Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Demon Al

Demon Al created ferocious butterflies released from sinister drones ordered from a military surplus website.
They specifically attacked hedge fund managers on lunch break, ripping off patches a designer top coats, defecating on carefully coiffed heads. Engorged with raw flesh, they flew off into the horizon, police sirens in their wake, leaving Wall Street in shambles.
Dow down 645 points.

Sticky Thorn,

I decided to end it all. My writing career had stagnated. There was nothing to live for. Guns were too violent, pills too unpredictable, a knife too messy. Getting hit by a bus would traumatize innocents. Smothering myself with a pillow took more willpower than I had.
Then I saw a tiny cactus in the window of a flower shop that moaned 'take me.' I did just that, got it home, stripped naked and proceded to begin puncturing myself all over, creating small rivulets of blood. This is how I'd bleed out tragically. This was one sticky obscure cactus and that mixed stickiness with the blood.
Unfortunately I'd forgotten this was the maid's day to clean. Mavis had her own key, came in, put on the light and stared at me sprawled on my recliner, bleeding and sticky.
"Mister, for a writer you can't even jerk off right. Now I have to clean this mess up. Gonna cost you extra. Move your damn leg. Nothing I ain't seen before and seen bigger."
I perked up. There was a one act play here and I'd better jump on it before the muse leaves me.

Cancelled Flights

All flights were cancelled due to the storm. People always told Hal he looked like Bill Murray. Casually dressed, hair askew, sneakers, cynical expression, modest paunch, a certain fetid smell. Maybe it was time to take advantage.
He begged a cabbie to take him to Chicago, a two hundred mile ride, claiming he was the star and was good for it. The cabbie was dubious. Burp, he ordered. Burp like Bill. Hal did as told. The cabbie shrugged. Passable, he said. Now give me a beer fart.
But I haven't been drinking, Hal protested.
You're Bill Murray-- that shouldn't make a difference.
Hal came up with a weak facsimile. The cabbie shook his head.
Just then a BMW pulled up and out popped the real Bill Murray, who tripped, fell down, burped and farted in short order. The key was still in the ignition. Hal gave the cabbie $20 to help him dump Murray in the back seat.
Hal noticed they both smelled of rancid salmon. Maybe we are related.

Roses

Lillian saw the bunch of red roses on her doorstep and became alarmed. She scanned the rooftops, noticed all the snipers in place. How could they not have seen? Last May Abe found a basket of artichokes on his porch. He brought them inside where they promptly exploded causing him to lose a hand. This was followed by Babs discovering a box of Clementine oranges on her stoop. Luckily she tripped carrying them and when they blew up she was feet away and escaped with slight burns.
     One month later, Louie saw a cactus plant by the curb, weant over to inspect and had it blow up in his face, causing loss of an ear. So the rooftop sniper solution was formed. Anyone seen dropping off anything at anyone's house was suspect.
     Lillian's loneliness battled her caution. Maybe she had a secret admirer. She leaned forward, extending her arms.
     "No!" came a shout from the rooftop.
     She turned just as the ticking got louder.

Sunday, November 23, 2014

Success

I bought new white and gold handles for my kitchen cabinets, 20 in all. Is there nothing more effective or elegant than a Phillips screwdriver? I am a master with this instrument and within an hour I had replaced my old, decrepit handles with my beautiful babies. I open cabinets now just to feel their smoothness.
     Success.
     I realized a man is not a man without a top line robe, so I went to TJX because I had zero balance on my card. After minutes of searching, I found my treasure. Long, black and soft as cashmere. I buried my face in it, shoppers be damned. At home I saw how it accentuated my shoulders and how I resembled a dictator from a small, but vital country.
     Success.
     I needed pajama bottoms and headed right for Kohl's with my $5 coupon and 15% off. I found a red plaid wool number that screamed 'take me!'. But I made the foolish mistake of grabbing an extra large for unknown reasons. No matter how tight I tie the drawstring, it keeps sliding down to my ankles, especially when I get up to pee. Maybe women find this erotic.
     I had given my old robe to the Salvation Army. Maybe I could do a switch and take one of their pj bottoms that fit me. Not a success.
     But as long as I have my magnificent robe I don't need to leave the house.

Saturday, November 22, 2014

Shadow Power

My most masculine characteristic is my shadow. I stand by the shoreline at twilight, my silhouette punctuating the horizon. I have a strong, mysterious, uber male shadow that bows to no one. People shy away from it and give me due respect If I extend my arm holding a screwdriver it looks even more impressive.
On sunny days I am a shadow God. Clouds dilute my effect, so I stay inside, placing my lamps at just the right angle to create distinguished shadows of me. This can last all day or until some sultry woman knocks on my door, a lady who has seen me from the street and wants to control the man with the world class shadow.
I make sure I am in the half light as I answer the door.

Out of Time

Now parking meters consist of machines, two to a block, where you stick in money and get a slip which goes on your dashboard and indicates how much time you have. Think of the pressure here. Five people behind you waiting impatiently while you fumble with change or a credit card.
What if a near sighted Nazi meter person misreads the time on your slip and issues a ticket?  What happened to the old meters? Are they piling up in landfills?
Out of time is a nasty concept, especially when certain body parts seem to be fading in usefulness. What happens when my hips give out? Are women attracted to limping men? I think not. What if I can't scratch myself anymore due to outmoded fingers? Who will scratch me and at what cost? Will there be parameters on location?
I'm going to start scratching myself to get an idea how badly my fingers are working.