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Summer of Funny

Every season has a mood. Fall is for reflection, winter is somber and serious, and spring is the joy of rebirth. Summer has always belonged to the jesters. It's the season of humour writers like Stephen Leacock and P.J.

Every season has a mood. Fall is for reflection, winter is somber and serious, and spring is the joy of rebirth. Summer has always belonged to the jesters. It's the season of humour writers like Stephen Leacock and P.J. O'Rourke, of ice cream stains on khaki shorts, of bellyflops into just swimmable lakes, of people going "ooh, ow, ah," while waddling across hot beaches with soft feet, weighted down with folding chairs, beach bags and coolers. The heat makes us dizzy, the cold beer and deck chairs make our problems seem less serious.

I'm pleased to say that Pique received a lot of great submissions to our first Summer of Funny humour contest this year, almost 20 submissions. Judging was extremely difficult, as nothing is more subjective than comedy. Some people are partial to scatology, a branch of humour that is focused on the things we excrete like sulfurous gas and poo. Others defer to irony, which is ironically the most difficult type of humour to define because it tends to disappear the moment you point it out.

Humour is also hard to judge impartially because we tend to the familiar, the "that's so true, white people can't dance," effect that every stand-up comedian in the world tries to create. We've all flown on planes and had airline peanuts, we've all made observations about the opposite sex.

Some entries you have to live in Whistler to truly appreciate, while for others you needed to have children, pets or power tools. We couldn't discount those entries, even if the humour was less than universal, because that wouldn't be fair. Funny was the sole the criteria for this contest, and we know funny. We think...

There were jokes, a poem, slices of life, forays into frailty and darkness, and bittersweet recollections that add up to something funny as the years pass. I thank you for all of your submissions, embedded in PDFs, obscure word processing formats (who uses Rich Text Format anymore?), and email bodies. We even got a submission on paper, sent by actual mail, which is a rarity in any modern office.

Without further ado, here is our list of prize winners, in no particular order. All of our submissions will be posted online so you can judge for yourself, but these are the entries we enjoyed the most.

As for prizing, the editorial board - Pique writers could not agree on any kind of ranking for our finalists and the consensus was to share the $400 out among the top eight entries.

Thanks for your submissions!


We were moving at last, leaving Vancouver Island and starting afresh on the mainland.

Loaded into the Austin station wagon were my three children under the age of five, my patient and versatile husband, essentials (and more), the black and white beloved spaniel named Whiskey and the pure white devoted cat named Soda. Onto the ferry we drove with all this clutter. First one child wanted out, then of course the next. Luckily the last was in a car bed. Then out escaped Whiskey, followed closely by Soda. I guess they thought that this was their new home! My husband corralled the children and I was left to catch the animals.

As I tore through lines of frantically calling "Whiskey, Soda," a kind gentleman stopped me in my search. "I have some vodka, would that do?" I stared in amazement. Why would I need vodka when all I wanted most were my dog and cat? I shook my head smiling benignly and continued my frantic search, eventually corralling both animals.

When we finally arrived at the rented house in Brackendale, which was to be our home until we were able to build our own house in Garibaldi Highlands, our neighbour, keenly eyeing this menagerie falling out of the overloaded car, shouted across her dahlias, "Don't let any of that lot near my garden." A welcoming gesture I'm sure. After all it's best to lay down the rules right away!

After a year our house was built at the end of a track called Ayr Drive, which we shared with much wildlife. That street now of course is paved and has expanded due north, and further development due east has progressed as far as Quest University. Forty-six years have passed and those years could not have been happier.

Whiskey, Soda and my ever-loving husband have long since passed on from this world. My children, though scattered, still call Garibaldi Highlands their home and Rum and Tonic have replaced my Whiskey and Soda. No-one can replace my versatile husband.

10 Ways You Know Your Children are Growing Up In Whistler

By Sara Leach

1) Outside your front door is a snow fort complete with turret, two slides and three tunnels, all built using your avalanche shovel.

2) Instead of playing house or cops and robbers, your children play "ski patrol rescue," dropping avalanche bombs, loading hurt people on to imaginary toboggans, and hauling them back to the top of the snow fort for hot chocolate and emergency care.

3) You worry your son is getting behind when he hasn't taken off his training wheels by age four.

4) Your two-year-old daughters' favourite outing is to play in the skateboard park.

