After that little post-hiatus hiatus, we’re back. For serious.
Truth is, these two sketches have been perched on our WordPress dashboard for a couple of months now which is kinda like having a ‘For Sale’ sign in, say, a Buick Le Sabre but accidentally taping it to the window backwards – not terribly effective.
But here they are in all their slightly-rusty-and-probably-missing-their-hubcaps glory. Why dontcha take ’em for a test drive and listen to them rattle?
In line at a busy French bakery. There are about 10 people crowded in front of the counter. Every single one of them is clutching their little tear-off number in front of their faces. The number on the sign changes to 67. Every single person’s arm half-jolts up until they realize it’s not their turn. Every time a worker yells out a number they repeat this gesture as they are so anxious not to miss their turn. They do not look at one another. Ever.
Worker 1: Sixty –
Client one: 67! I have 67!
Worker 1: Sixty –
Client one (pointing at the sign): Seven. Sixty-seven. I have 67!
Worker 1: -six.
Client one: What? But – 67! But it says 67! I have 67!
Worker 1: I’m sorry, ma’am, we’re at number 66. (yelling to the crowd) 66? 66…
Client one: But it says 67. I’m 67. 67! 67!
Worker 1: Yes, ma’am. So sorry about that but I accidentally hit the button twice and bypassed 66. (to the crowd) 66? Anyone?
Client one: I don’t have time for this, young man. It says 67 and (waving her ticket in his face) and I have 67 right here. I would like those two p-
Worker 1: Ma’am, you’ll just have to be patient. We have to be fair to everyone. 66? Does anyone have 66?
Client one: I cannot believe this. Are you new here? You must be new here. I’ve been coming her for years and I have – well, I have never!
Worker 1 (visibly frustrated): 66? Does ANYONE have 66?
Client one (to client two): Can you believe this? I have been buying my (poor pronunciation) petits cheddars here for years and I have NEVER been treated like this. (To the worker) Look at that sign. Can’t you read? Have you even gone to school? 67! It’s number 67. You have to respect the number on the sign. (To client two) I mean really?
Client two does not look at her. Meanwhile another worker clocks in and changes the number on the sign.
Worker 2: 68? Does anyone have number 68?
Client two (holding up her ticket):68!
Worker 2: Perfect. What can I get you?
Client two: Hmm. Well, I will take 6 croissants and –
Client one (waving her ticket wildly): What? How dare you? What about 67? I had 67?
Worker 1 (innocently): I’m sorry, ma’am, we’re at 68 now. Just look up at the sign. We have to respect the sign…
Client one (to worker 2): This is outrageous…
Worker 2: I understand, ma’am, but we’re very busy here, as you can see. You really do have to listen for your number. If you’ll please take a new one we will be with you in no time. (to client two) I’m so sorry about that…
Client two: Not a problem. So 6 croissants and…hhhhmmm…you know what, I think I’ll take those last two (perfect pronunciation) petits cheddars. I’ve heard they are delicious.
Worker 2: Oh they are.
Worker 1: Absolutely delicious. Excellent choice.
Client one: What the fuck?! (to client two) You bitch.
Client two does not look at her – she just takes her cheese croissants and scurries out.
Client one (irate): This is outrageous. I’ve had just about enough of this. You know what you can do? You can just keep your damn petits cheddars.
Worker 1 (innocently): I’m sorry ma’am, we’re fresh out of cheese croissants.
Client one fumes. Worker 1 changes the number on the sign to 69
Worker 1 (looking right at Client one, again innocently): 69?
Client one: AAARRRGHHHH!
Client one throws her ticket on the ground ferociously but it flutters slowly to the ground. She leaves in a huff, slamming the door behind her (only it closes very, very slowly).
Worker 1 (to worker 2): Bingo.
Meanwhile two hands shot up in the crowd at 69.
Client 3 and client 4 (in unison): I have 69! No you have 96! No YOU have 96.
The two workers smile slyly at one another. The rest of the customers continue to clutch and stare expectantly at their little tickets.
Erm…sorry about that.
We could claim to have been struck with a bout of localized amnesia that targeted Napkin Writers in an evil plot to eliminate funny from the world one teeny-tiny blog at a time. Or maybe we were sucked into a worm hole? (Scratch that. I have been advised that we’ve already used that excuse.)
Perhaps it was pestilence? Pesticides? Pastagate?
