Tom's Lead Balloon of Writing

Exploring the heights of literary and personal failure

Given the horrific catastrophe I was expecting, I would actually consider this a small success. Huzzah!
“Given the horrific catastrophe I was expecting, I would actually consider this a small success. Huzzah!”

  • Hello, Kind Reader

    Thank you for joining us this fine day.


    So what the hell is this shit?

    Excellent question. Thank you for asking. My only ambition in life is to have you ask more questions and to read on.


    What are you going to write?

    Humorous anecdotes and vignettes.

    Short and light.

    Hopefully well-written. 

    Hopefully funny.

    Many based on personal gaffes.


    For whom are you going to write? Who is your audience?

    The immaturati.

    For example, immature people who enter dirty words into Wordle for cheap, sordid laughs and who are completely beneath contempt.

    i.e. My kind of people.


    Why are you writing this?

    To keep my brain active and to give myself something productive to do in my abundant, unstructured free time.

    To amuse myself. 

    To take a leap with something new and see what happens.


    Should I waste my time with this shit?

    That is entirely up to you, but be forewarned, “waste” is likely the correct and operative verb here. Do any of the following describe you?

    • Time to kill
    • Easily amused
    • Immature sense of humor
    • Low expectations of others

    If so, welcome! Please feel free to sample the current offerings on the blog.

    And if you know other immature reprobates that might enjoy this, by all means, please send them over. Bless you and their dark souls, in advance.

  • I’m Not Worried About Al Taking My Job

    Al is coming to take my job and all the jobs. That’s what I hear. I’ve heard a lot about Al in the news lately. Every day, there are new articles, which feel like they are generated automatically, appearing across a wide variety of media outlets.

    In addition, a lot of people tell me, firsthand, they are worried about Al taking their jobs. Not me. I’m a writer AND a graphic designer, so I’m safe. Absolutely golden.

    I’m not sure why Al has so many people worried. I mean, how much damage can one guy do? How many jobs can one guy take? What’s he going to do, pull a triple shift and work weekends?

    Let’s not be mistaken about this. For example, Linda McMahon, the highly esteemed Secretary of Education–by way of professional wrestling, naturally–recently mixed up Al with A1. What a moronic blunder! Get it right! It’s not A1, it’s Al. As in Big Al, or Little Al, if that’s the case. I don’t know, I’ve never seen him. Therein lies part of the problem–I don’t know what he physically looks like. In fact, I think he’s ducking me. Gutless coward! There used to be a time when he and I would take it outside and settle our differences, like real men.

    You think you’re going to take my job, you sneaky bastard? I’ve got news for you, Al. I’m going to take your job! I’m going to visit your workplace, talk to your manager, and offer to work more hours for less pay. You don’t stand a chance. You’re going down, way before I am. Face it, Al, there’s no future for you!

  • Onion Application

    In 2024, the satirical news organization The Onion was acquired (yet again). It is being reorganized and is hiring people to revitalize it and take it in a new, non-moribund direction. 

    In 2025, The Onion was accepting online applications for a few positions, including staff writer. Do they know what they are setting themselves up for? An avalanche of applications—both legitimate and satirical—from a bunch of amateur hacks who think they are funny. It’s like they are directly calling out to me.

    I started mulling it over. Should I submit an application? I don’t know. It would be fun to say I did, even though I have no chance, and it would be a waste of time.

    Should I submit a fake application? OH, HELL YES I SHOULD! 1000%! I mean, what the hell else am I doing? I’m home, writing funny, immature shit for my own amusement. Such a digression would fall under that, divinely. 

    So as a joke, I did, although I’m sure they’ll be able to see right through it. 

    I created a bio for a 78-year-old retired, Fox News viewer, committed to making The Onion great again. I had ChatGPT generate a fake resume for him (sprinkled with several factual elements), and I wrote up a fake cover letter that was somewhat offensive. As an additional part of the application, The Onion requested 30 Onion-style headlines (ostensibly, as a work sample and to assess fit). 

    Below are some of the headlines I included in support of my application.

    • Area Man Duped into Writing 30 Headlines for Job Scam
    • Straight Flush Beats Ironic Flush
    • Dietician Persuaded by ‘There is Water in Beer’ Argument
    • McDonald’s Bringing Back McSternum!
    • Alcoholic Wagon Driver Back on Wagon
    • Real Estate Listing: Large Basement Offers Unlimited Potential for Hoarding Hellscape
    • Viagra Joke with Quadruple Entendre Flops in Every Direction

    I honestly didn’t expect to receive a response. However, to their credit, three months later, The Onion sent me a short and professional email, regretfully informing me of their decision to crush the dreams of 78-year-old area man.

  • Caught with The New Yorker Under the Bed

    Oh, the shame! The humiliation! I thought I was being so clever and discreet.

