Permit For Falling

Posted on February 5, 2018 by sungmokoo

Peanuts fallen can't get up

I had fallen. I could not get up. I was outside upon a sidewalk amidst an extreme polar vortex. I did not have the luxury of grabbing a shower curtain to slow my fall, not like that scary hag of a bad actress who falls in a bathtub and says, “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up”™. At last, here is my comeuppance for mocking the elderly who depend on Life Alert®, America’s leading senior medical alert system. For reasons beyond my limited knowledge, the impact of the fall made me incapable of speech.
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The Starving Village And The Questionable Provider

Posted on February 3, 2018 by sungmokoo

“Spoiler alert! Spoiler alert! You are all about to die!”

The tiny village was in complete disarray. First, the peaceful villagers were overtaken by pillaging Huns, and let me tell you, these Huns were total dicks, they took all their food and women, leaving behind a tragic hungry sausage population. Second, nature, in the form of an unsympathetic typhoon devastated their homes. Finally, third, they were dimwitted.

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Groundhog Day Is My Christmas Jam, Yo

Posted on February 2, 2018 by sungmokoo

My favorite ornament, and it has nothing to do with the similarity to my grandpuhpah. I hate the way Americans disrespect their elders with their ugly pronunciations.

It is not an accident that I arrived in Pennsylvania, America for the very first time on February 2nd, 1984. It would be the last official year that America was still the land of opportunity, and not this competitive reality show of point and blame the newest immigrant. It was methodically purposeful that it was Groundhog’s Day.

I shit you not, I am a native of Carmexico, yes, the country that supplies the world with ironic lip balm, and the people who resemble human-sized groundhogs. I had to see for myself that there was actually an American holiday dedicated to the animal-sized version of my people.

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A Working Christmas

Posted on January 30, 2018 by sungmokoo

This is not me. It is Robert Young from 1957. Our resemblance to each other is eerie.

My name is Carl Young, not to be confused by the realtor extraordinaire from the southwest suburbs with the same name. No worries, it happens all the time. In college, one weirdo asked if I was related to some famous psychiatrist. I walked on. If anything, a lot of people seem to think I look like a young Robert Young. It leads me to wonder, will I look like the old Robert Young as I get older?

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