Truth is, we’ve been really busy doing a whole whack of really important things. You know: eating, pooping and sleeping.
Except that ladies don’t poop.
Eating and sleeping.
Ok ok ok. You want the real story? It’s a doozy. One of the Napkin Writers went and had herself a baby. She could blame her lack of productivity on the sleep deprivation or the fact that her writin’ arms have been taken over by a tiny cute-thing or that the most literary conversation she has had in the last four months was about the author’s questionable choice to make bees go ‘buzz’ but dragonflies go ‘zuzz’ the riveting “Hello, Bugs”.
She could…but this Napkin Writer is not about to blame shit on her baby (so please don’t mommy-shame her). In fact, with the birth of the baby came a revelation: Mama Napkin Writer discovered the identity of her muse in true don’t-know-what-you-got-til-it’s-gone fashion. After nine months of pregnancy and nary a sketch in sight a quick comparison of her work flow to her menstrual flow revealed that her muse must have been cranky red-headed Aunt Flo!
That’s right, folks, her creative juices flow from – well – we’ll spare you the visual.
Not convinced by the correlation? A Lack of data, you say? Well, she also named her child (her one act of creation in these desperate times) Dot. Dot like period…
Yup.
Publicly the Napkin Writer is anxiously awaiting that time of the month as she is sure it will result in the Great Canadian Comedy Sketch but secretly she is planning to breastfeed forever – Muse be damned! – to keep the cramps at bay.
And where has the other Napkin Writer been through this sketch comedy drought? Surfing the crimson wave? Searching for her own muse? Eating, sleeping and not pooping? Doing some oversharing of her very own? All we know is, right now, she is reading this post amazed at how the other Napkin Writer manages to birth period-themed post after period-themed post. Then again, she knew what she was getting herself into when they began this great blog-o-venture.
Now, enough of all them talkin’ words, let’s get these sketches going again already! No napkin, no subject, no limitations.
And hopefully no leaks.
A couple walks into an unfurnished apartment filled with boxes.
Billy: I really think we made the right decision. Look at how high the ceilings are!
Jill: I know and all that light! Our last place was like a coffin compared to this!
They stop in front of a glassed cabinet.
Billy: That cabinet is kind of strange though. What did they keep in there?
Jill: I don’t know! It almost looks like a display for Emmy awards or something!
Billy: Oh well! Maybe we could use it as mini-bar.
Jill: Whatever. Want to start unpacking some of these boxes?
Billy: Sure. He takes his phone out. Here, let’s listen to some tunes. Happy Shiny People by REM comes on.
Jill: Hey, I haven’t heard this in a while!
Billy: Yeah, I didn’t even know I had this on here!
Three months later.
Jill is in the bedroom listening to Everybody Hurts by REM. Billy walks in and Jill lowers the volume of the music.
Billy: Are you ok, honey?
Jill: I’m fine. Why?
Billy: I don’t know, it’s such a sad song.
Jill: Yeah but it’s so great. I’ve really been rediscovering this band.
Billy: They were pretty good I guess. I’ve always liked that song… Losing my reflection?
Jill: Religion! It’s Losing my religion!
Billy: Right. Anyway, I’m heading out, you need anything?
Jill: No, I’m good, thanks.
Billy exits the apartment and runs into the neighbour in the hall.
Billy: Oh hey, Mark!
Mark: Hey Billy! I see, well more like I hear, that REM is back and louder than ever!
Billy: What do you mean “back” ?
Mark: A couple lived in your apartment and the guy was obsessed with REM! He’d listen to them non stop!
Billy: Really?
Mark: Totally! I know all their songs by heart now!
Billy: That’s weird. My girlfriend just got into them.
Mark: Oh well, take it easy bro!
Two months later.
Billy enters the apartment and Jill is waiting for him with a bag.
Billy: Woah Jill, what’s going on?
Jill: Of course you ask me that. I’ve just been talking about it for the last six weeks!
Billy: What?
Jill: The REM reunion tour in South America!
Billy: Yeah so what?
Jill: I’m going, Billy. I can’t miss it.
Billy: So you’re leaving to go to a concert?
Jill: I quit my job. I’m going to be following them for the next year and a half.
Billy: How are you going to live?
Jill: I’ll figure it out. All I need is the music.
Billy: You’ve gone crazy. You’re bat shit crazy now.
Jill: Whatever. You wouldn’t understand. Goodbye Billy.
