Thursday, January 30, 2014

Cadaver Dreams

My new collection of flash fiction, Cadaver Dreams, is now available on Amazon in print and electronic versions. This is the fifth in a projected 13 book series of stories.
It's still exciting to get a book published. The technology has made it easier for everyone. The downside is the plethora of books out there by people who may or may not be good writers. How do you choose? Getting reviews without paying for them for self published authors is nearly impossible. Even if you get out there and make appearances there is no guarantee sales will result. That is why after promoting the first book in 2010 I got discouraged and grew to hate every appearance. So I decided my priority would be to get as many books finished and released, sell some, give a few away and not drive myself crazy.
I feel for anyone dependent on writing to make money. It happens for only a very few.
My stories are wide ranging in subject matter. I've described them as dark satire, but that doesn't apply to all. Some were written far in the past and tweaked. Others are fresh. No matter how many you write, there are always new ideas to be molded into tales. I only wish I had started publishing sooner. Check them out.

Saturday, January 25, 2014

Paradise

One night Eddie went to sleep and woke up in paradise. To him, paradise was living within the comic strip Dilbert. He found himself seated at a cubicle at an unnamed engineering firm, surrounded by Wally, doing nothing but carrying a coffee cup, the clueless boss with the pointy hair, the hot tempered secretary, Dogbert, shrewd, greedy, not to be trusted, Catbert, evil in every way, the visiting Elbonians, and strange new employees who possibly stepped out of a David Lynch film.
And, of course, there was Dilbert himself, with his button down shirt, thick glasses, curled up tie, military haircut and general impotence.
Eddie had no idea what his project was, but neither did anyone else, trapped in a hovering fugue state. There was a staff meeting in which the pointy haired boss made no sense, while the others fired verbal slingshots at him. Dogbert doodled demons with pitchforks. Nothing got accomplished and no one seemed to mind.
Dilbert actually asked Eddie for advice about women, but he had no more success than his inquirer, so no wisdom was exchanged.
But this was his idea of paradise--new people dropping in, a solid core of co-workers, clean cubicles, good lighting, plenty of coffee. He was curious about where he lived, but soon discovered only Dilbert had a home. All the others never seemed to leave the office, had no life outside this place. He decided this wasn't for him. His eyes scanned the area, searching for an exit, so he could return to the non comic world.
A growl came from the top of his cubicle. Dogbert was glaring down at him. Evidently the beast could read his mind. Eddie opened his laptop, hit some keys, thinking maybe he could fake it until an opportunity arose to flee.
At one point he locked eyes with the hot tempered secretary. Both became aroused. Maybe he'd stick around a bit longer. Paradise has many definitions.

Long Distance Romance

I miss my hair. It's now residing in Indianapolis on Mr. Arthur Sears' head. He has a rare disease causing all his body hair to disappear. I donated mine in 1999 because I have a big heart. I expected new hair to grow back, but it never did. The Lord works in mysterious ways.
I miss my eyebrows, donated to Miss Henrietta Morse of Vermont, who paid me well so she could have Brooke Shields' eyebrows. She sends me photos sometimes and I smile in recognition. I miss those guys. In 2008 I donated my armpit hair to a hermaphrodite near Camden. Miss them too.
I don't miss the hair around my navel, distributed to a New Zealand tribe lacking basic navel coverage. I've kept my butt hair; there's only so much compassion in me.
Long distance romance with ones own hair may seem self involved and slightly peculiar. but I assure you I don't keep my nail clippings in a box. I'd probably become way too attached.

