I intended to make this for alcohol related water deaths, e.g. drownings and watercraft accidents, but there’s no database for that so I went with shark and gator fatalities, i.e. liquid deaths.

We open on a prison guard walking down a cell block. He walks up to a a man standing behind bars eagerly awaiting him. (Fred Armisen).

Guard: Alright Fred. 24 hours until your last meal. What do you want to have?

Fred: 23 hours and 55 minutes actually. 

Fred kisses a piece of paper and hands it to the guard.

The guard looks at it, revealing a green oval. 

Guard: This isn’t pictionary Fred, just tell me what you want.

Fred: Oh not much— just the time of my life.

Guard: You don’t mean….(in song) Avocados from Mexico— do you?

Fred: I do.

Guard: Can I come? 

Fred leans in close to the jail bars, drooling like a madman.

Fred: I wouldn’t have it any. other. way.

Cut to a fiesta in the prison mess hall. There’s a pinata and sparklers— the table is covered in big bowls of chips and guacamole. A bunch of guards surround him like the last supper, he’s tied up in a straight jacket.

Prison guards are feeding him chips and guac by hand. 

Fred: Clink Clink Clink! (as if tapping a glass with a knife)

The room quiets.

Fred: I just wanted to say… I guess I’m sorry for killing all those innocent people. 

Guard 2: Don’t say that!

Fred: Wh—why not?

Guard: If it weren’t for you, we never would’ve had this special night together with these delicious Avocados.

Cut to Guard 2 in the corner.

Guard 2: From Mexico!

Fred: Really y-you guys aren’t mad?

Guard 2: Water under the bridge buddy. To Fred!

    Guard 2 holds up a chip in toasting fashion.

Room: To Fred!

Fred: I love you guys.

Cut to a montage of a wild fiesta. Electric Avenue is playing. Guards are juggling avocados. Fred pins the tail on a donkey with his mouth. 

We see a shot of them playing pictionary, the picture is the same green oval Fred drew in the beginning. 

The guards dance to the music. Fred is laughing in the electric chair as he gets a lap dance from prison guards. 

Super: Avocados from Mexico!

I had it all figured out—until New Girl showed up. The morning she introduced herself to our Spanish class, I was distracted, scoping out her wrists for a watch or bracelet.

Neither of her hands were visible, but I noticed a small bandage on her right shin.

“Clumsy on the right side,” I thought to myself. That’s a reasonable indicator of a lefty, unless she got it playing soccer. In that case, I’d bet she’s a righty—at least with her feet.

Then I noticed her hoodie said “ROCK CLIMBING.” This was good. It meant she probably didn’t play soccer, so she was more likely to have injured herself from being uncoordinated on her right side.

Zach, the lefty to my right, must have sensed my concern.

“Maybe she’s ambidextrous,” he said, patting my shoulder.

There was only one seat left in the class, and it was at Zach and my table, ‘a mi izquierda.’ If she was a righty, I’d be boxed in. Nowhere to run, nowhere to write. My Spanish and my handwriting suffered enough without having two pairs of arms and elbows prodding me from both sides—like a fleshy game of pinball.

“Grow up,” I said, shrugging his hand off my shoulder. “There’s no such thing as ambidexterity.”

Despite being left-handed (and fluent in Spanish), Zach was new to this table himself and still had lots to learn from me.

As New Girl approached the empty seat to my heartside, she took a pencil out of her pocket. My heart did a flip, as if it knew its life was in her hands.

She sat beside me, angling our morning worksheet just so. A classic technique among lefties to improve legibility.

And then she began to write… and by God, did she do it right. And by that, I mean she did it with her left hand.

After screaming internally, I noticed I had snapped my pencil in anticipation. I dropped the two pieces and waved hello with my left hand while pointing at it with my right.

“Hola, me llamo Michael.”

She said some words with her mouth and gave a small wave back with her left hand. We were gonna get along just fine.

Writing, I had decided, is the one true sign of a lefty. Because even so-called “ambidextrous” people must pick a hand, lest they use both and become outcasts to all of society.

Despite the 90% odds against us, balance at my table had been preserved.

“How’d you hurt your leg? Was it from being clumsy on your right side?” I asked, hoping to confirm my theory.

She gave me a weird look and said, “No, I did it on purpose.”

Zach laughed as if she said something funny.

I thought it was a weird thing for her to do, but hey, nobody’s perfect.

That night, despite her imperfections, New Girl inhabited my dreams. We played catch, and then held left hands. It was weird, but it was us.

The next day, I was feeling more at home than ever. I had sufficient writing room, and La Chica Nueva was adjusting to her names and seat with ease—just like any lefty would.

I didn’t see any new bandages on her legs either, so it seemed her mental health was improving just from being around me.

I noticed her right arm was tucked into her hoodie, like people do when they’re cold.

Wanting to show off my observational skills, I asked, “You cold?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Oh… you’re just comfortable like that?” I pried further, certain of her chilliness.

“Yeah, dude,” she said, seeming annoyed for some reason.

“Oh, I got you. Right hands are overrated,” I said, pointing toward her flopping sleeve.

“Oh!” She laughed, now seeming to understand my initial question. “I wouldn’t know.”

She then rolled up her sleeve, revealing not an arm, but a nub.

