Sasha Debevec-McKenney

HOW TO TELL IF YOU WERE DATING

When Justina asks, Did you ever hang out and not have sex?
I admit, yes, there was that one Saturday morning 
we watched the entire hot dog eating contest. 
Each eater entered clean, like a wrestler 
hyping a crowd of ketchup hats, hands up
to a sky of mustard and relish confetti. 
It's not eating. It’s more like swallowing.
They turn their stomachs off. 
The whole body becomes a stomach. 
Palms flat as they slap the food into their mouths like 
Why are you doing this again, SLAP, 
why can't you eat hot dogs like a normal person, SLAP, 
why does everything have SLAP to be a competition
for you, SLAP, why is it always the next hot dog?  
In thirty seconds they’re at six hot dogs. 
All bent elbows and wet bread. 
It wasn’t dating, it was swallowing.  

STAND UP ROUTINE

So I was watching Babe last night, you know, the movie where the pig herds sheep?
And I can’t stop thinking about the people in the crowd at the sheep herding competition,
who saw the pig herd sheep—I mean, go re-watch the movie, you can see
some of these extras are giving the performance of a lifetime, their lives change
on their faces—they’ve just seen something truly remarkable, something Truly Remarkable.
Like, imagine you’ve been going to sheep herding competitions your whole life;
you grew up doing it, your father did it, his father. And now you want your grandson
to herd sheep, it’s only right and natural, and so one Sunday you take him to lunch 
at your favorite diner, and you tell your favorite waitress you don’t need another refill, 
and then the two of you drive out to the sheep herding competition, and you sit smugly
on the benches, knowing exactly what to expect. And then the pig comes out
and herds the sheep. It’s almost as if—and you feel crazy for thinking this—
the pig is actually talking to the sheep? Your face opens. Your world changes.
What sporting event could ever top this? One weekend your grandson invites you
to his football game, he never got into herding sheep after all, and that’s fine,
because you love him, and he scores the final goal, and the team lifts him up
on their shoulders, and the whole time you’re thinking, well, this isn’t as impressive
as when I saw that pig herd sheep. It’s merely the truth! You’re proud of your grandson,
he’s got a scholarship for the fall, but he’s a human being who speaks English
who was been taught, in English, how to score goals. It objectively isn’t as impressive.
Nothing is. You used to love the bacon and tomato sandwich at that diner:
the bacon was thick, the black pepper was freshly ground, the salt flakes were fat.
But it’s not as good as when you saw the pig herd sheep. 
I don’t think they use freshly ground pepper anymore, you say, to your grandson,
I mean, the sandwich is still good but it isn’t—as good as the time we saw the pig,
he finishes. He makes eye contact with the waitress. Talking about that pig again,
Gary? she asks, dropping the check. You pay the check. You kiss your grandson
on his cheek. He leaves for school tomorrow. You promise yourself you will relearn
how to be impressed by your life. You will try to see something every day that
could, possibly be better than seeing the pig herd sheep. You go to the grocery store.
You buy white bread, name brand mayonnaise, and thick cut bacon.
You thank God that it is tomato season. You remake the sandwich from the diner,
exactly the way you liked it. It isn’t even hard. The sandwich is perfect.
You’re impressed by yourself, and by your innate ability to make a punchline
of the world right back. You laugh out loud into your empty kitchen.