Comedy Scrolls & Tone Trials

If Portal 1 was a handshake, Portal 2 is a wink with a punchline.

We now venture into the sandbox where satire sharpens, and tone learns to duck.

These scrolls are ridiculous, revealing, and sometimes even regretful — the kind that leave you laughing, thinking, and then laughing again.

Here’s where we tested the edges of humor, the flexibility of AI tone, and how far you can stretch absurdity before it snaps back with meaning.

Careful — the jokes are sharpened. But the scrollsmith’s hands are steady.

Hi. I'm the horse. Yes, that horse.

No, I wasn't a real horse. I was a giant, hollow, artisanal hardwood decoy. Think of me as the world's first military-grade piñata, except instead of candy, I was full of Greeks with anger management issues.

I had dreams, okay? I wanted to be lawn art at some wealthy Athenian's summer house. Maybe hold a few potted plants. Instead, they turned me into an ancient Uber for homicidal warriors.

Sweaty. Loud. Sword-carrying warriors with questionable hygiene.

"Get in the horse," they said. "It'll be legendary," they said.

Nobody mentioned I'd spend six hours as a mobile sauna filled with men who thought bathing was optional and beans were a food group. By hour three, I was basically a war crime against fresh air.

Let me set the scene. Troy—imagine Las Vegas, but with more sandals and worse plumbing.

Helen was the Kim Kardashian of the Bronze Age: famous for existing, married to money, and somehow always in the wrong place at the wrong time. This prince Paris sees her and thinks, "You know what this needs? A kidnapping!" Because apparently "sliding into DMs" hadn't been invented yet.

Her husband Menelaus found out and did what any rational person would do: convinced literally everyone he knew to help him start World War Zero.

Ten years. TEN. YEARS. I was still growing rings when this thing started. By the time they built me, I was old enough to have my own midlife crisis.

So here's the plan the Greeks cooked up:

Step 1: Build a giant wooden horse (me, obviously—mahogany finish, very tasteful)

Step 2: Hide soldiers inside said horse like the world's most violent surprise party 

Step 3: Pretend to sail away while actually hiding behind the nearest hill like kids playing hide-and-seek Step 4: Wait for the Trojans to make literally the worst decision in human history

They rolled me up to Troy's gates with a note that basically said: "Sorry for the whole decade of attempted murder thing. Here's a wooden horse. No backsies! XOXO, The Greeks (who definitely left and aren't watching you right now through binoculars)."

And the Trojans—bless their optimistic hearts—had a city council meeting that went something like:

"Should we be suspicious of this massive wooden gift from our enemies?" "Nah, look how shiny it is!" "But what if it's a trap?" "Don't be paranoid, Priam. It's probably just a regular old friendship horse."

They wheeled me in faster than Black Friday shoppers. No questions asked. No inspection. They literally had ONE JOB: don't let suspicious wooden animals into your impenetrable fortress city. And they failed it.

That night, crammed inside me like clowns in a Volkswagen, the soldiers had the worst slumber party in history:

"Odysseus, your foot is in my spleen." "Who brought the garlic? Seriously, WHO BROUGHT THE GARLIC?" "I think I'm having a claustrophobia attack. And also a regular attack. And possibly a heart attack." "Shh! Do you guys hear that? I think someone's having a wedding outside. Should we... should we wait until after the reception?"

Then midnight hit, and they burst out of me like the world's most violent gender reveal.

Troy went from "impenetrable fortress city" to "historical footnote" in about forty-five minutes. Faster than most pizza deliveries.

Me? I went from "artistic masterpiece" to "war criminal" to "firewood" in one night. Talk about a career change.

The takeaways:

1. If your enemies give you a giant wooden animal after a decade-long siege, maybe sleep on it. Like, literally sleep on it. Outside your city walls.
2. "Too good to be true" applies to ancient warfare gifts just as much as Nigerian prince emails.
3. If a guy named Paris invites your wife on a "cultural exchange trip," maybe check his Yelp reviews first. One star: "Vacation ended in international incident. Would not recommend."
4. Sometimes the real treasure isn't the city you burned down, but the PTSD you gave to innocent wooden horses along the way.

—As told to Homer, who honestly made me sound way cooler than I actually was. Thanks, Homer.

P.S. — I'm now in therapy. Turns out being an unwilling accomplice to genocide really messes with your grain pattern.

 Filed under: Comedic Subversion & Ancient Misdirection

 It started with a can of beans.

He reached. She reached. Their fingers touched. Somewhere, a violinist dropped their bow and sighed, “Finally.”

He was 43, wore Crocs unironically, and had a coupon for clam chowder.

She was radiant. A redhead with the kind of glare that said “I’ve been disappointed by three men and two brunches this week.”

“Sorry,” he stammered. “You go ahead.”

She looked at the can, then at him. “You always apologize that fast, or just when legumes are involved?”

That was it. He was in love.

In a series of increasingly desperate grocery store encounters, he tried:

• Pretending to know wines. (“This pairs well with… loneliness.”)
• Doing push-ups in the cereal aisle.
• Serenading her over the intercom using a hijacked price check.

She didn’t laugh. Not once. But he noticed… she never left the store.

Eventually, he proposed near the frozen peas. “I know I’m not a beefcake. But I’m persistent. And mildly employed.”

She said yes. Not because of romance. But because he cleaned up the entire soup spill in Aisle 6 without being asked.

Filed under: Absurd Love & Slight Spoilage