Jill walks out. Billy just stand there in complete shock.
Billy: That’s insane. Holy shit. He walks over to the couch and lies down. He closes is eyes.
Six hours later.
Billy wakes up screaming. He was having a bad dream. The apartment is completely dark. He hears something coming from the glass cabinet. He slowly gets up from the couch and walks over to it. He puts his ear against the glass. He faintly hears Man on the Moon by REM. He walks away from it.
Billy: Okay. I’m just tired. I’m going to go to bed and everything will be normal in the morning.
Six hours later.
Billy is awoken by a loud banging. He stumbles over to the front door while rubbing his eyes and yawning. He opens the door and sees the landlord.
Jim: Good morning Billy! Sorry to wake you but I just to need to check your bathroom ceiling. The toilet upstairs is leaking.
Billy: No problem, come in.
They walk past the glass cabinet and stop.
Jim: Oh I see you’ve kept this thing.
Billy: Yeah, didn’t see why I’d throw it out. I use it as a mini-bar now.
Jim: You know the guy who built it, Sean, he used it to hold his REM memorabilia.
Billy: What?
Jim: He had a bunch of limited edition LPs and he kept them in there.
Billy: And that’s the guy who lived here before my ex and I moved in?
Jim: No, not that guy. It was like two tenants ago.
Billy: But Mark told me that the guy before us was an REM freak?
Jim: Yeah that was Nick. Huge REM fan. He keeps walking to get to the bathroom.
Billy: Hey Jim, could I ask you for something?
Jim: From the bathroom. I am all ears, Billy.
Billy: Could I get a list of the people who have lived here since Sean?
Jim: Still from the bathroom. Sure.
Ten hours later.
Billy is sitting at his desk in front of his computer. The apartment is all dark except for the screen, that casts blue light on Billy’s face. We see the screen – he’s on the REM fan page. He clicks on ‘Official REM fan club’ and a list of names appears next to some pictures. Beneath is written the person’s role in the fan club. Billy looks at list of names on a piece of paper on his desk. It is the list of previous tenants written by Jim. The list reads as follows:
Sean Temple
Joanne Cook and Robert Langley
Lyne Graham
Nicolas Pope
Billy looks at the computer screen. There is a picture of a man in his fifties who is listed as the fan club president, his name is Sean Temple. Billy scrolls down and sees a picture of woman, underneath is written: Joanne Cook, Treasurer. Billy gasps. He continues to scroll down and sees the smiling face of a blond – Lyne Graham, event organizer. Billy’s eyes open wide. He looks frightened. He quickly clicks on another page of the site, as if to find relief. He ends on the ‘Event photos’ page. He sees a bunch of people with REM t-shirt posing together. He scrolls down the page without much interest until he sees the face of someone he knows – Jill is staring back at him. He backs away from the computer in disbelief. A sound attracts his attention. Music can be heard, coming from the glass cabinet. He walks closer and closer to it until he can make out the lyrics: “It’s the end of the world as we know it…” He screams and buries his fist in the cabinet, shattering the glass. His hands collides with wall behind the cabinet as he has made a hole in the back of the flimsy piece of furniture. The wall gives in completely. Billy pushed the cabinet aside and investigates the hole in the wall. The music now seems to be getting louder. He puts his arm through the hole and feels an objet. He grasps it and pulls it out. He sees that is an REM vinyl. A sticker read ‘Limited edition. 1 of 25.’
Billy: Limited edition eh? I should probably sell it on Ebay! I’m sure one these freaks would pay big bucks for it. Maybe even Jill, now that she’s joined the… cult. He looks intently at the vinyl. Oh you know what? Fuck it! He break the vinyl in half. A loud scream is heard in the distance.
In the exact moment. Jill is at an REM concert in Panama. She shakes her head as if waking up and looks around, confused.
Dear readers,
We, the Napkin Writers, have an important announcement. Now, if you’re anything like us, a person doesn’t even get to the end of the word ‘announcement’ before you’ve yelled out “you’re pregnant!” regardless of age or gender. Well, in this instance, you would be right. You’ve read correctly, one of the Napkin Writers has a little bun in the oven that will soon become the source of inspiration for many future sketches. Hopefully one about weird baby Halloween costumes (ex. a radish, Yoda or (squueeee!!) a miniature Lieutenant Columbo).
