Chester sat on the carpet. Dog toy in mouth. Diligently awaiting the first official day of Got Bats.

“Well, Chester,” said Larry. “Seven months of planning has led to this. We’ve advertised. We’ve networked. Phone lines are ready to be flipped on. Time to solve the good people of southern Missouri’s bat problems.”

Chester licked his toenail for posterity.

Larry plugged in a long wire to connect the hotline. Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang.

Larry jumped off his stool. “This is it, Chester.”

He picked up the phone. “Hello, Got Bats. This is Larry speaking.”

An elderly voice came through the speaker. “Yes, Larry. Oh thank God you picked up. I’ve got bat problems.”

“Not to worry, ma’am. That’s what we’re here for. What kind of trouble are you having?” Larry said, sliding a notebook from his messenger bag.

“Oh, they’re everywhere, Larry. All over my house. The attic, my cupboards.”

“Your cupboards?”

“Everywhere. I’ve caught a few with those snap traps, but I still see their droppings.”

“You caught a bat with a snap trap?”

“Yes, I baited it with cheese and peanut butter like they say.”

“Ma’am, are you talking about mice? Do you have a mice problem?”

“Bats mice. What are you trying to prove? They’re both rodents.”

“Ma’am I apologize, we’re set up for bat control issues. You’ll have to call an exterminator.”

“Ah, help me, Larry. I see one now. It’s chasing my cat. Oh, it’s in my hair.”

Larry hung up and sighed. “False alarm, Chester. Just a prankster getting their jollies in.”

The phone rang again.

“Hello Got Bats. Larry speaking.”

The same elderly voice came through. “You’re not gonna believe this, Margaret. I just pranked that Got Bats fella. Anyway, I’ll tell you about it over bridge. Call me back if you get a chance.”

“Ma’am, this is Larry again from Got Bats. I think you accidentally called us.”

“Oh. Well thank God, Larry. The bat mice have begun dumping out all of my cereal boxes. I don’t know how I’ll cross into the kitchen without getting my socks dirty. The horror. The crunch. The crumbs.”

He cut her off and let out another sigh. “Don’t worry, Chester. Just a bit of a rocky start.”

Three hours passed. Chester finished a bone he’d been gnawing on. Shards were spread throughout the carpet. He began working on one of Larry’s shoes.

The phone rang.

“Got Bats. Larry here. How may we be of service?”

“Help, help there’s a duck on my back!”

“A duck?”

“Yes, its beak is wet. Oh, no. Plea—”

Larry hung up. “This is getting ridiculous.”

Another ring.

“Yes, Got Bats. Please tell me you’ve got a bat problem.”

“Ever since I moved to Gotham City, there’s been nothing but problems.”

Larry hung up and stared at the receiver.

“Maybe we just should have done that fishing podcast we talked about.”

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

Gillman took a job at the cafe. It had been interesting.

Gillman entered the back office, where the manager, Mr. Wand, was waiting. Wand was a kind man. A bit of a boring optimist, who projected a sense that velcro shoes were a staple for the weekends. Still, there weren’t many offering positions to middle-aged swamp creatures with humidity requirements.

“Gillman, welcome. May I call you Gill?” Mr. Wand stood and shut the door behind them—not waiting for a response to the informality. He offered a chair. “How is everything going? Feel like you’re adjusting well?”

Gillman sat. There was a squish. “No complaints.”

“Good good. Here’s the scoop. I don’t want to take up much of your time. The team loves ya. They really do. It’s just.”

Gillman’s tongue began to pulse, eyes darting around the room following a fly. Wand attempted to steer him back with his head.

“It’s just that,” Wand said, regaining eye contact. “There’s been some comments.”

“Comments?”

“Anonymous. We have a suggestions box. I’m a bit old school in that way.” Wand grabbed a stack of cards from his desk and set his reading glasses on his nose. “Let’s see. Pushes slime infused drinks too aggressively.”

“People love slime,” Gillman said.

“Perhaps. Eating flies in front of customers.” Wand looked up from his glasses. “We’ve already seen that trend here today. What else? Smells like a sewer. That one, I actually wrote.”

Gillman let out a sigh.

“I know, I know, Gill. Swamp creatures have different hygiene regimens. Here’s the deal. I brought you on thinking that we’d be the first and only Dutch Bros with a real cryptid. And trust me, we saw an initial spike in interest that will get us through the post-holiday financial tightening.”

“Which holiday?”

“Flag Day. Arboretum. Whatever. Point is, you started off strong. But reality has set in and either you’ve gotta tighten it up or maybe we try you on drive through.”

Gillman burst to his feet. “This is outrageous.” He smacked the fly mid-air and swallowed it down.

Wand waited.

“If you work drive-through, I’ll give you a $5 weekly bonus and let you stay after hours to catch as many mice as you’d like.”

“Deal.”

Gillman shook his hand. There was a squelch. His first promotion.

