There are days when I just want to hug everyone like when I was a child. But, as I grew older, I realized some people smell bad and shouldn't be embraced. The child inside me emerges when I'm hungry and gobble down food, using both hands, slurping down whatever liquid is available. I create crumbs, stains, and deep burps, only caring about my immediate needs.
If I see a child fall off a tricycle my memory brings me back to those days when I, too, would fall and just lay on the sidewalk with no one to pick me up. I impulsively rush over and help that fallen child, bringing it to its feet with comforting words.
But this is 2014 and immediately a police car pulls up and I'm questioned for touching someone else's kid.
I sometimes lie in bed dreaming of my future just like when I was a kid. Then I look down at my wrinkled body and realize I don't have much of a future. I will probably die alone in a furnished room surrounded by my books and grocery lists I can't decipher.
There is one parallel between the child within and the older man--neither of us can pee straight.
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Beating the System
There are four washers, one of which costs more, and three dryers, one of which is far more powerful, in my condo laundry room. If you can't rise early enough to beat everyone else to the facility, resort to another strategy. Show up unshaven, unclean, leering and cackling. If a woman arrives at the same time, most likely she will scurry away in fear and you are home free.
If two men show up, both employing the same strategy, if you are a senior citizen, stoop, moan, cough on him, mumble a question like, why aren't the damn meds working? That should drive him off.
When I am alone with that huge dryer and I hear its humming as the clothes tumble, I imagine I am in a nuclear sub off the coast of Greenland keeping our country safe. Then the buzzer goes off, returning me to reality--an unshaven, smelly, stooped, coughing old guy who has once again beaten the condo laundry room system.
If two men show up, both employing the same strategy, if you are a senior citizen, stoop, moan, cough on him, mumble a question like, why aren't the damn meds working? That should drive him off.
When I am alone with that huge dryer and I hear its humming as the clothes tumble, I imagine I am in a nuclear sub off the coast of Greenland keeping our country safe. Then the buzzer goes off, returning me to reality--an unshaven, smelly, stooped, coughing old guy who has once again beaten the condo laundry room system.
Bathrobe Time is Sacred
When I don my plush black velour bathrobe, my broad shoulders filling that garment like lava engulfing a valley, I am a morning God. I will sip my coffee and rub my cheek against the fabric like a newborn cub. I see myself as nobility in exile, driven out by ungrateful peasants, just waiting for my minions to arise and return me to my rightful dominion.
Meantime, I will relax in my state of the art recliner and wait for my pet turtle to awaken so I have something to talk to.
Meantime, I will relax in my state of the art recliner and wait for my pet turtle to awaken so I have something to talk to.
Monday, December 22, 2014
Obsessive Gardeners
Sitting on my tricycle, I'd watch them as a child. Three of them living close by. Digging and shoving plants in holes, ripping out weeds with a vengeance, sprinkling seeds everywhere.
A strange smile covered their faces as they watered and watered away. As I grew older they became more frightening. Tanned and wrinkled from too much sun, stooped from all that kneeling, fingers curled with Carpel Tunnel from cutting, trimming, snipping, displaying the wild eyed look of inmates.
Obsessive gardeners have a God Complex. They plant, nurture, create life, then viciously yank it away to be placed in bouquets for pagan rituals like prom night. I once tried to speak to one, but her fierce glare drove me away. My parents, thankfully, were all about concrete and tar. Not one tulip around my home.
Sadly, I have a friend who sold her home and garden and now lives in an apartment. I see her now and then, twitching, drooling, shaking, cursing, sliding into dis-function. I fear she will wind up sitting on a bench outside some hospital surrounded by pretty plants that some white uniformed attendant is always watering.
A strange smile covered their faces as they watered and watered away. As I grew older they became more frightening. Tanned and wrinkled from too much sun, stooped from all that kneeling, fingers curled with Carpel Tunnel from cutting, trimming, snipping, displaying the wild eyed look of inmates.
Obsessive gardeners have a God Complex. They plant, nurture, create life, then viciously yank it away to be placed in bouquets for pagan rituals like prom night. I once tried to speak to one, but her fierce glare drove me away. My parents, thankfully, were all about concrete and tar. Not one tulip around my home.
