Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.


I have been given a brief moment in time in which to bring forth the bounty I have culled from my intarweb travels. While you enjoy the great generosity with which I am turning over these gems of comedic wit, I will be away in the real world of flesh and brick imbibing with old friends in my old hometown. Happy reading! (Click on the quotes to read their stories. I made the links black so that this entry would not turn into some fiery orange blaze of verdanic hell. You're welcome).

Madame Pierce
I was probably kind of loud, due to the mass quantities of Chardonnay or whatever it was, and she was gently clearing her throat but I was too drunk to take notice, and finally she grasped my arm and motioned with her chin, and there he was, sitting directly behind me on the patio, smiling uncomfortably, having probably overheard most of what I just said about attempting to make out with him.

The idea of Crash was for me to make up stupid jokes so that Donny would laugh and lose control of the wheelchair. I won when this happened; Donny won when it didn’t.

I was afraid that they were all sitting there stunned by the image of TM running – running to the grocery store, running to the coffee shop, running with books, her musical instrument, an umbrella, running and running and running. And then, in the midst of everyone trying to picture TM The Runner, she blurted out: "Sometimes I cross-country ski to school too."

I drag myself out of bed to see the grey cat, looking incredibly freaked out and helpless, walking around dragging these plastic grocery bags along with him.

And how long would it be before others noticed? Someone who happened to be in the same place two weeks in a row, their curiosity piqued after seeing the same thing both times. How long before we had our own little audience who followed us around, thereby becoming a part of our self-styled cult?

His wife just stood by him with a look on her face like, great, he's telling the dildo box story again.

Greg reached in and took out his bowling ball. He put his fingers in the holes and looked back at the camaro which was inching up the street. I remember thinking to myself "No fucking way" as he stood on the sidewalk in the classic bowlers stance.

But by the Jesus don't you run afoul of this seedy bunch if you choose to be the frogman of your subjunctive dreams.

...if some monstrous infant with lobster claws and genital teeth and maybe a missing anus had been included in the group, perhaps my enthusiasm would be somewhat dampened.