside the Apple store by anyone who passed by. It probably didn’t help my cause that I had done several interviews for the local news, and my picture was on the front page of the Washington Post showing my excitement as I waited. At the time, I was supposed to have been at the hospital with a ruptured spleen and a tattered heart. Perhaps I hadn’t really thought it through. No one goes to the hospital for a tattered heart anymore.

Well, if you must know, I handled things much more reasonably this year. And by reasonably, I mean that I only waited in line for 3 days for my iPhone. Totally acceptable! Although I won’t go into details, surprisingly I only had to use the potty once the whole time. Since there were no restrooms, this gave me an opportunity to get creative. You’d be amazed at what you can accomplish by simply ducking behind an oak tree. More importantly, relieving yourself outside in the middle of a city block with nothing but a few leaves and two cigarette butts gives you a real appreciation for Charmin Ultra Soft.

I assure you that the waiting wasn’t as bad as you’re probably thinking. Believe it or not, I’ve met some pretty interesting people while waiting in line. I won’t say any names in effort to protect the innocent, but this one guy named Harold Jenkins waited in line even longer than I did. According to him, he’d been standing there since 1942. If you had asked me to guess when he’d arrived, I would have thought 1960 at the earliest. Either way I admired his commitment.

Because I consider the term “nerd” to be rather offensive, I won’t describe Harold in that way. Instead, I’ll just say that he was wearing a bow tie even though he had on a T-shirt. Oh, and maybe his glasses were a little on the thick side, but apparently that’s ok. Style gurus Anna Wintour and Miranda Priestly both told me thick glasses were coming back in style—especially when paired with the right pocket square and orthopedic shoes.

The most interesting thing about Harold was the aluminum foil helmet he wore as we stood there. At first I thought it was a bit odd, but once he explained that he was protecting us from the aliens that walk among us, it made complete sense. Hey, safety first! He even makes his dogs, Socrates and Aristotle, wear the foil helmets for their protection too. Like Harold said, “When the aliens come, everyone is a target unless they are wearing proper headgear.” I immediately ordered one from Amazon.

After what seemed like an eternity, the moment of truth came and the store finally opened. Even though the clerks said they were ready for us, we all stood back and let Harold go first to make sure the coast was clear. Although we had just spent several days with Harold, none of us felt like we could correctly identify whether the salespeople were aliens or not. In fact, I’m taking Harold with me the next time I go to visit my mother. She’s been acting weird lately, so I need Harold for a second opinion.

Before long, it happened. I was presented with an iPhone Xs of my very own. Tears streamed down my face as I looked down at it in awe. It was so beautiful. At that moment, my maternal instincts kicked in. I immediately took my shirt off so we could have skin-to-skin contact. I’ve never been more proud in my whole life. It was then I knew that real dreams do come true. “I’m going to call you Charlie,” I said as I cuddled the most precious little thing I had ever seen.

It’s been a few days since Charlie has been with me, and unlike what many blogs say, my iPhone sleeps right through the night. It probably helps that I use the do-not-disturb setting to make this happen, but that‘s neither here nor there. It’s amazing how I somehow just know when it’s time to plug little Charlie in and when to put on his leather case to protect him from the cold. I haven’t exactly mastered the whole nursing thing just yet, but as they say, “Rome wasn’t built in a day.” Eventually I’ll get the hang of it. I expect little Charlie and I to be really happy together . . . right up until this time next year . . . when I’m forced to wait in line with my foil helmet to trade him in. Hmmm.

Michael Rochelle
Humor blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1
Instagram: humor_mike_
Twitter: @mikeyllo

Goodbye Summer, Hello Dates!

Written By: Humor Mike - Sep• 09•18

There’s something in my eye.

It’s weird how we are in the first weeks of September, yet it feels like the end of something. Well, I guess it is the end of summer. Soon it will be the end of my day trips to the beach and the weather has already started to change. Kids are back in school, which is a great thing and makes the streets safe during the day again. I no longer have to worry about having my wallet stolen at the park during lunch. Kindergarteners are the worse.

