Michael James Nelson Comedy

By Michael James Nelson

“Sir, I’m sorry, but it appears that you’ve missed your flight,” she said, searching through the database. “But, I do have another flight that leaves in three hours…” I stood at the LAX ticket counter pissed off and about to breakdown from exhaustion. It was eight o’clock in the evening and I had just missed my flight through Denver, to Orlando. “Would you like me to book you on a the red-eye flight direct to Orlando?”

After I got my new ticket, I headed to the only place that could provide me with something to do for the next three hours: the terminal bar. All was well, chatting with the female bartender, reenergizing, and watching sports. But, right around beer number seven, I became too comfortable and responded to the bartender’s story with, “She sounds great. Wanna call me when she turns 18?” Immediately, the bartender lost her smile and printed up my bill. “I can have you kicked out for that.”

“What? Come on… Okay look, I’m a comedian and…” I said, trying to bring back good times.

“Well, maybe you need to look into another profession,” she said, turning her back.

“Fine,” I said, scribbling my signature. “No one appreciates humor at the ol’ terminal watering hole.” As I put an extra enfaces on the last letter of my name, I heard a voice say, “She’s right, you need to find another profession.”

“What the…” I muttered as I slowly rotated my head to the left. I then settled on a three hundred pound woman wearing an orange shirt, eating fries out of a basket. Her resemblance to the planet Saturn was striking. “Hey, is this an open forum?” I asked. “Why don’t you skedaddle back to Backwoods, North Carolina.”

“I happen to be from Denver,” she retaliated.

“Denver? Don’t even get me started…” I said as I hopped off my stool, waited for the room to stop spinning, and shuffled towards my gate. Forty-five minutes later and closer to sober, I walked down the plane’s isle looking for ROW 23, SEAT D. I scanned the plane and made eye contact with many different people. But, my heart sank when I made eye contact with the woman in ROW 23, SEAT C. I had made eye contact with Saturn. I rechecked the seat labels, hoping to find signs of false positioning.

“Excuse me, I am in the middle seat,” I said as she gave me a bitter look when realizing I wasn’t food. I entered the row and all she did to let me through was shift her legs to one side. As I turned away from her to slide by, I could feel her knees stabbing the bottom of my ass cheeks. It took strength and a power grunt to get to my seat. I sat down, got comfortable, and tried to relax. Then I heard, “Excuse me sir, I’m at the window.”

I looked up and I couldn’t believe my eyes. Another obese woman! Immediately, I pictured cupcakes orbiting her as she pointed at the window. “I need to get-in.”

Saturn got up immediately to let her new teammate, Jupiter, in. Not wanting to waste energy while seeking a little revenge, I shifted my legs to the side. Suddenly, my face was in her gigantic, cushiony ass. For ten seconds, I entered another dimension of time and space. My first day in kindergarten, the first time I rode a bike, and other childhood memories flashed through my head. Finally, her ass passed and I gasped back into Earth’s space-time continuum, a little shaken, never to be quite the same.

For the next four hours, I could not get one second of sleep. I don’t know when, but at some point during the flight, the two double-sized debutantes became acquaintances and started their own show called Fat Crossfire. The hum of the aircraft was the background noise for views on politics, love, and facts on gastrointestinal surgery. Their elbows would grind into my sides with every point made and every punch line celebrated. I often caught myself staring at the flight attendant call button with tears slowly running down my cheeks, wanting to push it and ask the flight attendant if there was a parachute I could use. But, as these two women went on and on and on, I realized the parachute wouldn’t be necessary, just an open door.

Finally, finally, finally, we landed in Orlando. I got off the flight with a high level of rudeness and amazing speed in the name of mental health. But, all was lost when the last bag, making its way around the baggage carousel, was snatched up by its owners. I was the only person in the baggage claim area and I had no bags. I walked over to an airline representative. “Excuse me, my bags didn’t come out,” I said, with little to no energy left. She got my info and then left to go check on the status of my luggage. I began to fall asleep standing up.

“Excuse me sir.” She said, snapping me out of my split-second slumber. “It seems that your bags didn’t make the flight.” At that moment, I wanted to scream, pee my pants, and punch her right in the mouth all at the same time, but I didn’t have the energy. After a long silence, I finally put together my question. “Where… are… they?”

She made what looked like a bitter beer face and said, “Well, it appears that your bags went to Denver.”

© Michael Nelson – All Rights Reserved.

Filed under: Writing by Michael James Nelson
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By Michael James Nelson

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring and I had no pants on. (Awkward silence) I sleep naked. (Awkward silence) Anyway, I was lying in bed having trouble falling asleep because I was filled with excitement, reviewing the gifts I wanted Santa to bring me: new clothes, a new black Range Rover, and LOST actress Evangeline Lilly. But, little did I know that this would be the craziest Christmas ever… ever… ever.

For many years, Santa never ate the cookies or drank the milk I left for him to enjoy. What a slap in my face, no? I mean, seriously, I leave him a treat and he won’t even touch it? He won’t accept my thanks? But, for some odd reason, I kept leaving him treats and after a while I got pissed and decided that one day he would bite and I was determined to capture that moment.

