Comedy Stories

Moved On


“Hear me out.”

“No. No-no-no. No. Get out.”

“I can explain.”

“I’m sure you can explain, and I’m equally sure I don’t want you to. Goodbye.”

“It’s been three months. We should be able to talk about it.”

“No. No-no-no. No. Get out.”

“Don’t shut the door on my—DAMMIT.”

“Move your foot.”

“Move the door.”

“Move your foot or I will decapitate it.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. You decapitate heads, not feet.”

“Move your foot or I will de-foot you.”

“That’s not even a word. C’mon. Hear me out. Please.”

“Move your foot.”

“Why not just open the door a little more and let me come in. See? It’s—DAMMIT. STOP DOING THAT. YOU’RE HURTING ME.”

“Stop hurting you? Stop hurting you? Congratulations. You win the Oscar for best verbal irony. Now take both of your feet and walk them and your sad sorry ass back to your ridiculous truck and drive away. Goodbye.”

“I know you are really mad at me. I can explain.”

“Mad at you? I don’t care enough about you to be mad at you. Frankly, I’m mad at me.”

“You should be.”

“I should be mad at myself?!”


“Oh, now please explain. Why should I be mad at myself?”

“Because you gave up on us.”

“I gave up on us? Oh, I’m sorry I made you cheat on me with my own sister—”

“She looks a lot like you.”

“That’s not a credible defense.”

“It was just the one time. Well, three or four times, but it was just the one sister.”

“She is nineteen!”

“Now think of this logically. Technically, my socioemotional state is roughly nineteen years old. Probably younger, if we are being entirely truthful. When you look at it that way, my hooking up with your little sister was actually inevitable.”

“I think you misspelled inexcusable.”

“Trust me, your sister’s relationship wasn’t going to work out with Chad. They married far too young. I was actually doing her, you, your family, and Chad a favor. It was the ultimate sacrifice.”

Chip. Her ex-husband’s name is Chip. They’d only been married for three months, you piece of shit. You could have maybe—oh, I don’t know—not robbed the cradle, humiliated me, and embarrassed yourself.”

“Chip. Got it. He seemed like a really good guy.”

“Especially when he beat your face in—after he found you both together—at my grandfather’s wake.”

“Chris had a wicked left hook.”

“Not Chris. Chip. As in: Chip chipped your front teeth.”

“I still need to get them fixed. You know it’s going to cost a grand to get dental bonding.”

“You should be bonding out of jail.”

“For what? I’ve done nothing criminal.”

“Besides this little breaking and entering thing you’ve got going on today? Your very presence is criminal.”

“You really need to let me come in. We need to talk.”

“You really need to leave. Goodbye.”

“C’mon. We can move on from this. You know I am a late bloomer. I just need a little more time than most—”

“You are thirty-three years old.”

“Exactly. Who really has it all together by thirty-three?”

“Alexander the Great. Jesus Christ. Ex-convicts. Junkies. Nearly everyone.”

“You’ve met my mother. She still infantilizes me. I think I deserve a mulligan on this one.”

“You deserve the door slammed in your face.”

“Yet here you are talking to me.”

“My mistake. Goodbye.”


“Then move your foot out of the door jamb, and then move your carcass out of my life. It’s really quite simple.”



“Thank you. Now let me come in.”

“You stay on the other side of this door—just like the trash cans. The only difference is that the trash cans are useful.”

“Are you really going to throw away ten years together? Are you really throwing away our relationship?”

“I don’t have to throw it away. You did it for me. I’m just not picking it up again.”

“You know I love you.”

“You know I don’t care. The last straw was the last straw.”

“I can get you more straw.”

“I’m sure you can get me almost anything—anything but peace.”

“I can get you a piece of straw.”

“Your clever puns are wasted here. You’re exhausting. Just your presence is exhausting. Just leave. I’m sure there are some college freshmen in town who you can dazzle with your wit and receding hairline.”



“Shut the door.”

“I’m going to.”

“No one is stopping you. See? I have moved my feet. You have moved on. Now, shut the door.”

“I need to see you walk away.”

“Oh, I’ll walk away. This is me walking away.”

“It’s your best side. Your backside. Nothing better than seeing your ass moving farther and farther away from us.”

“From us?”

“From me. From my family.”

“Hey, are you—”

“What. Don’t look at me.”

“I bought you that ugly bathrobe. I know how it used to fit.”

“It fits fine.”

“It fits like you’ve been eating double cheeseburgers for the past month.”

“We are not having this conversation.”

“I think we are.”

“We are not having any more conversations. Get in your truck. Get moving.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“You’re irrelevant.”

“Is it mine?”

“Nope. It’s mine.”

“Who is the father?”

“The father could be a man but chooses to be a man-child. Goodbye.”

“Don’t shut the—DAMMIT.”

“Don’t swear around the baby.”

“I don’t think the baby can hear us.”

“The fetus can hear at 18 weeks.”

“Oh. Hello baby. I’m your daddy.”

“Don’t talk to my baby, and don’t touch my belly.”

“It’s our baby.”

“It’s our son.”

“I have a boy?”

“No, I have a boy. You have 18 years of child support payments.”

“Please let me come in.”

“Please go. Please just move on.”

“Please just let me move back in.”

“Agh—why? Why?! Give me one good reason why I should let you back into our lives?”

“I’ll give you three. I love you. I love our son. And I really love that ugly bathrobe.”

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