There are a couple of things I intended to do during the summer that I didn’t quite accomplish. Somehow, I still haven’t learned how to get a full body tan while maintaining my modesty. Well, there was that one time I accidentally ended up on a nude beach and decided to take my shirt off and all the grandmas and grandpas yelled “No!” in unison. I get it. There are certain things people just shouldn’t be forced to see. My B cups are two of them.

I didn’t travel the way I wanted to during the summer. I may not have shared this with you, but I’m the reason they invented the phrase “Caviar tastes on a Kool-Aid budget.” You see, I had to learn the hard way that $5 only goes but so far. My bags were packed and loaded in the trunk for my cross-country drive to Los Angeles. However, I hadn’t make it across the Maryland state line before I ran out of gas and had to call my shrink to come pick me up. She charged extra for that visit.

I haven’t gone to an amusement park yet, but that may be a good thing. I don’t know about you, but the heat and I don’t get along. If I could, I would file for permanent separation. Divorce even. Heat makes me become a sweaty mess. Even after just a few seconds of exposure, you would think I was one of the “Golden Girls” going through the change of life. Now that I think about it, maybe that’s why people sometimes call me Betty White. Hmmm.

Although I haven’t made it to an amusement park, I did go to the Maryland State Fair. Wait, before you start spreading rumors about me, no, I wasn’t on a date. As a matter of fact, none of the people I invited using Match, Tinder, or BlogFarmers.com accepted my offer. However, this may be my fault because I only invited 50 potential soulmates. Maybe I should have cast a wider net. I mean, love really is a numbers game. Next time I’ll send 5,000 invites. Wish me luck.

Anyway, if you must know, I went to the fair with my parents. That’s right. My mommy and daddy wanted to go to the fair with their little muffin and I’m not ashamed! My shrink says it’s absolutely OK. I’m not sure she meant that it was OK for the three of us to hold hands and skip throughout the fairgrounds while singing Taylor Swift and Ariana Grande songs, but that is neither here nor there.

Although I am not ashamed of going to the fair with my parents, I am ashamed that my mom wanted us to get there at 9 a.m., well before the rides started and well before most of the workers had arrived. As a matter of fact, the animals weren’t even decent and ready to accept visitors. I don’t know about you, but seeing a pig wearing a nightie is not exactly my cup of tea—no judgment if it’s yours though.

I may be crazy, but I swear I heard several goats snicker as we walked by. They were probably thinking about the wild night they’d had versus my parents and I going to bed super early so we could be there at the crack of dawn. A few of the goats still looked drunk or hungover from the previous night’s festivities. Again, no judgment. We were all that age once upon a time, and we’ve all certainly had fun in a barn after hours. Well, I haven’t. I’m not that type of guy. But I’m sure YOU have.

At some point, a photographer tried to take our picture. My dad and I quickly got into our best thug poses, but you should have seen my mom practically do a 50-yard dash to escape the camera’s lens. One minute she was there, the next minute she was hiding behind a bush, peeking out to see if the coast was clear. The photographer made the slightest movement in her direction, and before you knew it, my mother had darted behind a food cart. The only thing visible was her hand reaching around for a corncob.

Ok, so I know I have a flair for the dramatic, but this was even a bit much from my viewpoint, which is saying a lot. I mean, what was she trying to hide? Who was this woman who had allegedly raised me and forced me to call her “Mom” my whole life? Was she some secret government spy trying to save the world? I wasn’t sure, but I decided that I would make it my life’s mission to find out.

As soon as I got a moment to myself, I used my cellphone to do a quick Google search. You’d be surprised what I found. Apparently, my mom has quite the infamous past. Who knew that she had starred on Baywatch? And allegedly my mom has some “interesting” photos and videos circling the web. You’d be amazed at all the information available about her on the Googler. Matter of fact, you can see for yourself. Just search the name “Pamela Anderson.”