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The year is 1997. Impulse and indecision brought us to this moment. Everyone had rehearsed their lines on the drive over. My brother, short-tempered and eleven, was to say nothing. I was to act innocent.

This was a return.

The family approached the red-counter. A tired woman in a vest slid off her stool. Behind her sat a rusted wire shopping cart, littered with open box dishes, bent nerf arrows, and a popcorn maker. They were negotiation casualties, despite her years of training. You can’t win them all.

Vest lady: How may I help you?

Mom: Yes, I’d like to return this.

Vest lady: Do you have your receipt?

Mom: I do.

She removed the paper from a file folder and slid it across the counter. We always kept receipts.

Vest lady: Okay, so what seems to be the problem?

Mom: We no longer need it.

Vest lady: You no longer need it?

Mom: That’s correct.

Vest lady: That’s a tad unusual, don’t you think?

Mom: You know how it is, a quick purchase. Realized ours was still fine. So I’m bringing it back.

Vest lady: I don’t actually.

She turned the box over, inspecting the corners.

Vest lady: Oh, it looks like the seal is broken on this tape. Did you open it?

Mom: I think my husband might have opened it. But we no longer need it.

Vest lady: Well that changes the calculus a little bit. Did you try it? Does it work?

She opened the box now, pulling the contents onto the operating table.

Mom: No, he didn’t.

Vest lady: There’s crumbs in it.

Mom: Those are factory crumbs probably.

Vest lady: Factory crumbs? I’ve seen plastic shards in a unit like this, but these are food particles.

All of us sweating now.

Vest lady: Listen, ma’am. I’ve seen a lot of toasters come and go. Let me pose a theory. You purchased this toaster. Perhaps you tried it. Maybe your husband bought one too. Miscommunication on your end. Maybe you liked the speed on the other one. But this is Kmart, okay. We have a certain reputation of honesty and transparency. This has been used. We’re not in the business of letting you test-drive electronics, then pawning them off onto other buyers. Now might I suggest you remove this from my counter and grab a slice of Little Cesar’s on the way out.

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

I was talking to a squid. He was feeling down, mostly about his name.

“I mean what is a squid anyway?” he said.

“Well… you sort of are,” I replied.

“Squid. It’s one sound. Like burp. It’s gross.”

“I think it’s kind of cool. Fun to say. Fun to read.”

“Please, what do you know? Kids don’t even recognize me. Always thinking I’m an octopus.”

He slid a shrimp across the table. “Any ideas? You’re the creative type. Help me out here.”

“What about a name change? Lean into the ten arms. Decapus, maybe?”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

My golf comedy Bluecut Rills is out today.

It’s about two brothers trying to save a public golf course from a developer with a bad attitude and poor taste in blazers.

If you like Caddyshack or are just a fan of golf hijinks set in small mountain towns (I know, a rather eclectic taste), here’s the link:

Amazon - Bluecut Rills

Minks, questionable swamp-adjacent golf conditions, fog machines. It’s got it all.

Thanks for reading.

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

I’ve always loved oblivious comedic villains—Judge Smails in Caddyshack, Tony Perkins in Heavyweights. Fred was my attempt to create one.

Here’s a scene from the first chapter where he shares his vision.

Fred Falloon, local real estate developer and guardian of unchecked sprawl, sat perched on a barstool that looked like it had been stolen from a saloon-themed amusement park. His pinky ring clinked against the rim of his glass as he swirled a double Scotch. He wore a white blazer with embroidered flamingos flying skyward, as if they were trying to escape his poor taste.

The nicest hotel in Bluecut Rills promised “rustic refinement” and mostly delivered, right up until you found The Water Hazard, the dive bar tacked onto its backside. It was quiet, private, and had the sort of wear-and-tear that kept people with networking agendas away. Maybe that’s why Fred liked it, though he’d never admit he was a regular.

He sniffed. “Smells like Windex and wet naps in here. You must have a date.”

The bartender, a part-time wedding DJ named Dennis who insisted on being called Denali, as confirmed by his Sharpie-marked name tag, just nodded. Experience taught him that Fred’s comments were rarely meant for anyone but himself.

“Denali, let me ask you something. You ever play golf?”

Denali was polishing a martini glass with a threadbare rag, stained and frayed from years behind the bar. “I work here, man. What do you think?”

“Exactly,” Fred said, pointing a knuckle at him. “Exactly. You’re not burdened by the lies of the game. You don’t pretend that walking five miles in ugly pants chasing a tiny ball makes you better than anyone else. That’s real freedom.”

He took a long sip, grimaced, and continued. “Me though? I’m a prisoner to it. Because golf, golf is how you get to the soul of a man. You can’t lie on a scorecard. Well, you can, but it’s a spiritual lie. And I don’t trust spiritual liars.”

Fred shifted on his stool and looked past Denali. He stared through the bar’s smeared window at the town beyond. Its flickering neon signs, the weathered shingle roofs, the outline of Bluecut Rills Golf Club, just past the tree line. A smug grin crept across his face. He could practically feel his bank account growing.

