The Little Box

Alma touched the little box in her pocket and smiled. Inside was a brooch left to her by Grandma Wilma before she died. She was an elite senior snowboarder who won numerous competitions before a sudden landslide buried her on a Colorado mountain side.
That is how she would have wanted to go, Alma thought. She had just come from the reading of the will and while others got money, she was satisfied with this jewelry. Her Granny had shared thoughts and ambitions with her over the years and thoroughly supported Alma's intended career as an alligator hunter in the Everglades. She even got her a 12 gauge shotgun to blow the beasts out of the water.
Alma took off her coat and hat. In fact, she stripped naked except for the brooch around her neck. Then she danced around the apartment to Granny's favorite band--Megadeth.
Good memories flooded her mind. Granny sure knew how to roll. They never did find her snowboard.

All in the Timing

I try to time my water consumption on visits to my urologist. I know he will give me the urine retain test and measure my stream strength. I thought I timed it right, but he was running late. I could barely hold it in. Another guy was hopping around in the hall with the same problem. In fact, the entire waiting room was squirming in agony. Personally I think they secretly film all this and laugh about it later.
Anyway, I will have to have laser surgery to shrink my prostate. Maybe I can get them to smooth out my neck wattle. The thought of peeing blood afterward is not soothing. Aging is not engaging.

Noah Has Second Thoughts

Not enough Rubik Cubes to keep monkeys busy
Ants squashed during lunchtime rush
Bison bullying kangaroos.
Orangutang yanks on cow's udder
Turtles sea sick
Rabbits mounting every species
Flamingos too aloof
Pheasants too flirty
Wart Hogs ostracized
Not enough leg room for stork
Hyenas inebriated
Pigs snore
Camels smoking in non smoking area
Crew lusting after llamas
Coyote chewed off yorkie tail
Cats climb to lookout perch and defecate on everyone
Donkeys snorting laugh
Someone stole Noah's thong

Mind Over Matter

Do not adopt a defeatist attitude when cleaning out the basement. Assess the amount and type of debris, calculate how much upper body strength you will need, and get organized.
FDR once said we have nothing to fear but our cataclysmic basement. The Pope has condemned messy cellars as Unchristian. I'm sure Kierkegaard had something to say about this subject. The guy never shut up.
Your first priority is finding any confused elderly relatives who may have wandered down there during a family event. Guide them up to fresh air and hydrate them. Don't be judgmental.
Remove the dust and mold from the pool table you stopped using after your wife kept beating you. Extract rusty air conditioners made in the sixties you never threw out because you wanted a backup. Free weights and the treadmill only make you feel guilty. Get a muscular teen to drag them upstairs for your next yard sale. Deflate your inflatable dolls. You've grown past that stage. The dart board has to be taken down or visitors will think you're a desperate loner.
Sell off your Ethel Merman records. Keep Sergio Franchi. Let neighborhood kids frolic in your spare tires. Any skeletal remnants should be buried quietly. Again, no judgment here.
If your back locks up it's probably because you actually haven't matured past the inflatable doll stage.

Dog Upstairs

The woman upstairs now owns a large poodle like dog that barks every time I move or come in and out. She is constantly shrieking at her dog like it is a stubborn ten year old. She used to just shriek at the next door condo for making too much noise.
The dog seems to pee where it wants. So far not in the small vestibule, but that is coming. I need to form a strategy. If I confront her, she may sic the beast on me. A large black poodle may not sound intimidating, but I'm assuming first she'll knock me down and then let the dog tear me to pieces. She outweighs me by a lot.
I used to own a dog, a mid sized shepherd, so I am not anti-dog. But I tense up if humans consider their pet the only conversational outlet they have. She says she has a boyfriend, whom I've never seen. This is beginning to worry me.

Chico and the Gun

I was busy gardening when my neighbor Chico walked up to me pointing a gun. Give me all your cantaloupe, he said. I was stunned. I have to do this, he explained. I owe the syndicate money from a gambling debt, but they're willing to take melon.
Take the watermelon, I pleaded. He shook his head. Nunzio hates the pits. Honey Dew, I insisted. Chico cocked the hammer. I gave him my beautiful cantaloupe. I'm going to need your trowel too, he said. I flushed with anger. That trowel was handed down over generations. Take the rake.
No rakes. He was adamant. I didn't want to die in my own garden. I gave him the tool. He wasn't satisfied. The syndicate wants all your Maurice Sendek books, your Mario Lanza records, and every bit of dental floss.
Please, not Lanza, I sobbed. Take my Josh Groban.
I'd never known him to be violent, but he was cornered and desperate. I caved in and got him everything he asked. At least I got to keep my cummerbund, I thought. No, that was wrong. Chico wanted that too. I was sick watching him stroll off, cummerbund hanging off his shoulder. I felt completely emasculated.
My petunias got the worst of my upchucking. I swore I'd make it up to them.

