Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Writing Exercise: Captions

Write at least a line or up to a page caption for one of the following from the New Yorker. Even though this one is short, it was one of my favorite exercises from my college writing class at Portland State. Name of Portland strip club changed to protect the not so innocent.




   Acapulco was a lot nicer place back in the early 2000s. Nowadays you were lucky if you got a fried fish that hadn't been stepped on. And you could just forget about ordering a steak. 
   In the year 2014, blaming the recession, the management put the dancers in charge of the kitchen and things went downhill quickly from there. 
   One night a girl from Reed brought her cello to work to protest the working conditions. Between performances, she complained about the lack of healthcare and a guaranteed minimum wage. As the night wore on, I started getting a bit tipsy so I don't remember it all but I'm pretty sure she mentioned human sex trafficking, the rising costs of student loans and housing, and climate refugees. After drinking a fifth of tequila and my fifth beer, I blacked out during her performance of Beethoven's fifth.
   I came to in the back parking lot, freezing my ass off and it was starting to rain. I stood up and looked at my reflection in the window. Shit. My eyes were blackened and my nose broken. I reached into my pocket for my phone. It was gone. Figures. That cello playing bitch probably took it.
   "FUUUUUCK!" I yelled out, looking for a rock to throw through the window. A train roared by from down by the yards. I fantasized about what it would be like to throw myself down in front of it, letting the steel wheels slice me in two like a Christmas ham. That'd be a cool way to die.    
   I wanted to call the cops and tell them I was robbed and assaulted. I wanted to punch somebody in the face. But who would they believe really, a drunk guy or the bouncer? 
   As the train's whistle died down so did my rage. Calling the cops wouldn't help anyways. They'd probably just laugh at my drunk ass. I resigned myself to a long walk home in the cold rain. It would give me plenty of time to come up with a story to tell my mom when I got home.


Post press conference phone call from Dan Snyder's office:

"Look Dan, times have changed. You can't just go around calling people Redskins anymore. Do you call anybody a blackskin, yellowskin, or whiteskin? Hell no!. What? You wore a cowboy hat to the press conference? That's it, I quit! find yourself another PR man!"


  "Kia said he comes with the car and they have a strict no returns policy. PETA protesters have surrounded the house, and your mother wants to know if she's gonna have to watch the kids this weekend."


  
"Eye told you unicorns were real."
 (look close and you can see the people only have on eye.)

Categories/tags: blogging writing 99823 99835

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