5) You take your children to go see trials riding in the village and catch yourself saying "in a few years you could jump off logs higher than your head and land on one wheel too."

6) One of your daughter's first ten words is "gondola."

7) Your parking lot resembles a flo ride park.

8) Your children choose sushi over McDonalds any day of the week.

9) You catch your two-year-old just seconds before she attempts to ride her tricycle down the stairs. You explain that she has to learn to ride a two wheeler like the four year olds before she can try to emulate them.

10) Your son and his friend trick out the snow slide you built with gap jumps and whoop-de-doos. Before you are allowed to slide on it they require that you sign a waiver.

Size Matters

By Van Powell

Any good woman will tell her man that size doesn't matter. (And he's better off if he doesn't know what she tells her girlfriends.) Yet despite thousands, millions of years of women uttering these feeble reassurances (Eve was the first), most men remain obsessed about the size of things.

Certain things in particular. Like their trucks.

Men love big trucks. And if it happens to be one of those rattling diesel-powered monsters loud enough to wake all the neighbours when you start it at six in the morning then leave it idling for twenty minutes while you go back in the house to look for your workboots, well, all the better.

Now, occasionally you will see women driving these beasts. But the link

to hefty levels of testosterone seems pretty clear. Certainly in the minds

of advertisers anyway. 

Turn on the TV to any male sporting event - hockey, football, darts, it doesn't matter - and start counting the commercials for big trucks. You'll see big trucks rocking and rolling through fields of boulders. Big trucks flying over the crests of hills. Big trucks sliding around sharp corners in slow motion - wheels spinning, dust flying. You'll see more big trucks than you could shake a hammer at. (A big hammer, or course.)

In fact, the only two things you'll see advertised more frequently than big trucks during these manly sporting events, are beer and Viagra. Both of which also have something to do with size. Or at least the perception of it.

Beer, for example. It may not be the best thing to combine with driving a big truck, but many men find that if they drink enough beer, it makes them feel bigger. Which can be an unfortunate thing if you happen to be a small man full of beer looking for a fight in a bar full of big men full of beer. 

And Viagra - it also has the ability to make things bigger. Temporarily at least. And I'm convinced that if a woman had invented Viagra, it would enhance male performance in bed rather than just 'presentation'. 

Still - big trucks, big egos from beer, big ... erections - they all fit.

Yet, I can't help wondering - all those Viagra commercials on at the same time as the ones for big trucks and beer... Does that mean a lot of beer-drinkin', big-truck-driving men out there are having trouble?

Oh, gotta go - game's coming on and I left the beer in the truck.

(Editors' Note: This is one of two entries by Van Powell. The other "So Where's My Chocolate Sauce" is online, and a must for any do-it-yourselfer with more tools than patience.)

Please don't be a stump!

By Jan Greenwood

(Ed's Note: This entry got extra points for successfully rhyming weight with wait.)

The snow, it hits me in the face,

As I head into the trees.

With every turn, it just gets deeper

It's up beyond my knees.

The tracks from all who've gone before

Are invisible to the eye.

All moguls, rocks, and little creeks

Give no hint to where they lie.

The only blemish on the slope ahead

Is a shadow that suggests a bump.

So little mound of snow before me,

Please . . . don't be a stump.

The champagne powder like grainy smoke,

Explodes with every turn.

My knees are tight; my tips are up,

And my thighs begin to burn.

My grin is wide; my spirits high.

I want the run to last.

The drifts of snow are soft on top

And swirl as I go passed.

I've kept my speed and feel the breeze

As I head toward the hump.

So little mound of snow before me,

Please . . . don't be a stump.

My knees still bend the way I want,

My hips can support my weight.

The femur's strong with tendons attached,

An injury sure can wait.

The shoulders rotate through a normal range

The wrists cause no real pain

A tumble at this point in time,

Would fail to be a gain.

With all my muscles still intact,

I'm happy I can jump.

So little mound of snow before me,

Please . . . don't be a stump.

You may just be a special spot,

Where flakes have picked to gather.

And after I have skied your crown,

My worries may not matter.

But if you aren't the snow of dreams

And hide a hard surprise,

My luster for this pristine run

Will vanish from my eyes.

A fall with pain or ridicule

Will cause my pride to slump

So little mound of snow before me,

Please . . . don't be a stump!.