Horse radish and hiccups

Graduate students received a government grant to study the connection between horse radish and hiccups. They monitored the frequency, power and duration of hiccup seizures after consumption of the substance. Some volunteers were sexually aroused, one trying to mount a researcher. Others flushed excessively, body temperature sky rocketed, blood trickled from ears.
Important insights were collected. The young men and women were ecstatic, their futures secured. Unfortunately, a violent storm hit the research center and blew off the roof. Horse radish was blown across five states leading to a hiccup epidemic involving thousands.
The Discovery Channel is all over this. Parts of the researchers are still being collected.
March 23 has been declared Dead Graduate Students Remembrance Day. Higher education remains a staple of this country's priorities.

Teeth

In the future all teeth will be owned by conglomerates run by evil CEOs. As baby teeth fall out, parents will be required to bring them to collection centers where they will be chemically treated to enhance size and strength. They will be sold to wholesalers who will regulate the price, which means the richest will obtain the highest quality teeth.
Teeth that grow in after baby teeth will be part of a lottery. Names chosen will compete for a lifetime supply of laughing gas by engaging in a race to see who can yank out their own teeth fastest. Losers go toothless.
Where does the tooth fairy fit in?
Since they are no longer allowed to collect baby teeth, they will retrained as brokers between the toothless and wholesalers. You can bet illegal importation of teeth from Third World countries will flood the enamal market.
Dentists will have their hands full implanting purchased, enhanced teeth.
For the foreseeable future humans will maintain control of their ear wax.

Troubled Youth

Excerpt from Cadaver Dreams, available on Amazon

"I just wish I had steadier hands, more time to focus in on them. I hate wasting bb pellets, especially with their price going up.
I like to think I'm fairly liberal minded. I certainly don't feel superior to these kids just because I've lived longer. I remember when I was their age and how much boredom I had to endure, especially before I got my license.
I'm not sure what this town provides as far as activities for its youth. But I've had it with that group hanging out at the empty lot across the street. Looking at them horsing around, groping the girls. Disgusting. Just a moment. Let me line one up. This scope really helps. Ping! Right in the thigh. Look at him hopping around. Hooligan. I always aim low. Not the face. I'm not a sadist."

Putin Doll

Al's doll shop was so small people usually walked past without noticing it. Al had a trust fund, loved dolls and could care less if he had customers.
One day a short, dapper man entered and offered to sell Al the doll he brought. He removed it from the box and to Al's amusement it resembled Russian leader Vladimir Putin, about a foot high. Its shirt was off in deference to Putin's penchant for being photographed shirtless.
Al paid him $15 and chuckled when the man said there was plenty more where that came from. Al nodded, smiling as the man said Good Day and left. The doll was placed in the small window with a $20 tag. Al resumed his routine, which included taking a nap.
Ten minutes later he was rudely awakened by a stampede of customers demanding he sell them the doll. Some offered $100. He explained he only had one in stock, but he would soon obtain more. After they skulked out disappointed, he called the number on the man's business card.
Next day boxes of Putin dolls arrived. The line was out the door. Al finally asked a customer what the attraction was. We get to choose Putin's top, the woman explained. She planned on donning a colorful cabana shirt on her doll. A guy wanted him wearing a Red Sox jersey. A young girl announced she was putting one of her Barbie bikini tops on Putin's replica.
Al kept one for himself, draping a silk Hugh Hefner bathrobe on the bombastic leader's body. After all, he did lead a world power.

More Ten Word or Less Stories

The wolves are at the door. I sense spittle accumulating.
Lighthouse keeper orgasms at the sound of a foghorn.
My boss wears downsized employees' scalps on his belt.
The Aunt Mary Convention ran out of gossip.
He wrote No Crossing Out and then crossed it out.
A mouthful of worms is an old fisherman's trick.
Arm wrestling the nun renewed his faith.
His gift of a butcher block was not well received.
Six Super Heroes are suffering from hemorrhoids.
Luigi ponders his life selling lemon ice.
My liver spots spell out Poughkeepsie.
Low flying drones spoiled his barbecue.