Friday, January 24, 2014

A Demon Ruminates

When I was in human form they called me Bernie. I was trusted, loved even. It was all a game to me. How could a game be evil? I never thought about evil except when a Ralph Lauren commercial came on. I was just a guy juggling numbers and making calls.
Some say it got out of hand. But no one investigated. They let me build my empire; everyone wanted in, especially those silly retirees.
But then real evil appeared in the form of slick men in designer suits and polished shoes, rolling in their bundled securities no one understood. Venture capitalists, hedge fund managers, futures investors, manipulating the whole system.
Suddenly I was expected to return money given to me freely to invest. I was caught in the middle with my pants down. That was when they spotted the tale growing out of my butt. They jumped to conclusions, impaled me with the word evil and put me in this cell.
In my mind my soul is still pure. I know who I was and who I wasn't. I was just a guy playing a game. No demon here.
Before you leave, my friend, how about we toss some dice?

Plaid Thursday

Our group met last night in an abandoned warehouse. I reminded them of the summer of 2024, when we acted as a unit, protesting Corduroy Friday. We burned entire corduroy ensembles and wore knickers to put a stamp on our anger. We handed out leaflets, marched and chanted. The elders finally gave in and rescinded the law.
Now we are confronted with Plaid Thursday. I realize some people like wearing plaid, which will make our task more difficult. Many engineers wear plaid all week. All it means is we must fight harder against this travesty of good taste. I know some of your relatives work in the plaid factory and would be jobless if we succeed. I remind you, not five miles away, in our neighboring town, there is a new polka dot factory with a need for workers. Transferring should be simple. Polka dots offend no one the way plaid does. We can reach civility and compromise with polka dot people.
If we allow Plaid Thursdays to continue, can Spandex Mondays be far behind?

My Surgery

Surgeons attached the sinus opening of an orangutang behind my right ear to facilitate mucus drainage. I was tired of a stuffy nose and sinus infections. The orangutang have huge openings, much larger than the anteater. That surgery failed.
They also implanted extra hair in that area to disguise the opening. The only difference besides better breathing is when I'm aroused, mucus flows out of the opening. So if a lady puts her arms around my neck it gets sticky fast. Some women are flattered, even excited they can cause such body fluid reaction.
However, when I'm wearing my earplugs on public transportation and listening the audio version of an erotic book, subsequent mucus emissions from the back of my ear illicit disparaging remarks about my personal hygiene.
Needless to say, I carry tissue everywhere.

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Not Again

It happens every time I read at an open mike. Women toss their panties at me. Yes, I have a deep, sensual voice and impressive shoulders. I make intense eye contact, which causes swooning. My droopy lids give me that sexy Robert Mitchum image.
But you would assume in this serious academic atmosphere these women would control themselves. There's only one of me and so many of them. The math doesn't work.
This behavior has stifled my progress as a writer. I've tried facing away from the audience, but because I have the taut, sculpted buttocks of an Ailey dancer, that only makes it worse. I have boxes of panties, which I may send to my cousin, who has odd tastes.
The male readers are intensely jealous because they get only polite applause. What am I supposed to do? Hunch over, grow a beard, wear thick glasses?
The woman who tossed her support stockings gets my admiration.
Maybe I should write a poem about all this.

The Cost of Being the Boss

I'm proud of my contribution to The Wizard of Oz, which consisted of supervising the Munchkins. There were 453, only 60 of whom made it onto the screen.
The others were stand ins, and man did they need them. Half the time those little people were hung over. Parties every night. Once, they invited Margaret Hamilton to one of the bashes. Next day The Wicked Witch, instead of cackling, projectile vomited all over Munchkinland.
Add to that, these buggers were horny as hell. All day boners, which frightened Judy Garland back into her trailer. They forgot their lines, danced out of step, showed up late; Glinda The Good Witch lost $500 playing strip poker.
Of course everyone blamed me. My blood pressure shot sky high and clumps of hair fell out. I finally stabilized the situation by sneaking sedatives into their coffee and watering down the drinks. It's estimated over fifty Munchkin babies were conceived during filming, three by one of the male stars who humped anything within reach.
Hey, anything for art.