Sadly, I have a friend who sold her home and garden and now lives in an apartment. I see her now and then, twitching, drooling, shaking, cursing, sliding into dis-function. I fear she will wind up sitting on a bench outside some hospital surrounded by pretty plants that some white uniformed attendant is always watering.
Custer's Scout
My name is Rocco and I was chief scout for General Custer. I see that look on your face. Listen to me. There were extenuating circumstances.
I had told him that morning I had lost my eyeglasses. Plus I had waxy buildup in both ears. Couldn't hear a thing. He just shrugs and tells me to go do my job. What could I say? My backup, Victor Nunez, had gallstones and didn't even make the trip.
So I'm right smack in the middle of Little Bighorn valley, can't see a damn thing with all that dust, I'm squinting like crazy, one finger in my ear, trying to dig out as much wax as I can, praying I make the right decision.
Finally I give the signal to follow me and they come trailing along single file until the whole regiment is in this stinking rat hole. Suddenly I look up and every Indian in the universe is charging down the slopes, screaming like maniacs. I'm thinking, boy are we screwed.
I survived by playing dead.
All these years later I'm sitting in a bar commiserating with Ralph, who was President Lincoln's personal bodyguard. He keeps mumbling, "All I did was leave to take a pee. Three stinking minutes I was gone."
I had told him that morning I had lost my eyeglasses. Plus I had waxy buildup in both ears. Couldn't hear a thing. He just shrugs and tells me to go do my job. What could I say? My backup, Victor Nunez, had gallstones and didn't even make the trip.
So I'm right smack in the middle of Little Bighorn valley, can't see a damn thing with all that dust, I'm squinting like crazy, one finger in my ear, trying to dig out as much wax as I can, praying I make the right decision.
Finally I give the signal to follow me and they come trailing along single file until the whole regiment is in this stinking rat hole. Suddenly I look up and every Indian in the universe is charging down the slopes, screaming like maniacs. I'm thinking, boy are we screwed.
I survived by playing dead.
All these years later I'm sitting in a bar commiserating with Ralph, who was President Lincoln's personal bodyguard. He keeps mumbling, "All I did was leave to take a pee. Three stinking minutes I was gone."
The Mystery of Mulch
Scientists have examined mulch for decades without discovering its essence. Is it part of the plant family? Is it insect waste? Was it brought here by an alien species eons ago? What is its purpose and can it help mankind?
In its pure form mulch is smoother than dirt, prettier than mud, looser than clay.
Wordsworth once wrote, :Mulch o mulch, upon my land you feast,your pungent odor fills my breast. Keep your plankton. Keep your seaweed. I embrace you as though you were my child. I know in my heart other life forms will awaken and spring from you. I just pray they don't bite."
Observers have noted the preponderance of mushrooms growing around mulch.There is something metaphysical in that juxtaposition. Perhaps mulch's mysteries will be revealed when an international team of scientists converge in Portugal at The Mulch Resource Center. The World Mulch Organization is being pressured to prove its relevance in an increasingly man made fertilizer society.
In its pure form mulch is smoother than dirt, prettier than mud, looser than clay.
Wordsworth once wrote, :Mulch o mulch, upon my land you feast,your pungent odor fills my breast. Keep your plankton. Keep your seaweed. I embrace you as though you were my child. I know in my heart other life forms will awaken and spring from you. I just pray they don't bite."
Observers have noted the preponderance of mushrooms growing around mulch.There is something metaphysical in that juxtaposition. Perhaps mulch's mysteries will be revealed when an international team of scientists converge in Portugal at The Mulch Resource Center. The World Mulch Organization is being pressured to prove its relevance in an increasingly man made fertilizer society.
Sunday, December 14, 2014
Hash Browns
My name is Frank Fanta. I'm a private investigator and I notice things.
I was having coffee in Dunkin', reading how the Jets got slammed again. I put the paper down and check out the guy to my right, who has spread his hash browns across a napkin. I counted twelve before he began wolfing them down.
A moment later, a young girl with that peppy expression I hate sits down with her hash browns looking concerned. I could see her hash brown pouch wasn't full. She went back to the counter and asked if she could have several more. The counter guy, stocky, swarthy, bulbous nose, barked out a no. There was no compromise in his face. Hands on hips, he was ready to stare her down. You got what you ordered, lady, he said.