My Life in Crime

I staggered down the block. I knew what I had to do. I had been drinking again and now I was desperate. I remembered faces, not names.
So I waited in the shadows as they emerged from the building where the writers met. I used to be part of that group. Then my career took off and I left. Published books, signings, TV appearances, readings, the whole bit.
Six months ago I just ran out of words. Couldn't write a stinking sentence. My career has stalled, my agent was hounding me. I'm facing bankruptcy. I watched them leave. Who to choose? Too big. Too fast. Might recognize me. Finally I chose one, a slim woman. Followed her to a dimly lit street. Now or never. I pretended I had a gun in my raincoat. Jumped in front of her.
"Gimme words! Now!!"
Oh horror! I recognized her and she me. It was Allie, who had bought my first book, Allie who worshiped me.
"Joe! What happened to you? You look terrible."
"Words! I need words!" That's all I could say. She reached into her pocket and gave me a slip of paper.
"This is all I have on me." She was uncomfortable.
I grabbed the slip and read it--'palpable'. What the hell was I supposed to do with that? I couldn't get away fast enough. I had lost her respect. I stuck the word in my coat along with a parenthesis I has swiped from someone at a poetry reading.
I would have to build on this or risk sliding further into a life of crime.

Passion for Macrame

Larry lived for macrame. As a youth he showed great promise. His parents sent him to out of state competitions and he won awards. Macrame was his major in college. Women found his sensitivity attractive and basically threw themselves at him. Because of his familiarity with the forms and structures of macrame, he was able to create a number of new sexual positions based on this intricate art.
He got a teaching job at a progressive school and his students respected his passion. Except for Lucretia, who never shaved her legs or armpits. She had been tossed out of ukelele class and shoved into his group. She made indifferent macrame constructions that easily crumbled and tossed macrame spitballs at him.
Larry was losing the respect of his class.
There was only one solution. Fortunately, this school allowed Taser guns to be used on unruly students. So, as it stands now, Lucretia is sprawled across her desk, unconscious. The other kids have twice the respect as they had for Larry. Art for art's sake triumphs.

Ten Words or Less

Bursting with confidence, he rose. Adult diapers, I whispered.
Dependent clauses hit me up for spare change.
Re gifting Tabasco sauce is a deal breaker.
I shredded your poems, you cheating hussy.
His in-laws circled him and began moving closer.
The only thing we have to fear is estrogen shortage.
I can clear my throat in six different languages.
Which aisle is the imported irony?
Last one in has to pay the damn piper.
In the still of the night, an owl breaks wind.
If this line has more than ten words, spank me.
Give me your tired, your poor, your pole dancers.

Just a Hunch

I had a hunch she had the hots for me. A look, a smile. I loved her intensity, her daily black wardrobe, the tattoos and nose ring. There was a vulnerability buried under the surface toughness that I wanted to explore.
One day her motorcycle wouldn't kick over after we left work--she was a computer savant. I offered her a lift home and she nodded silently. My attempts at conversation were met with one word answers.
But when we got to her apartment, my hunch was right. She said one word-- 'upstairs'--and I followed her into her place. Within seconds she was tearing off my clothes and throwing me against a wall. She was an animal devouring me.
Our couplings have maintained that raw passion. Sometimes, when I am a good boy, she lets me trace her dragon tattoo with my finger.
I sense that if I am a bad boy, things will get ugly quick.

Unlimited Talk and Text

I can't talk about it. It's too painful. But I will. Mel was my best friend, a talker. At lunch, all I had to do was nod periodically as he went on and on. Then one day he stopped speaking and began texting. In order to get a response, I had to text back, which meant I had to manipulate a keyboard. I had grown quite comfortable with just nodding. It meant more responsibility on my shoulders.
After several months Mel showed up without his phone. I needed an explanation, but when I tried speaking, only gibberish came out. Same with Mel. Our mouths had forgotten how to form word sounds. Luckily I had a pad and pen and asked through a note. He said his phone had been repossessed by the carrier because he was going over his text limit. We spent the entire lunch exchanging notes.
Recently I've been practicing making cogent sounds. I can almost say sufferin' succotash. If you don't use your glottal muscle it deteriorates. I've also been working on bringing my nod back to snuff and including head shaking exercises in case I disagree without something Mel writes or texts or speaks. Communication between friends is so important.

Twelve Years a Chippendale Dancer

My hips and knees are shot from squatting and doing splits onstage. No appreciation, no adequate health coverage, a bad rash from women sticking dirty bills in my waistband. Desperate for cash, I had to sell patches of my chest hair online. Once that runs out, I'll have to use other body hair. I thought I had a lifetime career I could build on, maybe get my own reality show. My dreams were squashed when those geniuses developed virtual exotic dancers you could bring into your home as holograms. That gave people the power to decide which positions each dancer would assume and what facial expressions they would display. And it only cost a fraction of what patrons were shelling out at these clubs.
I'm still relatively attractive. Maybe I could run for office.