Until then, the other Napkin Writer wanted to offer some valuable advice because she knows that all moms-to-be love receiving often contradictory tips without asking for them.
1. Child-proof your cabinets.
You never know when your toddler will crawl into your lower level kitchen cabinet left open by dad and accidentally close it behind them. And unlike Moby (one of the Napkin Writer’s beautiful Persian feline*) your baby will not meow in order for you to be able to triangulate the sound. They may just fall asleep in there. And trust us, you will not think of looking in the kitchen cabinets when you lose your baby.
2. Don’t let Jr. sleep in your bed.
You might roll over their tail during the night and wake up to a very angry cat. I mean baby.
3. Don’t give your infant table food.
They’ll get used to it and won’t want to go back to their own food. Next thing you know, you’ll have to lock your baby in the bathroom in order to eat your chicken in peace.
4. Be careful when your baby meets a new baby.
They might be aggressive and hiss at each other at first but once they’ve established who the dominant baby is, things will fall into place.
5. Sometimes your child will regurgitate.
It’s normal. Brushing your baby daily may help.
Disclaimer: this advice may be based on owning a cat and never having owned a baby.
As you may recall, the Napkin Writers routinely found their inspiration in the form of local brews. This of course will no longer be possible for the next few months as sparkling water and natural fruit juices will be the new nectars of choice. Perhaps our sketches will have a new healthy spin or start taking yoga.
With that said, this blog will not be going to the way of many a cool blog out there that suddenly, overnight, has transformed into a collection of daily anecdotes about little Stevie’s potty training including pictures that will make poor little Stevie’s future therapist a very rich lady. In fact, we vow, here and now, that our blog will never (NEVER!) become “Notes on a Nappy: what were we thinking”.
But there will probably be poop jokes.
Cheers.
The Napkin Writers
* Moby the beautiful Persian feline – an adequate replacement for the illegible napkin that would normal adorn this page, don’t you think?
Stay tuned for some hilarious sketches about advice…and very possibly more photos of Moby. Just because.
You thought we had forgotten about the anniversary sketches, didn’t you? Trouble in Napkin Writer paradise, you wondered? Well, fear not, kids, there are no arms akimbo in our story. No Barry White for one. No candles burning down next to that unopened bottle of red.
Nope. The Napkin Writers are still going strong (I guess your dreams of bunk beds in two separate houses is a bust. Double bunk beds! It would have been swell).
You see, the truth is, we didn’t forget, we were just making these sketches extra special. With ornaments and confetti and maybe even a semi-colon or two.
So here they are. Anniversary sketches. We didn’t have time to wrap them though. Maybe next year.
Man and woman are walking together.
Sue: That meal was delicious. Exactly what I had in mind.
Todd: I knew that’s just what the doctor ordered: a romantic restaurant, candlelight, good food.
Sue: Ten out of ten! Well, nine out of ten, at least. I’m still waiting on dessert, you know. I thought we were stopping for ice cream?
Todd: I had something else in mind.
They walk up the steps to their home.
Sue: I’m glad it is just the two of us here tonight. We needed some alone time with no TV. Or HBO. Or Netflix. Or YouTube clips.
Todd (concerned): No YouTube clips?
Sue: Just you and me, for once.
Todd: But I cued up something really special. Something that makes me smile and think of you.
Sue: Really?
Todd: Really. You’ll love it!
Computer is on when they open the door. They pause for a moment.
Sue: Um, that’s porn, honey.
Todd: Just give it a sec.
She watches for a moment.
Sue: Wait? Is that us?!
Todd (beaming): Yep! That’s us. The first time we had sex. Five years ago to the day.
Sue (in a crescendo of anger): You filmed us?
Todd (watching intently): It’s sweet. Look how far we’ve come.
Sue: You filmed us?! Having sex?!
Todd: Of course. It was a moment I wanted to cherish.
Sue (through her teeth): Tell me that you didn’t post this online.
Todd: Sure I did. On a private channel, of course.
Sue: How could you do that?
Todd: Friends and family only, Hun. Just the people we trust.
Sue twitches at the word ‘trust’.
Todd (genuinely shocked): I thought you would think it was really romantic.
Sue: I think it’s despicable.
Todd: A little rough around the edges, maybe. But I wouldn’t go as far as to say that. I mean, look how cute you look when you do that …Sue? Sue?
Door slams. Sue is gone. A voice from the darkness.
