Whine and Dine

Thanks to everyone who reached out after I published Comedy: The Stuff of Tragedy. I received so many private messages, all of them some combination of encouraging, kind, and loving from readers of this Substack, most of whom I’ve never actually met.

I did receive one standout message from a friend I’ll call Jessica (because that’s her name). She sent me a screenshot of the comment section where, in response to the post about my sister’s suicide, she wrote, “Not your funniest post. It was ok. Needed more jokes.”

Before you crucify her in your mind, know that she gets my sense of humor, my reverence for irreverence, and I appreciated someone taking the piss out of me. Yes, death and tragedy suck, and their related emotions have their place, but laughter—that’s the thing.

In the interest of not taking things so seriously, I’m sharing a story I wrote for my kids a long time ago. It’s in the style of Shel Silverstein, and I got a little playful with it. I laid down some audio and sketched out some moments. It’s good fun, especially if you have kids or grandkids.

Whine and Dine

In my travels, I've been many places,

Done many things, seen many faces. 

There was one town I visited, not too long ago—

I thought it was normal. Turns out, it only seemed so. 

It looked like a lot of other towns I knew

With lots of boys and girls, many just like you. 

But this town had a secret and, no, not the fun clubhouse kind.

This secret was a whopper—scared one third-grader right out of his mind. 

The town had a monster who lived here and there,

A monster who could be lurking anytime, anywhere.

He hunted small children, specifically ones who would whine,

And he boiled them in his pot, often with garlic and brine.  

The whining, it had been hypothesized...

Well... it made the kids tasty, made them tenderized. 

One summer night, a first-grader began to whine and to pout,

When the monster heard, he prepped a stew with worms and sauerkraut.

As the first grader's whining hit an all-time high,

The monster added to his stew some six-year-old thigh.

Later that week, another kid was devoured. 

It wasn't too long after her attitude had soured.

And that wasn't the last kid. Not a chance. Nope, nope, nope! 

The monster picked off more who would whine, gripe and mope. 

The town parents loved their children and didn't want them eaten. 

Not by monster, not by ghost, not by fiend, freak, or cretin.

So they hired a wise woman, an old mother of the earth,

Smiling and warm, an ancient matriarch of mirth. 

And it didn't take her long to identify the trend

That was bringing the children to a gastronomic end.

She observed the complaining and noted the whiny appeals

That turned kids into ingredients for the monster's savory meals. 

And so the wise woman made a groundbreaking suggestion

To keep kids from being part of the monster's digestion. 

She proposed that every whiny, belly-aching attitude

Be replaced by super-duper enthusiastic gratitude. 

Be thankful for parents, friends and siblings, too. 

Be thankful for a silly joke on days you feel blue.

 Be grateful for medicine and vegetables, all those things that make you say "yuck."

Be grateful for every time you were stumped, bested, or stuck.  

Be grateful for what you have, grateful for what you don't. 

If you are, you won't get eaten. It's true! You really won't. 

Well, the kids took her advice and the whining stopped turkey-cold. 

The kids practiced gratitude, practiced just like they were told. 

They were thankful everyday, appreciative every night, 

And soon enough that hungry monster lost its appetite.

The monster in that town was never seen again.

And the kids cried, "Hallelujah, baby! Amen, amen, amen!" 

Now, you might be grateful, too, that this monster was run out,

But don't think you're safe to whine—it still might be about. 

No, not in that town—perhaps in yours—monsters are known to stray. 

So swap that whining for gratitude and keep that monster appetite away. 

---

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this romp, consider reading some of my other stories, like the time I took my kids on an adventure that killed Santa Claus, figuratively speaking.

Or the time my son and I nearly got into a brawl with a Deadhead.

Or the time Judy Blume hit the fast forward button on my daughter’s dance with puberty.

Or if you haven’t read my dark crime comedy Dig, it’s a fictional take on how fatal flaws like whining can turn you into a monster. You can get it on Amazon for less than a buck if you’re into ebooks, a little more for the paperback.