Once my mom came out of hiding, we did get to do some really cool things. When the animals were ready to take visitors, we saw the cutest baby ducks and piglets. We even bonded with several friendly horses and a few cows. Sadly, we transitioned right into lunch afterwards and had beef hotdogs, which made me think about that one pen where the cow was missing. I’m not implying anything here. Maybe the cow was on break. Either way, PETA members should have probably skipped this paragraph.

My parents and I also did something we hadn’t done in years: we got on a ride together. And by together, I mean we all tried to fit into the same car on this one ride that we used to love when I was a toddler back in the 1940s. Unfortunately, we’ve all grown a bit, so no matter how much we huffed, puffed, sucked in, or prayed, I was forced to ride alone while my parents stayed together. Somehow, I always get the short end of the stick.

In any case, I’d like to report that all is not lost. Next week my parents and I plan on going on another date. This time, we’re going to New York. My mom wants to go to the 9/11 Memorial & Museum. My dad wants to go to Central Park. Meanwhile, I just want to try to keep them both alive. Wish me luck. Oh, and since we all know I only have $5 to last me until February, I’ve set up a GoFundMe for this venture. Thanks for your support in advance.

Michael Rochelle
Humor blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1
Instagram: humor_mike_
Twitter: @mikeyllo

Life Decisions and Lunch Meat

Written By: Humor Mike - Aug• 19•18

Practicing my model-with-the-lips-parted look!

So, the other day I found myself standing in front of my refrigerator making life decisions. I’d spent the day before at a winery, and although I had managed to drink all the wine—like, I had some leftover snacks that looked a little sickly. Because I had been out in the sun for a few hours, the cheese looked a little runny. Oh, and the prosciutto and pepperoni didn’t look any better. Let’s just say, if it wasn’t dead before, it was certainly dead now.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen questionable lunch meat, so I’ll try to describe it for you. Imagine a piece of prosciutto that had seen better days. Now imagine that prosciutto had been hitchhiking on a busy interstate and was hit by a car where all four tires rolled over it. Let’s say the car backed up and rolled over the prosciutto again. Clearly dead, the lunch meat was subsequently buried without a coffin because it was poor, but then it was exhumed after 20 years for DNA testing because someone had filed a child support claim. Ok, maybe that’s a bit extreme. To make things a little more realistic, let’s just say the lunch meat was dug up after 5 years instead. There, is that better?

I stood there in front of the grayish meat and the runny cheese and tried to decide whether it was still safe to eat. I mean, who has money to waste? If I tossed it, that would be a good $2.99 down the drain. However, if I ate it and it didn’t agree with me, I could end up on the toilet for several days—again. Worse yet, I could end up in the hospital where I’d be forced to have my stomach pumped and to eat low-quality slop that looks just as bad as the dead prosciutto. The last time this happened, I lost 41 pounds in 3 days. Hmmm.

Wait a minute. Maybe I didn’t exactly think this through. If I lost 41 pounds again, I bet all the major modeling agencies would come calling and trying to put me on billboards and the sides of milk cartons. I could just see me taking calls from Wilhelmina Models, Ford, and Victoria Secret all offering me millions to be the face of their next campaign. I mean, I’m already confused with Prison Bae and Tyson Beckford at least 3 times a week, so a dead lunch meat diet could be my big break.

Well, after a thorough analysis that included several Excel spreadsheets and a few consultation calls, I opted against eating the grayish meat and the runny cheese. I wish I could say that I made the choice because it was simply the right thing to do, but instead, I thought about 50 years from now being interviewed by Barbara Walters and Oprah and having to tell them how I broke into the industry. I thought about all the doctors and nurses that would threaten to leak photos and footage of my hospital stay if I didn’t give them hush money. Absolutely not worth it to me. Nope.

Not long after I tossed the lunch meat, I began to feel depressed over the missed opportunity. Fortunately, I have a team of shrinks who make themselves available 24/7 to help me through these low moments. Well, that’s not exactly true. My main shrink was attending a funeral at the time and refused to step out into the hallway to take my call, even though I had asked nicely. I told her that I understood, but I would need her to call me immediately after the service to help with my depression and my new feelings of rejection.