“You know the thing about those Wicksell boys?” Fred said. “They’re like rust. Not dangerous right away. But leave ‘em alone long enough, and they’ll ruin good metal. That real estate is a gold mine, and those turds are squandering it.”

He swirled his drink and scoffed. “It was supposed to be my year. Senior year. All the scouts were watching me. Then he shows up as a freshman, and breaks every damn record I set before my spikes were even dry. I was the name at that school. Then Knut saunters in, swing like a poet, attitude like a happy hour meatball. Please. I’ve seen better motions in a toddler’s birthday piñata line.”

He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “I had to grind for everything. He breezed through, smug and naturally better at the one thing I cared about.”

Fred took another sip, then clinked the glass suggestively toward Denali. After a few awkward moments between the two men staring at each other, Denali obliged with a top-off.

“Knut thinks he’s some kind of folk hero, walking around barefoot quoting bumper stickers and Fred Flintstone—next thing you know, he’ll be pedaling a giant stone wheel. And Arnie? Come on. That man probably tries to itemize paperclips. He’s a spreadsheet away from a nervous breakdown.”

He jabbed his thumb again. “I’ve got vision. Plans. Capital. Connections. I know how to take something broken and make it profitable. That’s what separates me from those two. I don’t get sentimental. I succeed. End of story.”

“Sure,” Denali said, in a way that meant nothing at all.

Fred kept going. “I mean, take a ride by the course sometime. You should see it.”

He hesitated, trying to picture how someone like Denali lived. Did they have cars? A kitchen? “Do people with name tags even get days off?”

Denali broke into a yawn that could also have been the beginning of a response, but was waved away by Fred.

“Eh, never mind. It’s a mud patch with flagsticks. I could have a five-diamond resort built on that land in six months. Rooftop hot tubs. Automated cocktail carts. No tipping. No talking. And of course cucumber towel service.”

He paused, waiting for affirmation. Denali shrugged.

Fred continued a while longer, fantasizing out loud about fairway condos and his name etched in stone above the clubhouse door. After draining his cup, he stood and flipped a $25 poker chip in Denali’s direction.

“In the biz, we call that a little seed money, dippy,” he said.

Denali watched the chip roll and tumble off the bar top. There wasn’t a casino within 50 miles of town. Unwilling to risk a further conversation with Fred Falloon, he went back to drying glasses.

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So that’s Fred. He gets worse.

See you soon,

— Ricky C.

Hank - Bluecut Rills Golf Club, Head Groundskeeper
Louie - Bluecut Rills Golf Club, Mechanic

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The moonlight washed the course in a soft glow. Caught between seasons, the air had turned cool. Crickets hummed steadily until a walkie crackled through the quiet.

“Mountain Clam, this is Barnacle. I’ve got three in my sights. Over,” Louie called into the radio. He inched forward on his stomach to get a better position through a thicket of chokecherry.

“Do not engage, still approaching from the East,” Hank said. “Also, what is this Barnacle claptrap? We agreed on Mop for you. How many times can I say, ‘no name changes mid-operative?’ Stick to the script. Over.”

“Relax, compadre. If I’ve learned one thing about geese, it’s that there is no script.”

Hank let out a low growl and clicked the receiver. “I should have requested overtime for tonight.”

“We’re getting paid for this?” Louie said.

Hank shook his head as he slipped his three-wheeled maintenance cart into neutral, cutting the engine noise while creeping slowly down the steep hill of the 16th Hole.

Tonight’s mission was to disrupt the family of geese who’d taken a liking to the greenside bunker of the long par-3. Hank had spent one too many mornings hosing down his rubber boots following a clash between bunker duty and the geese treating the sand trap like their personal porta-john.

Hank pulled over, then moved to the utility bed of the cart. He lowered the hatch and quietly lugged a dark box off the back. It had the shape of a small treasure chest, fitted with metal handles. A circular window the size of a quarter was positioned on top.

He clicked his radio, staring at two geese who popped their heads up from the bunker but appeared to fall back asleep. He whispered, “Have you tested this contraption?”

The walkie crackled. “Does a skunk test its spray? Does a porcupine question the point of its quills? It works.”

“Alright. Go over it again then.”

Louie sat upright in the bush, peering over the leaves. “It’s simple. You position the device near the top of the bunker. When clear, I’ll activate the porch pirate bait. It’ll spring, disorienting them in a cloud of fog. A window sensor picks up the haze, triggering the tent launch, carefully capturing them inside. Tomorrow, in your truck, we relocate the crew to Monarch Ridge, where they’ll have plush fairways and fluffy bunkers for nesting.”

Hank sighed. “And why didn’t we just set the device during the day so I could get some sleep?”

A pause.