She turned away defeated. I don't like guys who bark at girls, so I got up slowly and walked over.
"That guy over there got twelve hash browns," I whispered hoarsely. "I believe you owe this young lady some food."
I gave him my steely glare.
"This is none of your business, buddy," he said.
"I'm making it my business."
I touch my jacket. He saw the bulge. Yeah, I was packing.
Frank Fanta, P.I., I growled, flashing my ID.
The punk flinched and skulked over to the oven for a new pack of browns. I handed it to the grateful girl with a slight nod and returned to my seat.
Then the dame entered the picture.
She must have been hanging in the corner out of my sight. If liquid could move it would look like this. Tall and leggy, with a Veronica Lake hair sweep, eyes that seethed trouble and announced this was one lake that needed to be drained and I was dying to be her sump pump.
"I heard you say you're a private eye, Mr. Fanta. I may have a job for you. I believe my husband is cheating on me."
I leaned back and gobbled her up with my eyes, trying not to twitch.
"Sit down. We can talk here, Mrs..."
"Webster. As in the dictionary."
"Can I get you some hash browns?" It wasn't a question.
I was having coffee in Dunkin', reading how the Jets got slammed again. I put the paper down and check out the guy to my right, who has spread his hash browns across a napkin. I counted twelve before he began wolfing them down.
A moment later, a young girl with that peppy expression I hate sits down with her hash browns looking concerned. I could see her hash brown pouch wasn't full. She went back to the counter and asked if she could have several more. The counter guy, stocky, swarthy, bulbous nose, barked out a no. There was no compromise in his face. Hands on hips, he was ready to stare her down. You got what you ordered, lady, he said.
She turned away defeated. I don't like guys who bark at girls, so I got up slowly and walked over.
"That guy over there got twelve hash browns," I whispered hoarsely. "I believe you owe this young lady some food."
I gave him my steely glare.
"This is none of your business, buddy," he said.
"I'm making it my business."
I touch my jacket. He saw the bulge. Yeah, I was packing.
Frank Fanta, P.I., I growled, flashing my ID.
The punk flinched and skulked over to the oven for a new pack of browns. I handed it to the grateful girl with a slight nod and returned to my seat.
Then the dame entered the picture.
She must have been hanging in the corner out of my sight. If liquid could move it would look like this. Tall and leggy, with a Veronica Lake hair sweep, eyes that seethed trouble and announced this was one lake that needed to be drained and I was dying to be her sump pump.
"I heard you say you're a private eye, Mr. Fanta. I may have a job for you. I believe my husband is cheating on me."
I leaned back and gobbled her up with my eyes, trying not to twitch.
"Sit down. We can talk here, Mrs..."
"Webster. As in the dictionary."
"Can I get you some hash browns?" It wasn't a question.
Saturday, December 13, 2014
Out for Drinks
I don't go out for drinks. I don't drink, period. The phrase connotes more than it states. The subtext is a scenario where people loosen up and reveal secrets, fears, anger.
If it involves co-workers all sorts of problems occur. One may get tipsy and spout harsh words about the boss. Hit on someone who winds up suing for harassment. Make racist, sexist or homophobic remarks one doesn't even remember, except it was recorded on someone's phone.
No, I steer clear of that stuff. On the few occasions I find myself in a bar I order a seltzer or diet soda and get a look from the bartender like why are you taking up a stool, fool?
If it involves co-workers all sorts of problems occur. One may get tipsy and spout harsh words about the boss. Hit on someone who winds up suing for harassment. Make racist, sexist or homophobic remarks one doesn't even remember, except it was recorded on someone's phone.
No, I steer clear of that stuff. On the few occasions I find myself in a bar I order a seltzer or diet soda and get a look from the bartender like why are you taking up a stool, fool?
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
The Train
Noel woke suddenly, confused. It was light out. The landscape outside his train window was unfamiliar. He had boarded the crowded car the previous night heading home from work. Now there was just him and a boy about ten, sniffling and scared, seated three seats in front.