In ‘85, I set up a MacGyver-esque contraption that would take Santa’s picture if he were to lift the glass of milk. In ‘90, I upped the technology by setting up a video camera. But, after reviewing the tape, in the last moments of the battery’s life, I watched my uncle grab a cookie.

So this year, I would make sure he enjoyed my treats. This year, I would finally get the thanks and appreciation I deserved. This year, keeping his apparent dislike for cookies and milk in mind, I would leave out a dish that no crazy fat man could ever resist: wings and bourbon.

I threw it all together and went to bed, snuggled in a sea of blankets, too excited to sleep. I tried the age-old trick of counting sheep, but all of them had the shits and kept pooping on my face. I guess they had eaten about two hours prior. Anyway, after a couple hours of struggle, my eyes slowly started to get heavy and as they shut for sleep, I smiled and muttered, “Your move big man. Your move…”

The next morning, I awoke to the sweet chirping birds and crusty eye boogers. After clearing the boogers, I realized it was 6:00 a.m. and Christmas had arrived. I jumped out of bed and ran down the hallway. I dashed around the corner, into the family room and my body froze at the site of the dish… the wings were gone with only a slight trace of barbecue sauce, the bourbon was half empty (half full for you optimists, time to buy another bottle for you drunks) How interesting,” I said, rubbing my chin.

I stood there perplexed and then I heard it. It was coming from behind me. I slowly turned around. My eyes focused on the couch. And there he was, outfit and all. It was Santa Claus. He was passed out, snoring, with an open cell phone on his chest. As I approached him, I could see that the screen on the phone displayed, “Last call: Emily.” I assumed it was an ex or a little “something-something” on the side.

His bourbon-capacitated breath forced me to turn my head slightly to the side for gag prevention. He suddenly jerked and I almost fainted from the scare, “What the…where am I? Rudolph. Blitzen,” he yelled, scrambling. Then, he passed out, cold.

Seeing Santa drunk and unconscious causes your mind to ignite into speculation. You sort of leave that picture of Santa being this perfect, loveable, jolly old man and move closer to the Santa that comes home late after a long night at the North Pole Gentlemen’s Club, hammered and ready to show Mrs. Claus that he still “has it.” Or, the Santa that gets liquored-up and takes the sleigh out for a spin, only to end up hanging upside-down from a tree? And no one can forget the time the elves set up an intervention and Santa arrived with a fresh Bourbon soaked beard. And nipple clamps, hammered. What a mess that guy. Tough times.

All I knew was that I had to get him in tiptop shape and do it quick. My family would be up within the hour and so would our neighbors, but more importantly, what about all the children that would miss Christmas due to my selfishness? What about all the little kids around the world that would run to the tree only to find that below its branches was nothing but open space? I screwed up, I got Santa wasted out of his mind and I had to make it right. I had to get Santa up and off my couch and back in his sled. I had to save Christmas.

Carrying Santa out of the house was a real bitch, but I knew I had to do it before everyone was awake. As I dragged Santa out to our side yard, he kept going in-and-out of consciousness, often screaming the names of his reindeer. When we got outside, he screamed again. “Rudolph!” Suddenly, eight reindeer flew down from the roof.

The eight reindeer landed and we eyeballed each other for a solid minute. Silence. I cautiously watched them and they cautiously watched me. No sudden movements. I couldn’t believe it. I was staring at Santa’s reindeer! And then it hit me. The one reindeer in the front, with the red nose, was actually Rudolph. “Holy shit, your Rudolph.” I said. “I can’t even… I’ve studied you my entire life!” I was star struck.

Rudolph looked at me and it looked like he wanted to bask in the praise, you know, maybe he doesn’t get to stop and talk to fans, but then he snapped out of it, lowered his head and sniffed Santa. “Not again,” he said in a thick Boston accent. “Miss clause is gonna be wicked pissed.”

“You can talk?” I said, amazed.

“This shocks you?” Rudolph asked, as he chuckled with his fellow reindeer.

“Well, reindeer don’t usually talk,” I said.

“Reindeer don’t usually fly either, Sherlock.” He snapped back. “Alright, enough, we gotta move and we gotta move fast.”

Over the next ten minutes, we sobered Santa up by holding his face over a sprinkler. After three spurts of consciousness, Santa stood up and was briefed on the situation. Some barbecue sauce still stained his beard. I got him some Aspirin and told him that I was a big fan. Santa was pleasant, but he had to get moving because the neighborhood was beginning to stir to life. He suddenly jumped into his slay, snapped the reins, and the reindeer pulled him high into the sky.

A little light headed by the experience, I waved goodbye. Then, Santa actually turned around and waved back. I smiled. He threw something at me. I caught it. It was a small box with a ribbon on top. I opened it and laughed. “You son of a bitch,” I said as I grabbed what was inside the box. I looked up at Santa again as he disappeared into the clouds. Then, I looked back down at my gift. It was a glossy picture of LOST actress Evangeline Lilly.

© Michael Nelson – All Rights Reserved.

Filed under: Writing by Michael James Nelson
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