Hank clicked the receiver. “Mop… Mop, you read me?” He bent his head around the cart to see if the geese moved. They didn’t stir. Hank sighed again. “What the hell did he say?” He pressed the walkie. “Barnucle, do you copy?”

“Sorry. Was opening a beef skinny with my teeth. That’s a no-go on daytime deployment. Scared of the dark. And it’s Barnacle.”

“You know most courses just use fake wolves or border collies. But alright. Positioning now.” Hank approached the lip of the bunker from an army crawl, dragging the device as he went. Upon reaching the crest, he settled it into position—the latch on the spring door facing toward the sand. “Positioned,” Hank whispered.

Fog from the nearby water hazard crept low across the green as Hank began to slink away.

Click. Whirr. BOOM.

A burst of compressed blue dye erupted from the device like a gender reveal gone wrong.

Hank disappeared into the plume, coughing.

The tent launched, clearing the bunker with the veracity of a t-shirt cannon and landing in the pond. The irrigation intake began making a heavy suck sound, slurping up the tent into the abyss.

One goose stood up, then re-nestled back in the bunker.

“Come in, Mountain Clam. Status of containment,” Louie said.

Hank wiped a hand across his cheek and spat blue to the grass, then engaged the radio. “Tell me the haze sensor wasn’t wired to the pirate bait.”

“Huh,” Louie said. “Come to think of it, it might have been.”

The irrigation line kept chugging before the clog ceased operations.

“Was that my good fishing net in there?” Hank said. “Thought you used a tent.”

“You can rest easy,” Louie said cheerfully. “Just onion bags I stitched together.”

Hank coughed and stared into the dark. “Skunks and quills.”

He pressed the radio button. “Let’s get back to the shed. I need your eyewash and a retirement plan.”

“Aye-aye,” Louie replied.

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

Every day I’m told how to live better, sleep deeper, and eat differently. My great-grandma made it to 95 with barely any instructions.

Nobody ever told her a life hack. She didn’t know that the first drink of the day should not be coffee. I’m confident she never counted a step: “7,000 are required to cut heart disease by 30%.” She never switched to almond butter because technically peanut butter is a legume, which means it will slowly detonate your spleen.

When I think about her, there are a few things that stand out. She was married to a man named Raymond. I don’t know how they met. The standards for swiping right back then were living on the same street and whether the man could raise a barn. I’ve seen old pictures of Poppa Ray, as we called him. He didn’t look like much of a barn raiser, but it’s hard to spot muscles under long-sleeved button-ups—the only attire of the time. His brown slacks appeared to have a weight to them, so I’m sure his squat numbers were respectable.

I hope they were in love, though I remember my mom saying Poppa Ray wasn’t that nice to her. I can’t speculate what that meant. Perhaps he was rather cold, or perhaps he never took her to Chili’s on its grand opening. I’m not here to sully the man’s name, it’s not the point, what I’m saying is she lasted a long time.

Her house was filled with cuckoo clocks, and she’d watch daytime tabloid TV, then recount the insights she learned back to us. I can recall her telling the neighbor’s daughter not to marry a man who checks your underpants. It wasn’t sound logic, but she spoke. Isn’t that enough to suggest she cared? She owned a housecoat that she wore all year round. It had a quilted pattern and mustard color that thrived during sloppy barbecues.

Let’s walk through her normal day, in terms of information load. She’d awake to the coordinated blare of thirty-seven cuckoos manufactured in the Black Forest region of Germany. Maybe there would be a newspaper in her house, assuming old Ray allowed such progressive behavior as literacy.

When the husbands went off to work, she might have phoned another housewife, to collectively fantasize about what the interior of Chili’s was like. She probably sat on the porch to peel potatoes and work on a pie of unusual fruit origin. Rhubarb or some other vaguely vegetable root plant. Parsnip loaf with sprig of bland. All in, maybe she encountered five to ten messages.

My morning begins with the vibration of my phone, synced to my watch. I slap at the off button on both screens. Eventually one registers, usually the snooze, meaning the whole exercise will occur again in about eight minutes. From there, I scroll through my phone with shame. Making rounds between email, social media, and package deliveries.

As I make my coffee, I’ll watch a YouTube short—or three. I try to skip the ad by closing the app. Some days it works and I feel like I’ve stolen something. A similar cycle continues throughout the day, to a total approaching the thousands. If I had to guess, probably a level that could give the peanut a real run for rupturing spleens.

She made it to 95 and survived Poppa Ray. I’m still deciding about the efficacy of cold showers and safest non-legume spread.

See you soon,

—Ricky C.

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Innovation

I don’t like to complain, and I appreciate all the solid work they’ve done over at Apple with the earbuds.

But they still haven’t solved taking your shirt off without losing one.

Household Issues

I haven’t read many divorce decrees, but I’ve got to believe more than a few say: kept putting the cinnamon right next to the turmeric.

I don’t like cutting open a pepper, because once you do, the clock starts.