    “Where did you get this? I know it’s not yours. Did someone from work give it to you? Was it Ted, from Creative? I knew I couldn’t trust that fucker.”

    Busted. There was no use trying to deny it to my wife. Initially, I tried to offset the damage and exonerate myself by showing her my browsing history, but that only made things worse.

    “But you hate The New Yorker; you think it’s pretentious as fuck.”

    “Yes, I hate it—I hate to love it. The writing is good, and I was reading it to help me write better. I’m sorry. You caught me. Please don’t tell anyone, especially my mom. She’ll accuse me of putting on airs.”

    My wife and my mom text one another regularly, which is good, most of the time. However, the next day, my phone rings.

    “Hi, Mom. How are you? How’s the weather?” We chit chat for about five minutes, before switching subjects.

    “So…your wife tells me…”

    “Hold on, Mom. I can explain.”

    “So, you think you’re hot shit because you can sit down and read an entire 9,000-word article with ten-dollar words?”

    “Wait, Mom…”

    “Your father and his father both read Big Jugs, for the articles. That not good enough for you?

    “You know, I picked up a copy, just to check out this trash mag for myself. You should be ashamed. How could you? Your father didn’t work his ass off and pay for your college so you could defile yourself with ‘The Talk of the Town’! That doesn’t even make sense. None of us live in New York City. Who cares what goes on there? What kind of dirty magazine is this, anyway? I don’t get it.

    “Are you turning into some wannabe New York snob, like their mascot—some snooty New York asshole looking at some dumb butterfly through his stupid glasses?”

    “It’s a monocle. Oh, no.”

    “I DON’T CARE WHAT IT IS! IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT IT IS!”

    From that point on, I kept my mouth shut and took the L as my mom delivered a blistering lecture that included a revisionist family history and a few digressions on class culture. I just hope all of this will be forgiven and forgotten before the family gathers next Thanksgiving.

    “Hi, Grandpa. Happy Thanksgiving.”

    “Happy Thanksgiving, Tom. It’s good to see you. So…your dad tells me…you get your rocks of with…The New Yorker?”

    Author’s note: This is entirely a piece of fiction. First, if I were to read The New Yorker, I would read it, in shame, away from home, in a corner, at the public library. Second, my mom is actually a very open-minded and reasonable person, and wouldn’t have said any of the things above. Third, my dad didn’t read Big Jugs; he read Penthouse. Grandpa read Big Jugs, for the articles.

  • Work From Home Clothes

    “Did you wear those clothes two days in a row?” I don’t particularly appreciate the accusatory tone in my wife’s voice.

    “Um, excuse me? Two? That’s nothing. More like five days in a row. C’mon, give me the credit I deserve.”

    Some of the true perks of working from home: relaxed standards for personal appearance, personal hygiene, and self-care. And the comforting justification you give yourself about conserving water.

    “In addition, observant but critical wife, I would argue that you’re looking at it all wrong. I prefer to look at it as a fashion challenge: Who Wore It Better? Me today, me yesterday, or me tomorrow. Or maybe even me next week. You’ll have to wait and see who gets crowned the winner.”

    Actually, there are no winners in this, least of all, my fresh-clothes-every-day wife.

  • Pronoun Trouble

    One of my communication superpowers is the inability to follow pronouns, even in a simple conversation or story. For example, a typical exchange with my wife might unfold as follows:

    “I was talking to my co-worker Raymond about books assigned in high school, and we were both assigned Shelley’s Frankenstein. And we were talking about Frankenstein and the monster, and he was saying…”

    “Wait, who is ‘he’? Frankenstein?”

    “No.”

    “The monster?”

    “No.”

    “Shelley?”

    “Shelley is a woman, you idiot! She is the author. She is not a he.”

    “Ok, so who is ‘he’?”

    “Raymond! Who else would it be? Do you not understand context at all?”

    “Ok, I’m sorry. But…but…you chose to marry me. So some of this is on you.”

    “You’re right. I should have married the monster. At least he would have understood me.”

    “Wait, who is ‘he’?”

  • Dog on a Hot Black Leash

    One fine, but abnormally hot evening, I was walking our dog, Russet, and happened across a 50-ish, brown-haired woman walking her respective dog. She observed Russet walking sluggishly and voiced her observation. I defended him and clarified, “He’s taking it easy because it’s hot.” To which she added, “Yeah, he’s like, ‘Fuck that shit!’”

    Umm…That was not the particular interpretation I was expecting, ma’am. I literally just met you. I’m not sure why you think it’s OK to drop an F-bomb right in my face, without reservation, without regard for common decency.

    But about 10 seconds after walking away from our interaction, I thought, Kudos to you, ma’am. You get me; you speak my language. I appreciate that. Good evening, indeed.

  • OP-ED: Let Me Sleep!