A letter of explanation

By Colin Wood

Dear Great Aunt Agatha,

A quick note to welcome you back to Vancouver - I hope you had a good summer in Whistler staying at your cousin Minnie's place - I'll be well on my way to teach English in Japan when you read this. Some minor issues - a severe thunderstorm crashed a tree into the front of your car - it's now at Burke's garage on 10 th . It's possibly a write-off. Remember - it's only a car, you weren't in it at the time and there are plenty of bargains around today. It's a buyers market especially if you go for the 'green' option. Seniors get good rates on the transit system and you are now only within staggering distance of the new Canada Line.

I have to tell you that some friends came over for a literary evening recently and when discussion of Margaret Atwood's Playback got slightly out of hand, somehow the old Chinese vase on the stand suddenly hit the floor and smashed. Unfortunately it started when Binker leapt on Linda's leg for no good reason at all, which caused her to jump up suddenly and spill the bottle of Merlot - such a waste of an excellent vintage. Anyhow, it doesn't really notice on your Axminster carpet.

Binker then took off at light speed and out the cat flap - probably in high dudgeon. It might  have been because Eric, Linda's boyfriend, in a fit of pique heaved a copy of A Fair Country at him in retaliation. Fortunately it missed, but its slipstream probably unbalanced the vase - almost like a glancing blow. Then the tome smacked into the window, but luckily didn't go through.

I have used some of the excellent clear sticky tape borrowed from the UBC Library to hold the cracks in the pane together. The rain won't penetrate for months or likely even years.  I told Eric to take an anger management course - they are all the rage these days - ha!

At least he will recognize that he has a phobia about cats.

Apart from these minor wrinkles, everything went really smoothly. Oh yes, I did notice your nice neighbour Mr. Smith digging a large hole in his garden late at night last week. Is there a Mrs. Smith?

Yours affectionately,


P.S. - I can recommend several reliable house sitters

P.P.S. - Binker is still at large.

Plain Carelessness

By Katherine Fawcett

Mum. I lost my virginity. - Oh heavens above. It's always something. - I know. Sorry.  - That's just plain carelessness. You'd lose your head if it wasn't screwed on. - Jeez. I said sorry. - It's kind of late for sorry, isn't it? - What do you want me to do about it now? - Well, when did you have it last? -Friday. After track practice. - Then you're going to have to retrace your steps. Did you leave it in your locker? - No. But I found that library book I'd been looking for. - Well, that's one good thing. Did you take it back? - What? - The book. Did you take the book back to the library? - Not yet. - You should do that. - I will. - How about at Amber's party. Did you have it there? -What? - Your virginity, dear. - Oh. I think so. - Do we need to call that Trevor? Was he at the party? - Yeah. Trevor was there. But there were lots of boys there. I don't want to for sure blame Trevor. - I'm not BLAMING Trevor. It's YOUR virginity. It's YOUR responsibility to keep track of it. - I know. - Well?  - Well what? - Well, were you careful? - What do you mean careful? - Did you use protection? - Yes. Of course I used protection. Still. Doesn't make it any easier to find. - Don't get snarky with me young lady. - I'm not getting snarky! - It's your tone of voice. - It's the way I talk. I can't help my tone... Maybe I just misplaced it. - I highly doubt it. In any case, you know what we're going to have to do. - What? - Make some calls. Check the lost and found. Put a note up on the bulletin board. - Do you think that'll work? - It's worth a try. - Thanks, Mum. - Just try to be more careful with your things from now on, will you?

Surprise Party

By Tamsin Miller

It was the summer we learned to drink through our noses.

I can't remember the name of the girl whose party it was - which is odd, considering the outcome. We were dropped off by grateful parents thanking god for an afternoon with us out of their hair. The boys were togged up in shorts, shirts and ties; the girls twirled in their dresses of white floaty stuff with holes or dots; and we all had shoes useless for running. The boys tripped over laces and the girls' strappy pumps had soles so smooth it was like running on ice. We spent as much time on our faces as our feet.

It was a warm British afternoon and we were loose in the garden. We ran between the herbaceous borders like lab monkeys released to the wild - the boys undoing sashes and shoving, the girls slipping and squealing. We played Sardines inside and out. Stuck it to the donkey. We had races with balloon popping, eggs and spoons, sacks, stilts, flower pots, three legs and wheel barrowing - the lot. In between these entertainments, we were handed giant glasses of lemonade with the signature of a birthday party, straws.