He tried calling his boss, who would be furious if he were late, but his cell battery was dead.
He walked to the boy and attempted to calm him. What was happening? Where did everyone go?
Suddenly the train stopped and the door slid open. He took the boy's hand and led him down the three steps to the grassy ground. All around them were trees and bushes. As soon as they hit the earth, the door closed and the train resumed its journey. No one else had gotten off.
Where are we? the boy asked. There was a rustling in the bushes. Osana Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein appeared and suddenly it all made sense.
Noel wondered who was on the next train.
Anybody here play cards? Saddam asked.
Who's the babe? Osana asked.
Noel flinched. Leona Helmsley sauntered out of the trees.
Anybody got any wine, she asked gruffly. I haven't had a drink in ages.
He tried calling his boss, who would be furious if he were late, but his cell battery was dead.
He walked to the boy and attempted to calm him. What was happening? Where did everyone go?
Suddenly the train stopped and the door slid open. He took the boy's hand and led him down the three steps to the grassy ground. All around them were trees and bushes. As soon as they hit the earth, the door closed and the train resumed its journey. No one else had gotten off.
Where are we? the boy asked. There was a rustling in the bushes. Osana Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein appeared and suddenly it all made sense.
Noel wondered who was on the next train.
Anybody here play cards? Saddam asked.
Who's the babe? Osana asked.
Noel flinched. Leona Helmsley sauntered out of the trees.
Anybody got any wine, she asked gruffly. I haven't had a drink in ages.
Apple Crunching
Women love watching me bite into an apple, any apple. I take big, manly bites, my masculine jaw ripping powerfully through the fruit. I have smoldering Antonio Banderas eyes and I glower right through the chewing process. I can see ladies squirming, gasping, touching their arms and shoulders, sweating around me, even strangers.
When I reach the core, some moan.
Sometimes they overpower me, rip off my clothes and drip saliva upon my massive pecs. By passers can only stare in wonder. If it happens in a restuarant all hell breaks loose.
The same occurs when I bite into any piece of fruit, but only celery brings a similar strong reaction. What can I say? Women are different than men.
When I reach the core, some moan.
Sometimes they overpower me, rip off my clothes and drip saliva upon my massive pecs. By passers can only stare in wonder. If it happens in a restuarant all hell breaks loose.
The same occurs when I bite into any piece of fruit, but only celery brings a similar strong reaction. What can I say? Women are different than men.
Pez Addiction
Maury was addicted to Pez, going through a dozen dispensers a day. His apartment was littered with used dispensers. Perhaps it was caused by a college experiment where researchers made he eat 5000 Good 'N Plenty candies to analyze their effect. Desperate to get off them, he met a shady guy in an alley who sold him his first Pez, with the promise they would wean him off the other stuff.
Maury unfortunately developed a phobia of the various designs on the head of the dispenser, which one pressed to get the candy. Especially the Ronald Reagan one.
Soon he was offering sex for Pez.
Pez smell emanated from his clothes and his dinner parties consisting of Pez appetizer, entree, dessert and soluble Pez juice to wash it down, failed badly. He lost all his friends and social status. Longing for normalcy, he ordered pizza, but, alas, couldn't help but topping it with Pez tablets.
There is no happy ending to this story. He was found behind a Waldbaum's dumpster, empty Pez dispensers under his lifeless body.
Maury unfortunately developed a phobia of the various designs on the head of the dispenser, which one pressed to get the candy. Especially the Ronald Reagan one.
Soon he was offering sex for Pez.
Pez smell emanated from his clothes and his dinner parties consisting of Pez appetizer, entree, dessert and soluble Pez juice to wash it down, failed badly. He lost all his friends and social status. Longing for normalcy, he ordered pizza, but, alas, couldn't help but topping it with Pez tablets.
There is no happy ending to this story. He was found behind a Waldbaum's dumpster, empty Pez dispensers under his lifeless body.
Rudolf
There was a knock on the door, interrupting Mrs. Claus's baking. When she opened it she found Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer accompanied by a dapper man holding a briefcase.
My name is Ari Goldstein from Finley & Goldstein theatrical agency. I represent Rudolf. We would like to give Santa first option on signing my client to a multi-year deal. Afterall, he did save Christmas.