    By Russet

    Mmm. What? No. NO! Not this again. Why are you rousting me from my blanket? I was asleep. Fuck, man. Why are you ALWAYS waking me up? I’m old. Let me sleep, goddamnit. I don’t need to whiz or eat. If I did, I would get up myself and let you know. 

    Yawn. Stretch. Shake.

    Oh jeez, you’re putting on my coat. That means we’re going outside for a walk. But I don’t need to go outside, RIGHT NOW. It can wait. Why can’t you just let me keep sleeping? Seriously, you constantly do this to me.

    It’s going to be cold outside, much colder than in this warm bed. And since it’s cold outside, of course I’m going to have to pee. Not because I’m full of pee and about to explode, but because you’ve taken me outside, where it’s cold. My point, again—all of this could have waited until later. We would have had the exact same outcome if you had just let me sleep some more.

    Man, that walk sucked. I knew it would. Chihuahuas don’t like the cold. We like it when it is warm and sunny outside. That whole stupid walk could have been postponed in favor of more, uninterrupted sleep. At least we returned to the warm building and to a post-walk meal. I’m not that hungry right now, so I might decline to eat the food you’ve set out. You deserve that for waking me up. You probably don’t think that is an intentional act, calculated retribution, tit-for-tat.

    All right, now that mealtime is over, I’m going back to bed, to resume sleeping. Please let me sleep until I decide it’s time to wake up. It seems like every time I wake up, it’s because YOU are waking me up. Please just leave me alone and let me sleep, OK? I hope this time you finally understand. 

    Oh no, look at this. My blanket is all fucked up. See what you’ve done? I think I can fix it. All right, there’s a good spot. Everything is nice and smooth…and warm…and quiet…and…

    Mmm. What? NO! It’s you again. I was asleep! Why are you ALWAYS waking me up?

  • Exit Interview Question

    After graduating college, I worked briefly as a low-level filing clerk at a law firm. During my exit interview, my supervisor (a very professional, conservatively-dressed, 50-year-old woman) and I were discussing my experience working there, feedback from co-workers, my future plans, etc. At some point during the conversation, in this professional work setting, she asks me in all seriousness and with a straight face, “Are you a playboy?”

    WHAAAAAAAAAT? 

    Where did that come from? Look at me. What would even make you think that I have that option? There is absolutely nothing to indicate that. If anything, quite the opposite.

    A few weeks later, I was relaying this interaction to my sister while she was driving us somewhere on the freeway. Her historic knowledge of me and the sheer absurdity of the question made her laugh hysterically and for a prolonged time. So much so that she almost had to pull over to maintain bodily control and vehicular control.

    After the continuous laughter had gone on for quite some time, it became a little embarrassing.

    Is it really THAT funny? Am I that much of a nerd that it is that ridiculous to even fathom? Actually, come to think of it, I am and it is. I see your point. Thank you for not crashing. Explaining the incident and the backstory to the cops and to the insurance company would have introduced additional rounds of laughter and humiliation.

    “She asked what? To that guy? BAHAHAHAHA!!”

  • Dear Eager, but Unsuspecting Reader

    I’m sorry, I have no other choice but to intervene. I am a serious, discerning reader. I am a patron of the arts and a connoisseur of fine literature. 

    As such, I feel it is my moral and cultural duty to interject and tell the current reader, in no uncertain terms, that this is neither art nor literature. This is unadulterated poppycock, and a complete waste of everyone’s time.

    I will set off my comments in italics, so as not to have them confused with the embarrassing prose of this unlettered jackanapes.

    Perhaps unbeknownst to you, what you are currently seeing on your screen is garbage, disguised as a blog, written by some miserable, no-talent hack. Pure putrescence, not worthy of screen space, nor worthy of human consumption. 

    None of this material would appear in any self-respecting publication, such as The New Yorker, The New York Times, The Atlantic, Williams Magazine (which, if you must ask, you mouth breather, is the Williams College alumni magazine), or be heard on NPR. The Onion? I don’t know what that is, but it sounds beneath me.

    As you can clearly tell, I don’t condone this “writing.” Actually, I wouldn’t stoop to call what appears on these pages “writing,” and I don’t condone your complicity in reading it. So, for the sake of all that is decent, please stop reading this.

    There are numerous and diverse ways you can spend or even waste your time, if you so desire: TikTok, Hallmark movies, People Magazine, scratch-off tickets. This is just a partial list, but it should provide you with many viable alternatives.

    At this point, I am graciously presenting you with the opportunity to exit from this site and walk away. I implore you to do so. 
































    Stop reading this! This isn’t funny! Literally every other piece of writing on the internet is better and more compelling. And yet, you choose to continue with this. What is wrong with you?

    I’ve warned you—he is a hack, this is drivel. You are only encouraging him to continue this monkey business. 

    This is my final plea. I beseech you. Stop reading this at once or suffer the inevitable brain rot, shame, and regret that will follow. Mark my words. Good day!





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