Here is an example of an attempt at humor, originally written the the Fall of either 2002 or 2003. The story is only slightly embellished… I am publishing it here in it’s original, unedited, rough-draft text. (Which is a hard thing to do as I read it today and find various lines and phrases I would alter.) Honest feedback is appreciated. Enjoy!
I awoke to a hollow thud coming from the porch below. 2:47 A.M. Lazily tossing my half of the bedspread over my wife, I rose to observe what the usually circumspect but still-sleeping dog had utterly failed to take notice of. Splitting the blinds, I caught an exceptionally long glimpse of a rotund figure attempting to sprint across the street to the cover of the trees. Just at the other side, the juvenile delinquent appeared to trip on the crotch of his own trousers. I was not aware they made them quite that large. Recovering awkwardly, he slipped into the shadows.
Directly below me, at the foot of my porch, I observed my largest pumpkin shattered on the sidewalk. This explained the thud, and the panting struggle of the portly culprit.
I thought to call the police, but didn’t care to take the chance of having to identify the juvenile by the pasty crevice of his hindquarters. Besides, it occurred to me as I crawled back into bed that the two dollars in damages would hardly merit a lawsuit against the devious criminal. I had also the boy’s psychological sensibilities to consider. While clearly far from starving, perhaps he was an artist, a Picasso pumpkin carver come to carve my pumpkin. Perhaps more Jackson Pollack’s method. I could see it, though; a centerpiece at the Bergstrom-Maehler glass museum entitled “Squid,” by Colin Pzrblyzkowski.
Worse yet, perhaps he’d had a troubled childhood. Had he indeed been provided a limited diet of Poptarts, Ho-Ho’s, and McNuggets, he may have drawn the envy of his thinner peers who then refused to share the use of their X-Box. Being deprived of the apparent need for virtual destruction enjoyed by his schoolmates, Colin may have needed an outlet and this may have been it. Further yet, he probably had some difficulty finding an oversized waistline that fitted properly in the double-waist that is the fashion. Lowering his self-esteem, he may have been suffering some form of self-abdication which prompted him to rid his surroundings of likenesses to himself, my pumpkin being the perfect candidate.
In any case, it was not worth fretting over. As I struggled to find a comfortable position back under the bedspread, Esme awoke.
“What’re you doing awake?” She asked sluggishly.
“I was just contemplating the art of smashing pumpkins,” I replied with a yawn.
“They stink,” she muttered with her eyes closed, and rolled back over to sleep.