Next, I called my backup shrink. Fortunately, he was more than willing to step out of his daughter’s college graduation ceremony to offer guidance. He quickly reminded me of our last session where he had taught me to be confident in my decisions even when they’re clearly the wrong ones. Whether I ate the prosciutto or not, the choice was mine and mine alone. He reminded me that no matter how bad my choices are, things will be alright just as long as I stick my chest out, profess my flawed decisions loudly, and stand behind my erroneous judgement no matter what. He then told me to turn on CNN for some excellent examples of this technique.

Of course, I then called my backup backup shrink for a second opinion. She agreed. Well, at least I think she’s a she. Although I’m sharing this with you, my dear blog readers, I will not make things uncomfortable by trying to address this with her—or him directly. In any case, it’s 2018. Be who you want to be. Live your life. And even though my backup backup shrink is my grandma, I don’t want to offend her by just assuming she’s a woman. You know what they say about people who assume: they have bad credit.

The downside of reaching out to my backup backup shrink, is that he or she always makes the session about her or him. Before I realized what was happening, my grandma (or grandpa…if you will) was reminding me that if I ate the dead lunch meat, he/she and I could both be on the cover of Vogue together. I reminded him or her that this call was supposed to be about me, but then my grandma/grandpa said he/she was waiting for his/her big break too. Clearly, he or she was applying the hit 2 birds with 12 stones logic.

The whole conversation made me wonder if I had made the right decision by adding grandma/grandpa to my team of shrinks. I mean, was he/she even a professional? Before our first session, grandma/grandpa did show me his/her mental health certification that he/she got one day while waiting for an oil change at Jiffy Lube. I was slightly alarmed by the name being scratched out and my grandma/grandpa’s name being written in with red crayon, but if you can’t trust your grandma/grandpa, who can you trust?

To make a long story less long, it looks like I’ll be losing the 41 pounds the hard way. I’m not exactly looking forward to not being able to eat or drink anything for the next four months or so, but that has to be a better choice than indulging in gray lunch meat and runny cheese. Besides, the extra time will give my grandma/grandpa extra time to come up with other ways to get his or her own Vogue cover. You don’t see Rihanna or Beyoncé sharing magazine covers with their grannies, and since I’m equally beautiful and successful, why should I?

Michael Rochelle
Humor blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1
Instagram: humor_mike_
Twitter: @mikeyllo

Beach Bodies and Pant Suits

Written By: Humor Mike - Jul• 22•18

Just Another Day

So, just like last year, I’ve been patiently waiting by the front door for the UPS guy to arrive with the 2018 beach body I ordered off Amazon. Of course, it’s late. Even with Prime’s 2-day shipping, it still has not been delivered. Whenever I try to track the package, the results read, “Don’t hold your breath.” I’m not sure what that means, but I’m definitely not holding my breath—all that excess air in my lungs would just make me weigh more. And ain’t nobody got time for that.

Since this is the fifth year in a row that my body upgrade has not arrived, I canceled my Amazon Prime membership immediately. Well, that’s not exactly true. First, I had to finish streaming the last season of Monk. But I promise you that as soon as the final credits rolled, I didn’t hesitate to cancel it. I mean, some things I just won’t stand for. I’m a paying customer after all. And I deserve better.

Because I had no other choice, I was forced to go to the beach in the body that I had. Instead of wearing my Snuggie like I did last year, I decided to be a little more reasonable this season. I wore a yellow pant suit to be less obvious. At first, I was going to wear a full-body romper, but my dad said male rompers were so last season, so I opted not to. Hey, sometimes I use good judgement. It’s rare, but sometimes I do.

Slightly ashamed of not meeting my beach body goals, the first thing I did when I arrived at the beach was order an Italian sausage, boardwalk fries, a large Coke, and a side of Skittles. I noticed some strange looks as I walked along the beach. Initially, I thought the looks were because people were jealous of my pant suit and wished they had thought to wear one too. It’s not their fault they aren’t as creative as I am.