But he's just one of many reindder, she protested.
Oh contra ire. Rudolf is now a brand that can upgrade your entire operation..
She shook her head. Santa is upstairs sleeping. I can't make decisions without him. Come inside and have some cookies.
Certainly, but I believe at the moment Rudy has to relieve himself.
Oh my. Will he make a mess?
Maybe. But look at the up side. Frozen Rudy crap will explode the Internet. That is but a small example of what you are sitting on. This reindeer is gold. Got any oatmeal raisin?
My name is Ari Goldstein from Finley & Goldstein theatrical agency. I represent Rudolf. We would like to give Santa first option on signing my client to a multi-year deal. Afterall, he did save Christmas.
But he's just one of many reindder, she protested.
Oh contra ire. Rudolf is now a brand that can upgrade your entire operation..
She shook her head. Santa is upstairs sleeping. I can't make decisions without him. Come inside and have some cookies.
Certainly, but I believe at the moment Rudy has to relieve himself.
Oh my. Will he make a mess?
Maybe. But look at the up side. Frozen Rudy crap will explode the Internet. That is but a small example of what you are sitting on. This reindeer is gold. Got any oatmeal raisin?
The Space Between
The space between my cogent thoughts grows wider, as does that between my complete sentences. My breathing also has longer spaces between it. I sense my lungs are losing interest keeping me alive. Thankfully the space between bowel movements has remained constant. Rather than wondering about the space between the stars, I consider the space between cantaloupe sales at the market.
If the space between me and another writer is too small I just may steal his characters.
Why is there papers in the space between cheese slices?
How much space between goldfish should there be in that bowl?
What about crowded hay rides? How much straw should each contain?
See? My thoughts devolve into fragments of nonsense. Luckily most of my friends are too self involved to notice.
If the space between me and another writer is too small I just may steal his characters.
Why is there papers in the space between cheese slices?
How much space between goldfish should there be in that bowl?
What about crowded hay rides? How much straw should each contain?
See? My thoughts devolve into fragments of nonsense. Luckily most of my friends are too self involved to notice.
Future Libraries
Libraries must change or die. Here are a few suggestions
Librarians wear tight shorts and display cleavage.
Locate an open bar away from the children's section.
Domino competitions.
Tap dancing lessons, preferably not the same time as the domino setup.
Lock kids in a padded room after feeding them lots of sugar and watch their behavior patterns. If cuts and bruises result, end the experiment.
Classes working with quick drying clay for seniors who may not live to see the end result of regular drying clay.
Set up a clinic to check blood pressure and cholesterol. Have lollipops for every volunteer.
At Halloween let patrons dress as their favorite literary character.
Charal groups consisting of local destitute and homeless would cheer everyone.
Only stock books with colorful covers.
Have stand up comics perform in the reference room.
Squeeze in adult puppet shows with material unsuitable for kids.
Librarians wear tight shorts and display cleavage.
Locate an open bar away from the children's section.
Domino competitions.
Tap dancing lessons, preferably not the same time as the domino setup.
Lock kids in a padded room after feeding them lots of sugar and watch their behavior patterns. If cuts and bruises result, end the experiment.
Classes working with quick drying clay for seniors who may not live to see the end result of regular drying clay.
Set up a clinic to check blood pressure and cholesterol. Have lollipops for every volunteer.
At Halloween let patrons dress as their favorite literary character.
Charal groups consisting of local destitute and homeless would cheer everyone.
Only stock books with colorful covers.
Have stand up comics perform in the reference room.
Squeeze in adult puppet shows with material unsuitable for kids.
Daffy Duck
I am tired of giving Daffy Duck the benefit of the doubt. At least Donald is mostly under control, though he has a temper. He has a mature relationship with Daisy and gets along with Mickey.
Daffy is a mess. His posture, slovenly appearance, inability to cogently express himself, his spraying of saliva and his terrible decision making are too much to ignore.
I want to believe in this duck, but there is too much negativity surrounding him. He makes every situation worse. He never learns from his mistakes. It's no shocker that he has never had a long standing relationship. Except for Betty Boop--that slattern.