Unbeknownst to our parents, we taught ourselves to inhale our drinks. It was a pretty simple process - one straw per nostril, up to the top and... breathe in. Disgusting? Absolutely. It also hurt, but no one would admit to that. It would have been social suicide, complete ignominy! Ah, but the triumph of mastering the art. The thrill of the gush down the back of the throat. Simply splendid!

After all this rushing about swishing the liquid in our stomachs, we were herded inside for tea. The table positively creaked with its burden - a thorough sampling of The Unhealthy Aisles at Sainsbury's. We wiggled into our seats and donned our cone-shaped hats, their elastic biting into our chins. Flaccid balloons swung from the chandelier.

It was a luxurious spread. There was an individual, fluted, jelly bowl and a packet of crisps set at every place. The wobbling jewel of gelatine was topped with cream and, yes indeed, a cherry. The crisps had their salt contained in a tiny twist of blue paper which you could either sprinkle in your packet & shake, or on the back of your hand and lick. The boys chucked it all over the girls' jellies with one-sided whoops of hilarity.

Platters were spread with paper doilies and topped by marmite sandwiches (crusts removed), and bridge rolls with egg salad or fish paste. We were, indeed, animals. We would eat anything. Even fish paste. Heated chaffing dishes bubbled with those tinned mini frankfurter things in a ketchup sauce. There were half grapefruits bristling with toothpick kebabs of cheese, white cocktail onions and tiny green gherkins. And, of course, plates and plates of biscuits. My favorites were shellacked with pastel icing and stencilled with misshapen white images of animals and toys. They were so hard you had to bite them with your back molars. Manners were abandoned in the fight for Custard Creams, Jaffa Cakes, Bourbon Biscuits and the pink and yellow chequerboards of Battenburg Cake. It was feeding time at the zoo. Chocolate and bits of mayonnaise-y egg joined the grass stains on our clothes.

The culprit must have been the fizzy orangeade. It was such a novelty. We had never worked our nose trick with bubbles before. It felt ... remarkable ... and demanded that we outdo one another in quantity consumed. Our little hostess seemed to feel duty bound to lead the pack.

At last, however, came the grand finale. Accompanied by honking and yells, the great cake moment arrived. Enormous, round and covered in swirls and rosettes of icing resembling Plaster of Paris, the mother bore it in, ceremoniously high. The little girl, by this time sporting a hectic flush and orange nostrils, stood on her chair while we all chortled "Happy Birthday" and the cake was placed - stripy coloured candles all aflame - before the little darling.

"Make a wish," we shouted.

She leaned forward to complete her part in the proceedings. She put a hand on either side of the cake, inhaled a massive breath, but instead of blowing them out, she smothered the eight tiny flames. The sum total of the afternoon had been simply too much. She threw up. On the cake. It was spectacular. Our song died in our open mouths.

Her mother, however, was made of stern stuff. She reacted instantly. She grabbed her creation and disappeared through the swinging kitchen door. We took advantage of the moment for another quick inhalation. Surprisingly quickly, she sailed back in, smile in place, cake in hand, and said as she replaced it in front of her pale, but apparently still game, daughter, "Isn't it lucky? I had another in the kitchen!'"

The cake was cut and eaten with gusto. We were then banished outside to run, jump and hang from the trees some more before our parents collected us. Once home, I imagine, we all puked ourselves, before falling into bed in a state of glorious exhaustion.

I discovered the truth the next day, when I heard the girl's mother telling mine over a glass of much needed sherry, "My dear! Thank god for Royal Icing. Hard as a rock. I dumped the cake in the sink and ran it under the tap. They never noticed, they were so busy trying to pull those wretched straws out of their noses!"

I have never forgotten that party. It was, indeed, the stuff of legend.

Baggy Orange Shorts

By Andrea Grassi

Today my roommate brings home a pair of baggy orange shorts. He found them lying in pigeon shit on a curb outside of Zelda's Diner. Dusty, brown, vegan. My roommate is not a vegan. He says it is a good place to pick-up women because there is never the awful chance she will smell of fried veal during sex. He obliged to take the shorts home, as they were still wearing a price tag and "brand-fucking-new!"

At this moment, my roommate is shoving the shorts farther and farther up my nose. My trajectory allows for the notice of the short's unmarred surface, even after lying on a curb covered in pigeon shit. "You're holding your pants up with a string" he says. This is true. I found a camo-colored shoestring lying on my floor and decided to test drive it on my fat jeans after I had lost a lot of weight on the South Beach Diet. I am now in phase two. Foods to avoid on South Beach: Cheese! and Bread!