The Curse of Indifference

On August 21, 1987 I was hit with the curse of indifference. It was a humid night and I was in line at the Dairy Queen when I realized I didn't care what flavor I got. Since then, I've floated through life pretending to care. I've heard all the stories, jokes and anecdotes. Everyone reminds me of someone else. My experiences seem like a replay of things I've already gone through.
Even the temple of my body bores me.
For weeks I've been living with Tibetan monks, trying to find meaning in existence. That same fugue state of distraction has returned. They question me, not about spirituality, but about why Charlie Sheen left Two and a Half Men. I expected more.
Maybe I should return to the site of the Dairy Queen where it all began. But A Chic Filet now occupies it and who cares about chickens anymore?

Monday, January 20, 2014

The Road Not Taken

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy being a writer. It has made me a small fortune. Nubile women throw themselves at me. But I think back and wonder about the road not taken. At one time, as a youth, I was a heck of a clog dancer. I'd run home from school, race to my bedroom, put on my clogs and serious clog music, and pound away until my mother told me to cut it out.
I majored in clog dancing at a small school in New Hampshire. While there, I fell for a ballet student, Olive, who never understood my calling. I made the mistake of switching majors to ballet, but could not master even the fundamentals. She fell for Raoul, her partner, and there I was without a girl or my identity. Somehow I graduated with a BA in poetry.
When I attempted to return to intense clogging it soon became obvious I'd lost my mojo. After ten minutes my ankles hurt. The International Clogging Competition in Montreal came and went and I didn't even go. I had lost the killer clogging instinct.
Now I sit quietly by the window watching kids pour out of school, knowing some of them can't wait to get home and practice this amazing dance form. My grand kids found my old clogs in the closet and asked what were they for. I said I'd wait until they got older before discussing my story. Hopefully they'll lose interest by then.
I think I'll write a poem.

Circus Downsizing

13 Ways to Downsize a Circus

Substitute a sturdy hammock for a trampoline
Have two mime aereolists pretend there are two others in the act
Substitute one aged pigeon for five swans flying out of the magician's hat
Use hogs instead of ponies for children's rides
Limit clown squirt guns to three squirts
40% fewer spangles on the costumes
Restitch ripped tights instead of using new ones
One seal and one rubber ball tossing it to itself
Designate the best seats as PSL and triple their price
Multi-task the bear as both performer and security chief
Only one whip to be used by all trainers in alternation
Make the ringmaster work on commission
Have betting on the turtle races

Friday, January 17, 2014

Hitting the Wall

I had made steady progress with the ukelele over a three year period. My social life expanded as word spread that I could play this exotic instrument. Walking down the street carrying my case, I found strangers waving to me and I waved back. It seemed the whole town scrunched into a small pub every weekend to listen to me. This was so much more rewarding than my day job designing barkoloungers.
As I continued to practice in my spare time, I got better, but the gains became smaller. There came a day where I felt I'd reached my limit. I hit the wall; I was struggling with the more difficult compositions.
Everyone knew my dream was to audition for the National Ukelele Orchestra, located in West Orange, NJ. This was a 44 person traveling group that had garnered plaudits from all over the world.
The town took up a collection to send me to the yearly auditions. I tried to explain I wasn't at that level and never would be. They took it as false modesty.
There is no describing how bad I was. I butchered Mozart's Fifth Ukelele Concerto. Someone threw a shoe at me. It was the janitor. The plane ride home was agony. What could I tell them?
To my shock, hundreds greeted me at the airport, holding up barkoloungers, a sign I was still part of the community. They took me to a bar and got me stinking drunk.
The next morning, sick with a hangover, I discovered a kazoo stuffed in my jacket pocket.
I saw my future.

Deepest Cut

I've always considered myself fashionable. I really know how to mix and match. So it was with a sense of betrayal that I received a comment from my friend Marsha, who took me aside and whispered, no one wears suede jerkins anymore, except Ralph Lauren in a weak moment.
I tore myself away, stifling a sob. This was the deepest cut. Traitorous. I needed assurance and support, so I drove to another friend, Lois, and pleaded for honesty. Her eyes rolled up as though she was scrambling for something positive to say. Okay, she finally said, that cowboy hat has to go, along with the jodhpurs and slim jeans. Not with your belly.
I crumpled to the ground in serious dismay. She carried me inside and fed me scones  until I calmed down. I eventually tossed the hat away and stomped out the door, determined to regain my confidence. Perhaps a miner's hat, complete with mounted searchlight. That's a start and I'll just work downward.