So instead, I leave it untouched until it goes bad and I end up throwing the entire thing away.

I guess I prefer a full, dignified waste.

Meetings

Only two people need to be in a meeting.

Kenneth and like, Stephanie.

The rest of us are on mute going, why didn’t Ken just call Stephanie?

But there we all sit. On camera. Reading our emails. Hoping no one mentions our name.

Ordering Out

Everyone has jobs in their family. Mine is ordering out.

It’s fine, but when I’m doing it, my wife takes a lot of liberties with my interaction and the restaurant. I think she believes these people are just waiting around for us to call and workshop the menu.

It usually goes like this:

Me: I’m going for bagels. What kind would you like?

Wife: Ask them which ones are fresh and call me.

Me: No problem. I’m sure the line of twelve people and overwhelmed cashiers won’t mind.

Or like this customized request, when calling in an order for Mexican food:

Me: Hello, yes, I’d like to order a chicken chimichanga.

Restaurant: Okay.

Me: But could you make sure there is enough chicken in this one? Last time, my wife said it was a bit thin.

Restaurant: You want double chicken?

Me: Nope. Nope. Just the standard allotted chicken, entitled by the order.

A pause. Some screen tapping.

Restaurant: Okay.

Me (taking a deep breath): I’d also like to replace red beans with black beans.

Restaurant (hung up).

Are you thirsty?

We live in the most hydrated society in human history, and yet we’ve decided tap water is socially unacceptable.

You can’t give someone a glass of water. Every home now needs bottled water on hand, just in case a guest forgets the five liquids they brought with them in the car.

You hand them a glass, they’ll look at you like it’s 1840 and you’re about to poison them with pond sludge drawn from a bucket.

The good news is no one’s dehydrated. Just suspicious.

Parents Vacation

My parents still vacation like it’s the 1990s.

They don’t book hotels. They just drive somewhere and try to find one when they get there. No reservation. Just relying on road ads and hope.

They do use GPS, but only at the very end. They’ll turn it on once they’re close.

How they determine they’re close is still a mystery to me.

They pack one suitcase. Not each. One. For a full week. Somehow it contains everything they need, plus room to bring something back.

When it’s time to eat, they don’t research restaurants. They’ll either ask the front desk or just walk outside and see what’s nearby. Shockingly, whatever is closest always has the best chicken parm they’ve ever eaten.

On paper, this should stress them out. I lose sleep just hearing about it—especially when they pull out the laminated map.

And yet, big picture, they have fun.

All while I’m reading reviews for rest stops.

See you soon,

— Ricky C.

I’m trying to get better at wasting time. Everything is optimized.

Why go to the store when amazon can bring it?

You’re going to roll the dice on the 4.1 rated restaurant when there is a 4.6 a block away?

Have two friends check a text message to confirm I have it properly worded before sending it to the third? Alright, I may have over-embellished on having three friends, but you get the point.

I lose something when I try to optimize everything. My brain feels weaker, less tolerant. More demanding of perfection. Less patient. I used to be a great time waster. I could sit somewhere without a podcast rolling through my brain, or reading a life hack to improve things. I didn’t have to be entertained. I was okay. Now I struggle with the tedious burden of walking up a flight of stairs without checking my phone.

So I’ve been taking small steps. Sitting through the intro to my favorite show. Gasp.

Not rushing away from my neighbor while she’s giving me directions, actually trying to listen, despite the fact that GPS has been around for 20 years now.

When driving home I’ll occasionally take the less direct route. Getting me home 2 and half minutes later than normal. Gasp, again.

What’s been the result? Still early, but if I had to guess, my life is 3% less optimized, but notably less pressured.

See you soon,

— Ricky C.

My local YMCA started a roller hockey league.
I signed up to create a Michael Jackson–themed team.
We’re called The Jackson Five Hole.

Still waiting on my first teammate.

Pastimes

I’ve been very busy lately. My favorite pastime has been taking up a lot of energy. Checking to see if my stuff that I don’t need was delivered.

I’ve become quite good at it too. Sometimes they’ll be like, “Expected tomorrow.”

I’ll check the origin. From Albuquerque? What kind of truck are you using? A time machine? It’s not even in transit yet. Check a map before you get cocky with the tracker.

Dueling intros

Man 1: I’m Jim, by the way.

Man 2: I’m Ralph, by the trash can.

New Job

I got a new job.
Posting “Who’s here in 2026?” on old YouTube videos.

It doesn’t pay well, but the hours are confusing. Which I like.

Tables

Being married is great.

Before that, I could sit down at any restaurant table, eat a meal, and leave perfectly happy.

I didn’t even realize I was constantly being seated at unacceptable tables.

Find Things

I’ve never found a thing my wife has asked me to look for. Not once.

Wife: “Can you grab my navy sweater with the white stripes?”

I go to the closet, open the door, and without fail it will be filled with orange dresses. It won’t even be close.

Me: “I don’t see it.”