After about two minutes on the beach, I began to rethink my whole outfit choice. Although my skin was completely covered and I didn’t have to use sunblock, I began to overheat. I started sweating in places that I’m sure it’s illegal to sweat from. Also, surprisingly, seagulls like the color yellow, so I was repeatedly being pecked in places where I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to be pecked.

Under the circumstances, I did what any normal person would do. I took it as an opportunity to revisit my former dream job as a lunch-hour stripper where I went by the name of Caramel Macchiato Thunder. I was never good enough to work the night shift at an actual strip club, so my coworkers got the privilege of viewing me rhythmically thrusting right over their cobb salads. I never made less than $5 in tips each lunch hour. Those were the days.

Anyway, although I was a little rusty, I slowly rose and planted my feet in the middle of my beach towel. I decided to make it my stage. To get folks ready for the show, I clapped twice to grab their attention. Once I had them eating out of the palm of my hand, I decided to start off by slowly swaying from side to side. I mean, you don’t want to give people too much too soon. After all, there were children present.

Once I started really feeling the music playing in my head, I started to slowly unbutton the blazer of my pant suit, then I quickly buttoned it back up to make the wait more dramatic. Besides, I have class. Remember, I used to strip for the likes of the CFO, IT Director, and consultants in the lunch room. If there is anything that stripping in front of your boss, it’s to be classy while you provocatively dance over a plate of steamed carrots.

Eventually, I remembered that the whole purpose of the dance was to get out of the pant suit. I was getting hotter by the second—and not in a good way. Once I finally worked my way out of the blazer, I whirled it over my head a few times for good measure. Remember, I didn’t have a routine planned, so all of this was improvised. However, as you well know, I am a professional, so I made it work.

Around about the fifth rotation of the blazer over my head, I released it midair. It landed on someone’s dad. He didn’t look pleased, which is understandable because he had been sleeping. He hadn’t seen me getting all warmed up, so he had no idea what was coming. For all he knew, my blazer landing on his head could have just as easily been a shark that washed up on the shore for a snack. In hindsight, that was probably pretty frightening for him.

To alleviate his concerns, I yelled, “Enjoy the show, sir. I’ll get it back when I’m done. Get your dollars ready.” At this point I decided to really get their heart rates moving by quickly working my way out of my button-down shirt. This was a bit difficult because the shirt had at least ten buttons or so. It was then that I remembered that most dancers just rip their shirts open and let the buttons fly where they may. I opted not to do this because I had just spent $4.99 on that shirt. I had at least a few more wears out of it before I’d want to ruin it. Nope. Not on my watch.

Ten minutes later, once I had carefully taken the shirt off, I began to wiggle my way out of my pants. To keep everyone engaged, I slung my head from side to side. Of course, I don’t have hair, but I considered this to be the audience participation portion where they could imagine me with whatever hair they wanted. If they chose to envision me with long Fabio hair flapping in the breeze, or even wild Beyoncé hair, who am I to judge? After all, I’m an entertainer.

Once my suit pants were around my ankles, I decided to simply end it there. I didn’t want to give the audience too much. As an entertainer, you always have to leave them wanting more. Besides, I wanted to be respectful of the fact that it was 8:44 in the morning and me dancing vigorously in my non-beach body may have been a lot to take in before breakfast.

Once I stepped out of my pants, I tried to lead the crowd into a slow clap like they do in the movies. Unfortunately, the audience didn’t exactly catch on. I think they were still mesmerized by what they had just witnessed. I mean, if I had been treated to the rhythmic stylings of Caramel Macchiato Thunder on the beach, I would have been in shock and awe too. It’s understandable.

At that point, I put out my tip hat and threw on my life jacket and matching floaties because you can never be too careful. I then ran in slow motion toward the water. Just like they do on Baywatch. You should have seen it. It was a beautiful sight to behold. But then I tripped and rolled the rest of the way down the shoreline. Guess you can’t win them all. As I caught my breath, I was thankful for having the foresight to wear my floaties. Thankful for being smart enough to use protection.

Michael Rochelle
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