Perhaps his parents abandoned him when they realized he wasn't like other ducks. He has to accept responsibility for his actions. His squawking and weak excuses do not wash. The least he could do is control his saliva.
Daffy is a mess. His posture, slovenly appearance, inability to cogently express himself, his spraying of saliva and his terrible decision making are too much to ignore.
I want to believe in this duck, but there is too much negativity surrounding him. He makes every situation worse. He never learns from his mistakes. It's no shocker that he has never had a long standing relationship. Except for Betty Boop--that slattern.
Perhaps his parents abandoned him when they realized he wasn't like other ducks. He has to accept responsibility for his actions. His squawking and weak excuses do not wash. The least he could do is control his saliva.
Saturday, December 6, 2014
Playing Cards
Laura was bluffing. No way she could beat my hand. I threw down my cards and smiled. Damn. Woman had a full house.
I stood and removed my undershirt. I was down to my skivvies. She was fully dressed. I hadn't won a single hand.
Too bad, she snickered. Want to quit?
Her eyes dropped to my impressive package filling my tighty whities.
I gave her my Antonio Banderas glower. If I stop now, I whispered, we both know you will come away unhappy and unsatisfied. She slowly licked her lips and smiled salaciously. Let's get this party started, big boy. I sat down. As she began dealing, the door opened and footsteps in the hall followed.
Mom, dad, I'm home!
Laura yelped, I gasped.
We forgot the kids had a half day.
Don't come in here, Billy! Mommy and daddy are busy. Go make hot chocolate.
I fumbled with my pants. Simple physics. Trying to fit a big package into a small space is always a problem.
I stood and removed my undershirt. I was down to my skivvies. She was fully dressed. I hadn't won a single hand.
Too bad, she snickered. Want to quit?
Her eyes dropped to my impressive package filling my tighty whities.
I gave her my Antonio Banderas glower. If I stop now, I whispered, we both know you will come away unhappy and unsatisfied. She slowly licked her lips and smiled salaciously. Let's get this party started, big boy. I sat down. As she began dealing, the door opened and footsteps in the hall followed.
Mom, dad, I'm home!
Laura yelped, I gasped.
We forgot the kids had a half day.
Don't come in here, Billy! Mommy and daddy are busy. Go make hot chocolate.
I fumbled with my pants. Simple physics. Trying to fit a big package into a small space is always a problem.
Cold, Hard Truth
Babies are not cute. Blotchy skin, no coordination,drooling spittle, beady eyes, sweaty hair, curled up fingers and toes, bad smell, no muscles, no teeth, no chin, flopping around, gurgling nonsense, wailing for no reason, they gum your finger without provocation.
Turtles are not cute. You can't pet them, they don't lick you, don't hunt rodents, can't trust them, lack elegance, no passion in their lovemaking, move as if the weight of the world was on their shell, which you can use to advertize energy drinks.
Plankton are not cute. They are bland and all look alike, lazily swaying with the current. Killer jelly fish have a purpose. Explain the goals of plankton. The plant is like a long winded, dull professor lecturing on the evolution of the turtle.
Turtles are not cute. You can't pet them, they don't lick you, don't hunt rodents, can't trust them, lack elegance, no passion in their lovemaking, move as if the weight of the world was on their shell, which you can use to advertize energy drinks.
Plankton are not cute. They are bland and all look alike, lazily swaying with the current. Killer jelly fish have a purpose. Explain the goals of plankton. The plant is like a long winded, dull professor lecturing on the evolution of the turtle.
Friday, December 5, 2014
Vikings in Love
Greta-We have to talk, Lars.
Lars-We never talk.
Greta-I need more communication.
Lars-My beloved, I remind you I am a viking, fierce and strong. I conquer civilizations, roam far and wide, eat wild boar. We are not talkers by nature.
Great-I am unsatisfied in bed.
Lars-What!? Do you not enjoy being embraced in my massive hairy arms? Are my grunts not manly enough?
Greta-You are gone for weeks at a time. When you're home, it takes so long for us to unlayer all that fur, the moment passes.
Lars-Great God of Sea Cliffs! You have stunned Lars to his calf length wooly boots. What is the solution, my precious?
Greta-Stay home with me.