Monday, January 13, 2014

Fog

Fog stifles discussion
Erases dreams
Gently embalms senses
Fog has a smokey recipe
Descending like ash soup
As deep and dense as vague enmity
As blank and elegant as a bored ballroom dancer
Fog at night is a film waiting to be shot
A threat hidden in rabid nightmares
The sky offering its choking caress
Fog suffocates everything but wonder



 

Thursday, January 9, 2014

Burger King Dating

10 Reasons to Bring a Date to Burger King

Tasteful decor
Clean floors and tables
Wide variety of piped in music to dance to
Easy to understand menu
Plenty of napkins
Attractive, friendly counter people
Colorful characters sitting around you
Sensual lighting
Working toilets
Plenty of condiments

If one can't let down their defenses and relax here, I feel sorry for that person.

Sunday, January 5, 2014

Deepest Cut

I'd always thought of myself as fashionable. I mix and match with imagination, and generally present an elegant image.
It was with dismay and a sense of betrayal that I received a comment from a respected friend who took me aside and whispered something to the effect that no one wears jerkins or tunics anymore except Peter Pan.
I tore myself away and raced into the street, shocked and stunned. I desperately needed reassurance, so I went to another trusted friend and asked her opinion. Between us, she said, the cowboy hat has to go, along with the jodhpurs and neck kerchief. With your belly, she added, slim jeans are not something to explore.
I dropped to my knees sobbing in despair. She dragged me inside and fed me cannolis until the crying ceased.
I tossed away the cowboy hat, determined to start over. Perhaps a miner's helmet, complete with mounted searchlight. I could enter dark rooms under lit for that dramatic effect.

Sign Up Sheet

A guy can never have too much testosterone. Free shots and I'm there. Dr. Vinnie managed to inject me without destroying any important vessels and within days  my voice was deeper, hair grew in unlikely places, my energy level was elevated, I could pee stronger and my bowel movements were noisy in a manly way.
About a month later I realized Dr. Vinnie may have screwed up my dosage. I was so horny anything soft and mushy got me aroused. Dough, fleece, mashed potatoes, whipped cream, throw pillows, and one particular sheep at the petting zoo, which landed me in jail.
So I sit here in my cell waiting for my bail hearing, wondering what happened to those men who signed up after me. One resembled the ex governor of NY, but my eyesight is fuzzy.
Boy, that bath towel in the corner looks awfully soft.

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

Road Rage

I was coming from a very productive writers meeting determined to begin the new year by getting along with everyone. On a one lane road, as I drove behind two other cars doing the speed limit, the idiot behind me began honking and flashing his lights at me. I checked my rear view mirror, wondering if he had a pregnant woman. No, it was just him, gripping the wheel with both hands, some old guy with a beaten potato face, glaring at me.
I have mellowed in my golden years, so I waited for the road to widen, pulled over and let the jerk pass. As soon as I slid back in behind him he hit the brakes, stopped dead and gave me the finger. My measured response was to continue driving until there was an opportunity to pull up next to him. This happened within seconds. I beeped twice to get his attention, rolled down my window and gave him a quite animated middle finger right back.
He made a left and I continued straight, feeling I'd evened things out. I wish I could say I sought excuses for his behavior. Maybe he was behind on his mortgage or had prostate issues. To be honest, I just  wanted him to crash into a tree.
Now if there was a woman in my car, I would have had to cut him off, jump out of the car and attempt to beat him to a pulp. That's just the way these things work. That was on New Year's Eve, so technically I can still begin 2014 with a clean slate temper wise.