"Why don't you wear them? You found them," I say. 

"Because they're a present. I can't wear my own present."

"Junk sentiment man."

"You can't refuse a present!"

"Do you eat the fruitcake at Christmas?"

"The world can never have enough baggy, orange anything." 

The hot pink Laughing Buddha bobble-head shakes on top of our fridge as my roommate heaves open the door, takes out a Ginzing, snaps the can, and shotguns it.

"Don't be so ungrateful. They are spanking fresh!" he says wiping his mouth. He rips out a long burp. "Fuck man, look at yourself. You need a little colour in your wardrobe. All blue and" - he pauses to release a shorter burp and then continues to tell me I dress like a bruise. The Buddha is my roommate's. After his placement for pre-med came in, he gave up speaking for four months, holed himself up in some centre for western enlightenment in Thailand, and from this, apparently gaining some sort of vision unto himself (his parents are well off). Nowadays, he is a little too giving and too insightful. I wonder if you can un-zen a zenner.

"These are, I'm pretty sure," he continues, "the exact color of the orange shorts George Foreman wore when he defeated Morer in the champion match in '94!" He leans forward and shoves the shorts across the breakfast bar. They land in front of me. I breathe in slowly.

"That reminds me. Next time you use the grill, clean out the drip tray ok," I say. "I don't like having to clean day old fat out of the shell from your chicken breast." My roommate hangs them in my closet and says, "Just let go and allow the orange shorts to come into your life."

I tried nutmeg this weekend.  I also set the couch on fire. The two occurrences, however, are unrelated.

Re: Nutmeg.

My roommate said he tried it once and he had hallucinations lasting seven hours. Now he says that hallucinations are a terrible escape from his own reality, so he has sworn off the stuff, but encourages me to find my own reality by its default. Or some shit like that. Period: I don't refuse drugs bought at grocery store for $3.99 a tin. Before going to a natural path retreat this weekend, he left Club House nutmeg for me on the breakfast bar. Tagged with an orange post-it note, a licorice black sharpie scrawled: "Take spoonful, chase with water."

I shake amber crumbs out of the container onto a steel spoon. Some of the powder sprinkles on the counter. Clumping has begun as this garnish has probably been in our cupboard since we moved in. Hunching down towards the spoon, I sniff it. It's strong. The kind of spice that is woodsy without being sweet. I crack my mouth open - slot-like - and allow just enough space for the spoon to pass.  The dry spice coats my tongue, thick and lumpy - like thick egg and breadcrumbs clumping your fingers after breading veal. My hand lets go of the teaspoon, it falls wherever, and I shoot back a half glass of tap water to remove the nutmeg that has chalked my mouth like sawdust. I end the last gulp with a squint and shake, the kind after downing cough syrup, and walk over to the couch. I sit on that couch staring at my grandmother's steam trunk (now our coffee table). Nothing.

I muse the nutmeg was probably stale, all the goodies sucked out by the ozone after years in a dank cupboard. I picture the big tin standing in front of me, with straw arms topped with white gloves (like the Kool-Aid man) laughing and flipping me the bird. The Club House fuck points and tells me it serves me right for all those years of neglect. What do you even add nutmeg to anyhow? Then orange shorts pop out of the trunk and I realize I'm in the Club House. Its stumpy leg bits march like a soldier's out towards me on the couch. This freaks me out, like that scene in Mary Poppins when the kids are cleaning up the room with their fingersnaps and sing-songs. (No wonder kids hate to cleaning their rooms. Who wants to do it the old way when you've been exposed to that?)

I run to my closet to see if the shorts hang where my roommate had left them. Hung. Two hours later I puke. It never occurs to me to check nutmeg's calories, but I feel okay because I've purged.  

Dieter's Journal (Phase Three)

Dear Baggy Orange,

You just hang there. And I hate how you hang - a pair of orange atrocities. My number nine red jersey hangs beside. Rubbing up against. My roommate tells me orange is the colour of enlightenment and is why the Buddhist monks wear orange robes. Orange is also the colour of pylons, crossing guard vests, and construction signs. Pad Thai is like really fattening, but I figure I could shave my head, stop talking, and recluse in Zen. 



