In my early twenties, I had a Franco-American boyfriend who, despite what his background might suggest, knew very little about the world. Once, he found a childhood picture of me sitting on a black Santa’s lap and almost gave himself an aneurism. I watched him convulse, all thirty two of his little brown teeth exposed, the vein on his temple threatening to pop over a man in a bad wig. A black Santa, the hilarity! I, of course, didn’t think it was weird at all. But then again, no one had a weirder Santa than my family. Our Weird Santa came year round, and he took cramped commercial flights instead of the usual herd of reindeer.

Welcome to another thrilling edition of Defenestration: the literary magazine dedicated to humor and… let’s see here… Ernest Hemingway’s balls, apparently.

The door opened. Two rather large spiders dressed neatly in business suits crawled in. Sally gaped as they hopped from the floor to the tops of a chair, and then from the chair to the table top.

From our first interaction I could tell it was going to be a dog fight. Neither combatant was going to give the adversary an inch. That’s just how things are when you are of a class as distinguished as mine. A target is placed upon your back unfairly by the world and you must try with all your might not to be struck by an arrow. I shall set the scene for one such occasion when a man of lower class tried to put me in my place. I was on a date. It was a 3rd date if you must know. I thought I’d display a touch of class by taking her to an eatery known for its gourmet burgers and brews. I could tell she was impressed.

There is a tower, they say, that stands forgotten behind the mists of time.

As things go, it’s not the most specific of addresses.The unidentified “they” like to ominously declare that, “Precious few are able to find the tower,” to which their listeners usually reply, “Yeah, no kidding, buddy.