“Cool!” Zach said. “How’d that happen?”

“Bold question, even for a lefty,” I noted to myself.

“I was born with it, but sometimes I tell people it’s from a shark attack,” she said, laughing.

I smiled and laughed, but as her words sank in, my smile faded. I rested my head on the table, staring at my hands.

It was at that moment I realized my whole life had changed. Like when a surfer realizes they’re going to be handicapped for life.

A whole different kind of lefty?

For the rest of the week, I was in my head, and growing distant from my table of "lefties" as a result. The connection I had felt between us was now hanging by a thread—like a shark victim's arm, an image I couldn’t seem to shake. I had known of people without limbs, but I never knew some were just born that way.

Why had the universe dropped this burden in my hands? Sure, I had two of them, but I was just a kid for Christ's sake.

There were so many questions. Can someone truly be left-handed if it’s impossible for them to be right-handed? Is anybody who has a left hand left-handed?

My mind couldn’t compute. Who was I if not a southpaw? My identity had shattered, and I was growing more irritable by the day. Irritated at her, especially. I wouldn’t even call her by her names—just her. The imposter who had made me doubt my own kind. I don’t know why she told us the truth—that she was born that way—but I hated her for it. Over the next week, I’d try to ignore her, but my angst at her presence was becoming more obvious by the day.

One afternoon, during an outside activity, she finally had enough.

“Did I do something to offend you?” she asked pointedly.

“No,” I said. “You’re fine. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re left-handed. I just wish it were under better circumstances. Like shark-related circumstances.” I said coldly, like a shark.

“You are a FUCKING asshole,” she said, kicking me in the shin.

I looked down as a drop of blood streamed down my leg. I limped backward, grateful I was bleeding on land but resentful at having been kicked.

I was about to go tell on her when I noticed something. It was my right leg that was bleeding. She had kicked me with her left foot! Tears of joy filled my eyes—but mostly tears of pain.

“Lo siento, Chica Nueva,” I said, wiping aside both kinds of tears. “I was wrong about you. From now on, things are gonna be different. I promise. Things’ll be different.”

I leaned in for an embrace to heal the damage I had done.

“Fuck off, creep,” she said, clenching her left fist (just like I do when I’m pissed).

To which I smiled, because it was such a lefty thing for her to say.

Waffle House doesn't advertise themselves.

I do. 

They have far too much integrity to subject their customers to anything unpleasant for an extra buck.

They won’t even tell people that they don’t advertise.

That’s how much they don’t advertise.

They want their food and service to speak for itself.

And don’t get me wrong, it totally does.

Their food is delicious, their employees are as warm as their waffles, and their atmosphere is home.

But I can’t help myself.

I want to scream their name from the mountaintops.

I want to project their yellow beacon of breakfast onto the moon. 

But they already feel like all stars. 

^^^ That’s a reference to their ALL-STAR special.

You should try it. 

It’s got waffles, jellied toast, bacon, hash browns, and eggs (anyway you like em’).

And they’ll substitute any of those for whatever.

But they’d never tell you about it unless you asked.

So hate me, not them.

I did this.

Not brought to you by Waffle House.

I still remember the day it all started.

I was at the grocery store with my mom when I reached for a can of Chef Boyardee, my favorite at the time.

“Not tonight honey. You've had Chef every night this week" my mom said, gently denying my request.

“But I love Chef” I mumbled sadly.

I reluctantly put the can back on the shelf, my mind already imagining the bland dinner that awaited me at home.

That same night, as I watched TV, he came to me. 

I was sitting cross legged on the floor when a can of his ravioli rolled up to me. “Chef!” I screamed gleefully, “You’re back.”

This would be the first and last time Chef was a welcomed surprise in our home. 

As time went on, the cans piled up. Spaghetti, beefaroni, lasagna, ravioli, mini ravioli, and even pizza sauce would find their way to my feet. Like dead mice from some invisible Italian housecat. 

“They didn’t just roll here themselves, you little thief!” my mom would yell, smacking me with a wooden spoon. 

I pointed out the little bits of gravel embedded in the cans wrapper (literal concrete evidence as far as I was concerned). But my mom only saw this as a ruse, and an insult to her intelligence. 

Eventually my mom sent me to a psychologist to try to sort out what she couldn’t beat out.

I was diagnosed with kleptomania, which my therapist claimed was likely triggered by my dad leaving us, and me attempting to fill the void with a cartoonish, italian version of him.

Fast forward to today and I’m an adult with the same problem, but none of the leniency. 

I’ve been in jail for 3 years now because my sentence keeps getting extended.

Apparently I keep stealing a certain canned food from the commissary. 

I tell them to check the security cameras, but Chef clearly knows all the blind spots.

I talked to the prison shrink today and she sees little hope for rehabilitation. The sad thing is I know she’s right. 

Nothing will change his ways.

So if you’re reading this, I’m already dead. 

I slit my wrists with the lid to a Chef Boyardee can.

This last part is for you Mom.

I know I’ve been dead to you for a while now. 

But please—visit my grave.

I’m sure Chef will visit. He always does.

Maybe then you’ll finally see the truth.

Love- The girl from that 2004 rolling can Chef Boyardee commercial

PS- Sorry for all the blood and sauce on the wall, I’m not allowed pencils.