Wife: “Our bedroom closet.”

Me: “Do we have another bedroom?”

Anything my wife can’t find is lost. It’s never actually lost, but she abandons hope immediately. And everything tends to disappear in the same spot—outside the car. I think she believes that her pockets are cut at this odd angle, or that she moves so violently exiting a vehicle it creates some odd vacuum whereby keys, chapsticks, sunglasses are just launched into an unrecognizable dimension.

The car isn’t transportation. It’s a portal.

It’s either that or I’ve thrown it away. For some reason, I’m accused of a sheer inability to pick up recycling or take out the trash without also scooping up her earbuds and sending them straight to a landfill.

And I get it, when I see a small valuable object near a box, my instincts kick in. I just want to sweep it in and bury it. It’s all garbage to me, right?

Status

I read Post Malone felt like Domino’s at 9:30 in the morning.

So he drove to one, stood outside, and banged on the door.

The guy let him in and made him wings and a pizza.

I tried the same thing.

I owe the city forty dollars for loitering. And am still hungry.

Careers

I frequently make up what I do for a living when I meet people. Not for any particular reason, just to keep things interesting.

For a while, I was telling people I’m a taxidermist. I said my business was called Furever. The pun purists enjoyed it. Everyone else just stared. Which was also fine.

Lately, I’ve been saying I’m a garbage man named Tom.

This woman finally caught me.

She goes, “My husband’s a garbage man. Are you SCOTUS or SCUBA?”

I hesitated. “SCOTUS.”

She says, “My husband too. What’s your last name? I’ll tell him.”

“Jefferson.”

She stared at me. “Your name is Tom Jefferson. The garbage man?”

“Yeah. My parents thought I’d be taller.”

See you soon,

—Ricky C.

No one has ever finished a sleeve of English Muffins. Do they know that over there at the muffin factory?

Six muffins. What am I running a summer camp?

Show Scenes

TV writers seem obsessed with certain scenes. They keep forcing them into scripts, and I can’t help wondering, don’t they know we’ve all seen these?

Fluid in the lungs.

“Oh no, he’s not going to make it!”
“Wait. Good news. I have a pen to jam into his body and release the air.”

That’s not even the right problem.
We were worried about fluid. Air is supposed to be in there.
You’re not draining his lungs, you’re just stabbing him with office supplies.

Cauterizing the wound.

Take a shot of whiskey. Pour some on the wound. Bite down on a belt.

First of all, I’m not putting my disgusting belt in my mouth, and neither should this guy.
Second, we get it. He’s tough. And the medical benefits of single malt remain unclear.

The Whiskey Order

And then there’s the woman drinking whiskey.
Ah yes. She’s so powerful and mysterious.
I can’t believe she doesn’t drink something fruity.

Some screenwriter still thinks this is doing a lot of work.

She’s heavy on the leather, drives a muscle car and an unusual history in exploiting cyber vulnerabilities that paid for her flat—in cash. She knows how to cook, but lives on takeout and owns a tattoo gun.

All because she ordered whiskey. Neat.

Toothbrushes

It’s mean that the drug store sells a 2-pack of toothbrushes when you’re single. Especially when one of them is purple.

“I’ll just keep this… in case my mom sleeps over. You don’t throw away value.”

Names

Some names are never going to make it.

Guy: “What did you name your baby?”

Dad: “Nathaniel. Isn’t it great?”

Guy: “Oh. So you named him Nate.”

Dad: “Yep.”

International Travelers

Most people traveling by train in the U.S. are from another country. The shocking part is their data plan lets them talk in the seat next to you the entire ride.

Airports

What kind of deals are people trying to make at airport gate counters? I’ve flown a million times and never once needed to talk to anyone.

(whispering)

“Excuse me… if possible, I’d like to be on the really, really fast plane.”

See you soon,

— Ricky C.

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I love how confident health advice is.

“This causes cancer.”
“No, wait, this prevents cancer. It causes a stroke.”
“Actually, it depends on how happy you are while eating it. Also, did you store it in the fridge? That’s a mistake.”

Keep in mind that not that long ago, news reports confidently informed people that the second leading cause of death in this country was witches.

So maybe I’ll ease into the cold plunge studies before shelling out $3,000 for an outdoor tub.

Getting Healthy in the Garden State

Two Italians from New Jersey discussing health at a local diner.

Man 1: Doctor says I’ve gotta lose weight. Cholesterol’s getting too high.

Man 2: Yeah, I’ve got that too. You should eat more legumes.

Man 1: What’s that? Like a fish?

Man 2: I’m not sure. My daughter said it’s healthy. I think it’s a bird.

Man 1: What, like a hen?

Man 2: I believe so. I think it’s French.

Man 1: How fancy. French hen—like the song.

Man 2: Exactly.

Man 1: Legumes, huh? Leave it to the French.