Lars-I would be a laughing stock. We vikings must keep exploring across seas and the frozen tundra, wind in our faces, rampaging, looting, striking fear.
Greta-I feel so alone.
Lars-What of that device I brought you from Greenland which keeps all the women happy when the men are gone?
Greta-I am not sure where to place it. What if I put it in backwards?
Lars-I will try it on myself first.
Greta-This I have to see.
Lars-Help me remove these furs.
Greta-When was the last time you washed them. Whew!
Lars-Vikings wash nothing. We are stronger than bacteria.
Lars-We never talk.
Greta-I need more communication.
Lars-My beloved, I remind you I am a viking, fierce and strong. I conquer civilizations, roam far and wide, eat wild boar. We are not talkers by nature.
Great-I am unsatisfied in bed.
Lars-What!? Do you not enjoy being embraced in my massive hairy arms? Are my grunts not manly enough?
Greta-You are gone for weeks at a time. When you're home, it takes so long for us to unlayer all that fur, the moment passes.
Lars-Great God of Sea Cliffs! You have stunned Lars to his calf length wooly boots. What is the solution, my precious?
Greta-Stay home with me.
Lars-I would be a laughing stock. We vikings must keep exploring across seas and the frozen tundra, wind in our faces, rampaging, looting, striking fear.
Greta-I feel so alone.
Lars-What of that device I brought you from Greenland which keeps all the women happy when the men are gone?
Greta-I am not sure where to place it. What if I put it in backwards?
Lars-I will try it on myself first.
Greta-This I have to see.
Lars-Help me remove these furs.
Greta-When was the last time you washed them. Whew!
Lars-Vikings wash nothing. We are stronger than bacteria.
Post Apocalyptic Society
We've finished all the Spam. Damn. The ground is poisoned, most of the animals are dead. Our water supply is diminishing.
I still have the knock out pills. The question is--who do I eat first?
Sara is small and delicate boned. Perhaps an appetizer. Tim would be like chewing leather. Heather is all bones. That leaves Carol, Paul, Meg and Rachel. Lots of meat there. Of course I'd have to shave them first. Don't like hair in my food.
I must keep one alive so we can breed and sustain the human race. I choose Aggie, a pale poetess, quiet and intelligent. We would have extraordinary kids. I will have to get her drunk first. I pray Paul hasn't consumed all the beer.
I still have the knock out pills. The question is--who do I eat first?
Sara is small and delicate boned. Perhaps an appetizer. Tim would be like chewing leather. Heather is all bones. That leaves Carol, Paul, Meg and Rachel. Lots of meat there. Of course I'd have to shave them first. Don't like hair in my food.
I must keep one alive so we can breed and sustain the human race. I choose Aggie, a pale poetess, quiet and intelligent. We would have extraordinary kids. I will have to get her drunk first. I pray Paul hasn't consumed all the beer.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Modern Scrooge
Brad hated the holidays. He'd drive around in his pick up blasting Wagnerian military marches to drown out carolers, whom he pelted with paintball globs. He torched snowmen and sprayed Japanese graffiti on department store display windows. He tied kids to telephone poles with strong tinsel and left them there.
Brad owned a floor covering store and forced his employees on Christmas Eve to stand outside and push throw rugs and bathroom tile.
There was a reason for all this. When he was 12 his dad ordered eggnog from a catalog and though it looked and tasted like the real thing, soon after his entire family began reciting old speeches by former NYC mayor Abe Beame. Except for him, who refrained, they all wound up in the looney bin.
An investigation revealed egg nog terrorists had tampered with the product. Thus, his anger every Christmas.
Sidewalk Santas ran when they saw Brad coming. Let's just say buckshot was involved/.
Brad owned a floor covering store and forced his employees on Christmas Eve to stand outside and push throw rugs and bathroom tile.
There was a reason for all this. When he was 12 his dad ordered eggnog from a catalog and though it looked and tasted like the real thing, soon after his entire family began reciting old speeches by former NYC mayor Abe Beame. Except for him, who refrained, they all wound up in the looney bin.
An investigation revealed egg nog terrorists had tampered with the product. Thus, his anger every Christmas.
Sidewalk Santas ran when they saw Brad coming. Let's just say buckshot was involved/.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)