Voice: I told you she wouldn’t get it, dude. You should have just gotten the ring.
Todd: I guess. I just thought this was so much more special.
Voice: The ring, dude, tried, tested and true. You should just be happy she didn’t notice that you invited us over for the anniversary party.
Lights up. A group of people holding champagne glasses are crowded in the room. Awkward sex sounds persist.
Woman in the crowd: Happy anniversary?
Sound of a champagne cork popping. More awkward sex sounds.
Medium shot of two men talking. There is a still of dogs playing poker behind them.
Sam: Good party last night?
Tommy: Really good party. I couldn’t leave; I would never have forgiven myself. So I said to myself “Fuck it, Self, sick days are my right. Getting hammered on a Tuesday is my right.” Besides, I was on my fourth pint and could already smell at least one Irish car bomb in my future.
Sam: Ugh.
Tommy: You said it. There is no way I was going to go to work after that. So I found a nice quiet little corner in the bar –
Sam: The bathroom?
Tommy: Exactly. And I took a shot of whisky just before calling, and put on my best ‘I’m sick and I have to stay home’ voice and left what I believe was a very convincing message. And then I hung up and took a victory shot.
Sam: Well, that’s not so bad.
Tommy: Yeah, but then I realized that I hadn’t mentioned which department I work in.
Sam: Oh man.
Tommy: So I called back again. Mustered up another sick voice (which I’m sure was more of a tummy-ache voice than the sore-throat I had gone for previously).
Sam: And?
Tommy: This time I forgot to mention my name.
Sam (impressed): Good party.
Tommy (nodding in agreement): Really good party.
Sam: So, what? You called back again?
Tommy: You know it.
Sam: Classy.
Tommy: It took a few tries, a few more shots, a few slurred words and panicky hang ups but I finally left a coherent message with my name and department. I even tried to pause strategically and use some dude’s puking in a way that it made it sound like it was me.
Sam: Ambitious.
Tommy: Yep, got off to a rocky start but I nailed it in the end.
Sound of a water cooler. Shot pans out to show they are in the office.
Tommy: Except then I blacked out, forgot I called in sick and came in to work today anyway.
Sam: Ouch.
Tommy: Totally. On the plus side, I got a promotion. The big boss said he had received an inordinate number of sick calls and was so impressed that, when I woke up feeling a little bit better, I came in to work anyway despite calling in sick. ‘That’s dedication, son,’ he said, “I wish more young men could behave like you.” I did everything I could to smile and not puke on his desk.
Sam: Good party.
Tommy: Really good party.
Pause.
Tommy: Now, get back to work. We’re not paying you to spend your day gossiping by the water cooler.
Tommy chugs the water in is dixie cup, spikes it into the trash bin, straightens his tie and saunters off to his office nearly knocking over the man painting THE BOSS on his door with an over-zealous back slap. Sam looks bewildered.
Sam: Why don’t I ever get invited to parties like that?
The upside of this here Napkin Writing gig is that all of our very serious writing meetings take place at the pub. The downside of this here Napkin Writing gig is calling in sick … from the pub.
It’s the hardest sick call one ever has to make. The Napkin Writers are so upset about this sobering turn of events that they aren’t even sure if the snot dripping from their noses is due to sadness or sickness. Either way they’re pretty sure that they deserve a Popsicle.
But, fear not! In true Napkin Writer fashion, they have selflessly vowed to put in some serious overtime next week. ‘We shall extend the 5 à 7 into the wee hours of the night,’ they proclaimed only slightly stifled by the great wall of phlegm, ‘FOR THE SAKE OF THE BLOG.”
And so, live from our nose-blowing paraphernalia, we bring you this week’s edition of Notes on a Napkin: The Tissue Issue.
Toilet paper counts.
Bed sheets fit for a queen.
Check in next week and see what oozed out of our congested minds and onto the page. Bring your own hand sanitizer.
Girls don’t have to dress like boys to be jerks. Sometimes they can do it all on their own – they just get paid a little less and are more likely to hit their heads on invisible ceilings.
Case in point: one Napkin Writer decreed that, in this week*’s sketches, the tables be turned on the customary ovary tax at the mechanic’s and that this be executed with absolutely no mention of menstrual blood. The other Napkin Writer titled her piece ‘Not PMS’.
Sneaky, Number Two, very sneaky.
Notes on a Napkin: What were we thinking? 