Cake

I saw a guy eating cake with a plastic knife. Just a knife. That’s a new level of lazy in this country. That’s not a utensil choice, that’s a lifestyle. Too burdened to track down a fork. I mean, where did it even come from? Nobody sets out cake and knives and then just walks away like, “Here you go you animals.” And he was eating slow too. It’s not like he was rushing. He could have waited to see if the person came back with forks.

Broccoli

In a rare occurrence in today’s streaming world, I actually saw a commercial.

It was for a medicine you take when you’re gassy.

Some woman was eating broccoli, and then—uh oh.

Could the PR get any worse for broccoli these days? It’s already struggling at about eleven cents a crown at the grocery store.

Then it hit me, is this really what happens?

You’re a woman at a restaurant. You order salmon and it shows up with some steamed broccoli on the side. And now you’re living a nightmare.

“Oh. Oh, dear. Of all the days to be wearing tan slacks.”

So she sneaks off to the bathroom and pops a pill that neutralizes the nuclear gas power of broccoli.

She comes out all confident. Thrilled she doesn’t have to drive home with the windows down.

— Ricky C.

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I’m not saying Amazon comes to my house too often. I’m just saying it felt weird not adding our driver to the family Christmas card.

Reviews

A lot of these reviews are fake. You read them and it’s always:

“Oh, I get so many compliments.”

Who is getting compliments on anything?

Am I just buying ugly clothes? I never get compliments, and never give them. What kind of place are these people living where everyone’s just running around praising each other?

That’s the place I want to move to.

“What a great blouse!”

“Thank you. And a nice slack to you, sir!”

Amazon’s Next Features

Usable Life (Give or Take)

Amazon should start listing how long each product lasts before it gets shoved in a closet or thrown away. I’d love to see the honesty:

• Decorative Soap Dish — 3 weeks
  Top comment: “It turned yellow, and really the dish soap already comes in a dish. Also, I can never find the refills.

• Wine Cork Stopper — 1 hour
  Top comment: “Why do I keep buying these? Who doesn’t finish the bottle?”

• Apple Peeler — 8 months
  Top comment: “We bought one of these? When?”

• Scented Candle — 6 years
  Top comment: “I don’t take baths that often, but I’m gonna start. Self-care September!”

It’s worth noting how things were going for a bit. There was a stretch where it felt like Amazon stopped trying. The app would glitch and go, “Oops, something went wrong,” then show a picture of a dog who looked like he just peed on the carpet.

No one was monitoring anything.

Boxes showed up mangled. A big boot print on top. Shampoo bottles exploded through their zip-tied plastic bags.

And the returns?

They don’t even want the stuff back anymore.

“Eh, keep it. If I ask anyone in the warehouse to put this back on a shelf, they might burn the building down.”

Amazon Pilot

One idea I could get behind is Amazon piloting an autopilot purchasing program.

They know us. They have the data. They understand us better than we do.

You go to buy a pair of pants and Amazon goes:

Amazon: “No That’s not the right size.”
Me: “I’m pretty sure I’ve been buying pants my whole life. I’m a 36.”
Amazon: “I’ve reviewed millions of returns. Your history suggests your body needs a 38. I’ve added it to the cart.”
Me: (resigned) “Okay.”

At this point, they should just start sending us things.

We still pay for it—we just don’t know what it is until the box arrives.

Honestly, I don’t think our lives would improve or decline in any measurable way.

See you soon,

Ricky C.

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And every year they insist on doing a contact lens fitting, like my eyeballs reshaped.

Doctor: “Well… your eye grew.”
Me: “Really, Doc?”
Doctor: “No, it’s exactly the same. That’ll be $50 plus insurance.”
Me: “Great.”

This time I get a new doctor, and they go, “Your prescription is too strong.” You know what that is, right? Just one professional trashing the last guy’s work.

It’s like when a contractor comes to your house and says, “Well, I wouldn’t have plumbed it that way. I don’t know who did this.”

Too strong a prescription.
What am I seeing too well, Doc?

Then you go through the exam. There’s no way they’re taking any of this seriously.

Doctor: “#1 or #2? #1 or #2? Real quick. #2 or #3?”
Me: “Can I see #3 again? I think I blinked.”
Doctor: “No! #4 or #5! Answer now! This could be the difference between you dropping your kids off safely or driving straight into a wall!”
Me: “Do you account for the machine being dirty? The right lens looks yellow.”

Then they dilate my pupils “for my health,” which is fun, because two minutes later they send me outside like a naked mole rat emerging from its hole.

Eyes the size of bocce balls.
I can’t see my own shoes.
And the doctor’s basically going, “Ehh, he’ll be fine. He’s only going home.”

I’m not saying they shouldn’t let you drive, but I do wonder how many DUIs get handed out for Tropicamide.

Or technically: driving under the influence of routine eye care.

See you soon. In the meantime, protect your pupils and your Tuesdays.

— Ricky C.