They sag at the crotch. They have fade-knees creating a displeasing Creamsicle contrast to the pylon orange of the surrounding short. "Kimmel Beach" runs sideways up the thigh in navy blue chunk capitals.  I can see how this might have accentuated my roommate's walrus thighs. They have a lot of pockets with zippers, which I'm sure is a plus if you carry a lot of things in your pockets.  But I don't like to because it just adds more bulk around my hips and thighs.  The back pocket is ideal for a wallet. But I don't have a wallet.

Re: Flaming Couch.

The flame from my vanilla ice scented candle trailed across the carpet and disappeared under our yellowing, green couch - only to reappear through the spaces between the cushions. I had all the lights shut off in the apartment and I was dancing to Paul Simon's "Rhythm of Saints" in my underwear. I sometimes do this when I know my roommate will be out for awhile. It relaxes me. Like watching a movie coiled in a blanket. But I must have kicked it. And my carpet must have been woven out of fuse wire. I noticed the flames after hearing a rush, like the hiss of a waterfall in the next room. I was lying on the kitchen counter, exhausted from the dancing, on the cool of the granite. I jumped down, my feet sinking into green shag, and turned the corner into the living room.  My face felt like it was going to peel off and crumble to the ground. My skin, dancing and bubbling on my bones; a heat I never felt. Our yellowing-green couch, now a thorny dragon's back in red and deep pink weaving up and down in the air.

I grabbed the fire extinguisher and went to work. A snowy scene, the brown couch was peppered with char and white from the remedy. Nothing else really got affected except for the carpet and ceiling.  Then my roommate walked in actually saying, "Namaste bitches" before realizing our charred loveseat, and the black hole in the ceiling - a vortex seemingly singed by a giant cigarette tip. Looking at me, then the couch, the disgrace is attributed to the nutmeg. I let him. He is relatively calmed by the damage (like I said, his parents are well off).

"Who knows where they've been. What if the previous orange short wearer had crabs? They could have worn them with the tag intact."  I shove the orange garment back towards my roommate.

"Kimmel beach is in Maine I think. Haven't you always wanted to go there?"

"No. Why would I want to go to Maine? Kimmel Beach sounds like a place where they breed veal."


I say nothing. Veal is baby cow meat, so you don't breed baby cow meat, just baby cows. Or rather, breed cows to have baby cows. Veal also really has nothing to do with my Jewish faith, as it isn't technically kosher - although its status has been a subject of controversy.

Dieter's Journal (phase four):

Dear lunch,

A recipe in six short lines. Dessert in three. I had beat-apple soup for lunch and a sweet grain of sugar on my thumb for the sucking. Yes. Yes. But not too much, don't want the taste to go to the thigh.

- Andy

I am sitting on a park bench, alone. A green one with cracking paint and room for three.  A glob of vanilla ice cream falls onto the orange shorts that are empty, draped on top of the brown shorts that I'm wearing. The vanilla blots out the "I" in Kimmel, creating an "O" shape. This edit-by-dairy is made from me leaning forward and forcefully telling my roommate to die, after swiping my cone from me.  He is in the middle of telling me not to eat ice cream because it is fattening.  He does this by taking my ice cream away and exaggerating its adverse effects by placing the tip of the cone right by his ass. 

"Why don't you just place it right here? Ice cream is for suckers. Enlighten yourself," he says.

I say nothing. Really ice cream, if you want to think technically, is for lickers. This also explains why, for the longest time, I thought the Licks hamburger chain was really an ice cream parlor.  Hamburgers aren't for licking - unless you want to lick the grease from the cow meat and over-processing off of your saturated, fat lips. Enlighten you.

"You just shouldn't be eating ice cream," he continues, "but you should be wearing those fucking orange shorts. Why did you just bring them to the park anyhow?"

"I was going to jog in them, but then I decided to jog in my brown ones and throw these orange ones in more shit on another curb so some other dumb ass can find them and force his friend to wear them."

My thighs have plenty of room for leeway.  I could probably do lunges in these brown shorts. I lunge forward to take back my cone. My roommate is preoccupied anyway by a jogging female in tight workout pants. I take a napkin from one of the zippers in the orange shorts and brush off the vanilla covering "Kim" in "Kimmel."  My roommate is still staring at the running girl - her ponytail whipping the back of her head with every stride. A green "Go Vegan" shirt sits snug over her chest.   I give vanilla a sloppy wet lick.

Dieter's Journal (phase three):

Dear Ice cream,

I ate you today in the park and you were delicious.