I've been tweeting today, world- and it ain't pretty. Seriously, you never sausage bad puns. They're so awful they'd make you peppergroany in agony or kiel-basa over in pain. In casing you haven't noticed, I'm still at it. You'd think that with all that I have at steak - my health, a prime relationship, a burger-geoning career - I wouldn't risk alienating audiences by acting jerky.  How do I meat those rare audiences that'll hear my word play and cry "Well done"?!? Aye, there's the dry rub!

Seriously though, I have a problem.

Guys, I don't feel very funny today. So I'm going to try my hand at hardcore drama. This drama is so dramatic you'll be like, "Whoah, am I back in 8th grade drama club?"  You'll be all, "Did I accidentally overdose on the medication drama-mine?" You'll be completely as in, "Am I watching the semi-successful 90's sitcom Drama and Greg?" And all your friends will be like, "Shut UP, Terrence." If your name is Terrence. If your name isn't Terrence, they'll still tell you to "Shut UP, your name," because what you're doing is really annoying.

So here it is, my very own HawthoRNe-esque foray into drama.

THE LOVELY SANDWICH
A drama by Alexis Simpson.

My name was Sandwich, like the sandwich. Just Sandwich, cause I was a sandwich. I was 14 years old when I was murdered on December 6th, 1973. In newspaper photos of missing sandwiches from the seventies, most looked like me: ham and American cheese slices on white bread. This was before sandwiches of all breads and sizes started appearing on milk cartons. It was still back when sandwiches believed things like that didn't happen to other sandwiches.

My murderer lived in our sandwich neighborhood. My mother liked his mustard spread, and my father talked to him once about cutting his crust off. My murderer believed in old-fashioned sandwich things, like rye bread and being served with tea.  My father came home smiling, making jokes about how our neighbor might look nice on a silver plate surrounded by fine ladies, but he'd be the same mushy glob of predigested goo once those high-class women ate him.
 

Hey wait a minute, I'm just writing The Lovely Bones, with a sandwich! Awww, man! Ugh, man! damn it, I hate this book.

Jeff Foxworthy made a huge name for himself with his formulaic "You might be a redneck!" jokes in the late 80's-early-90's era known to historians as "The Hammerpants Period." The predictable one-liners gave comfort to millions of racist Americans, who even found Will Smith "a little too threatening." During the height of his popularity, Foxworthy signed over his signature style to thousands of struggling products hoping to capitalize on the relatable, down-homey popularity of the "You might be a (blank)!" set-up and punchline. One such product: The American Psychiatric Association's Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Presenting pages from the DSM-IV, Jeff Foxworthy Edition: Putting the FUN in Impaired Mental Functioning!!!

A page from the chapter on Mood Disorders:

If you eat cold beans out of the can because the thought of cooking them overwhelms you, you might have major depressive disorder!!

If you finally got out of bed after hours of working up to it, only to make it as far as the couch, you might have major depressive disorder!

If you look at the guitar that used to bring you joy and see only a wooden noose strung with broken dreams, you might have major depressive disorder!

If you think about taking a shower but conclude "What's the point? I'll only start smelling again once I die," you might have major depressive disorder!

If you feel guilty for missing a party, breaking up Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins, and causing the Holocaust, you might have major depressive disorder!

If voicemails from your loved ones sound like nothing but static, blaring foghorns, and the muffled inane chatter of ten thousand harpees wrought from Hell, you might have major depressive disorder!

If you're using this book as a stepstool to reach your hangin' beam, you might have major depressive disorder!

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Boy howdy, Jeff sure makes the crushing pain of daily existence sound fun, doesn't it?