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Jean Day at the Gym
I saw a guy working out in jeans. He was running.
Then I saw a woman behind him, also working out, yelling, “Help! Help! He stole my purse!”
These CrossFits are getting too realistic.

Sweater Logic
We all have too much stuff. Ever apply this logic?
Instead of buying five cheap sweaters, I’ll just get one really nice one.
… And then I’ll buy four really nice ones.

Teapot Revelation
If Aladdin taught me anything, it’s that they used to call teapots “lamps”.

The Maldives
Wealthy people go on wild vacations. A guy in my office said he was going to the Maldives. He just threw it out there casually. Then I had to pretend I’d heard of it.“Oh, the Maldives… yeah, that’s going to be cold.”
“Cold? It’s 83 degrees year-round.”
“… I meant the plane ride.”

Mentor of the Year
My mentor said he saw something in me.
Either my potential… or the fact that I was the only one in the room.

Too Busy People
Ever ask someone if they’ve watched your favorite show, and they hit you with, “Oh, I’m too busy”?
Too busy with what?
You come home, feed the kids, eat dinner—boom, it’s 8pm.
What then? Water your plants for three hours straight?
You’re telling me you’re not stuck in an endless loop of YouTube videos and online shopping like the rest of us?
“No! I’m far too busy. My side hustle is really taking off. I refurbish sofa arms on underappreciated couches. It’s incredibly rewarding… and fruitful.

The Lamborghini Theory of Urban Planning
A parked Lamborghini adds instant credibility to whatever street you’re on. If rich people are going to where you’re at, feel free to relax, because it must not get any better.

Chipotle’s Layering Problem
Could Chipotle please start mixing its burrito contents? Everything is in layers. My first bite today was 90% lettuce. The second was mostly beans. On the third, I could hardly taste the listeria.

Produce Theory
There are only two reliable pieces of produce in this country: apples and carrots.
I know many of you are thinking, “But what about cabbage?”
Cabbage is what a cold, hard-vegetable country puts on its flag.
Probably somewhere like the Maldives.

That’s all for now. If you felt any part of Vulture Pose in your own spine, I’ll take the win.

See you soon,

— Ricky C.

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Some people’s ice tastes like a grandmother’s coat.

I like to eat healthy, sure, but why is the bag of mini carrots always soaking wet? Somebody at the plant’s having too much fun with the hoses.

What’s odd about the holidays is how people use them to frame bad news. Like bad news has any sympathy for the time of year. “So, my chinchilla got squashed by a garbage truck. Merry Christmas, right?”

Why don’t they build cups with coasters attached to them?

Do you think YouTube is surprised when you let a commercial play longer than the skip? I feel like they’re going, “What the hell? I guess he did need a vacation with Trivago… or he just died.”
It’s genius, really. They could force us to watch the full ad, but don’t. They know eventually we’ll be washing a dish.

I like summer mornings because most of the bugs in my house aren’t awake yet.

I’ve been trying to get better with gender issues. So I’ve been taking a women’s vitamin. I’m not sure it’s doing much, but I am getting paid less at work. So progress?

You know you’re getting old when people start saving your voicemails.

Nobody likes jazz. It’s just for people who can’t find any other reason to wear their suits in the dark.

Do you think if humans went extinct and dinosaurs made a comeback, they’d have patterns of us on their kids’ pajamas?
“What’s your favorite human?”
“Mine’s the vegan—they were herbivores.”
“I like the boomer—they were angry.”

That’s all for now. If you laughed, smiled, or reconsidered your carrot bag, then the system’s working.

See you soon,

— Ricky C.

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Pistachios sound like really angry achios.

The only time people use the word evoke is with emotions.
”Music evokes such passion.”
Nobody ever says, “Hang on, I’m gonna go evoke an egg.”

What came first, a pitcher or a pitcher? It’s got to be a pitcher, right?

My doctor told me I could stand to lose ten pounds.
I told him, “I stood to walk in here and didn’t lose a thing.”
He said, “Try running.”

“Put him out to pasture” sounds harsh.
But technically, you’re just moving the cow from the barn to a field.
That’s not exile, that’s a lunch with unlimited salad.

“Thank you” and “Thanks you” have very different meanings in an email.
“Thanks you,” now that will get you canceled.

What do you call a sort of middle-aged white guy? Scottish.

Until next time, may your sentences lean just enough to stay interesting.

—Ricky C.

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My name’s Ricky Champagne. I write comedy.

I just finished a novel called Bluecut Rills—a golf book for people who’ve played courses where the fairways were more clover than grass and were perfectly fine with it. A mix of Caddyshack meets Tin Cup, assuming both had worse maintenance equipment.

I grew up working on golf courses, which seem to attract the kind of people who make good characters. A few of them ended up in my book. I’ll share updates here as it gets closer to release, along with other observations that didn’t fit anywhere else.

I post every couple weeks. If you’re into crooked stories and finding the absurd in normal life, this might be for you.

—Ricky C.

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