Monday, June 30, 2014

Big Stuff

How big is big? Napoleon had a big ego and conquered countries. Trump has a big one and conquers Atlantic City. J-Lo had the biggest butt until the Kardashians appeared. Suddenly soccer is big here among people who couldn't name a single US player.
This year's Macy's fireworks will actually begin on July 3 and continue for hours even in daylight. What is a big cockroach? One that carries away small pets? Do those owning Great Danes try to convey something about about the size of their genitalia?
Think about the sheer amount of sewerage generated by Mexico City.
How big is the Universe? Imagine Einstein as the biggest BS artist of all time. All those big theories about its origin and none have been proven. How big is Joan Rivers mouth?
Writers have big imaginations, so maybe authorities should let writers decide what to do about that monstrosity on Route 3, which was supposed to be a theme park until the money ran out.
It feels like my writers block expands by the minute. What? You want to loan me an idea? How big of you.

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Rare Book Dealer

Alvin waited until dark before breaking into the Collingswood mansion through the cellar. They were old money and, through his connections, he learned they had a priceless copy of Joe Del Priore's first book, Twilight People. Its value was based on the fact that its pages were made of onion skin and only four other copies existed, all owned by the Royal family.
Adding to the value was the fact that the author had vanished near the Great Barrier Reef while on vacation. His work, like all great artists, skyrocketed in value after his assumed death.
Using his flashlight, Alvin went room to room, sniffing, as the husband and wife, in their seventies, slept. Finally, he discovered a small linen closet. Onion smell almost overcame him. He pried open the door and there it was--pristine, the Holy Grail of publishing gems.
Dollar signs exploded inside his head. He grabbed the treasure and went out the way he came in, triggering no alarms. Only feet from his car and escape, he saw a shadow become a man pointing a gun at his chest. Chauncey, his rival rare book dealer, glared at him from under his fedora.
Cough it up, Alvin, he sneered. You've done my dirty work for me.
Alvin pleaded for compromise, but the demon would have none of it. He meekly handed over the tome, knowing his fate was sealed and he'd be found in a dumpster. But when Chauncey grasped the book, for a moment he took his eyes off his nemesis and Alvin reached down and grabbed the knife he hid in his ankle holder, then whipped it into Chauncey's shoulder from a kneeling position. The other, gasped and fell. They grappled in the street. Somehow, the book's binding broke and its pages scattered in the wind.
Both men looked up and sobbed. Maybe it was the deep sense of loss. Or maybe it was the pungent scent of really rancid onion skin.

Bashful

Bashful blushed. There, right there, Snow White whispered hoarsely. Lower, deeper, faster, she moaned. My finger is cramping, Bashful said.
He woke up in a sweat. The same dream every night. He was ashamed and disgusted. He needed to confess. Sneezy had mucus problems and Grumpy didn't want to be bothered. Snarky, the eighth dwarf, mounted a verbal attack every time Bashful approached.
All of this was so wrong. A beautiful young woman working and slaving for seven little men. So impulsive were these urges, he often sneaked away from the mine and went into the bushes and did unspeakable things to himself.
He could never reveal his demonized lust to Snow White. She would shun him forever, forcing him to do his own laundry. Why was he so shy?
One night, after tossing and turning, he could take it no more. Bashful ran out into the woods, not sure he would ever return. In the moonlight, he came face to face with the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Big eyes, soft skin, so innocent.
He named it Bambi, and from then on all of Bashful's needs were quite satisfied.

Potted Plant

You look at me and shake your head. Actually, you can't shake your head because you're a stinking statue. John The Baptist. You can't understand how a cactus can be joyful just sitting here in this bright church, thrilling Christians of all ages. And you?
They didn't even use quality Italian marble--Staten Island quarry stuff for your lousy composition.
Cacti have an important place in the canon. Moses wandered 40 days and 40 nights and would still be lost in the desert if he did not follow the line of cacti to The Holy Land. Tell me your purpose, your history. Does it take special skill to sprinkle water on someone and declare them baptized? Now they'll be safe from Limbo. Here's a flash--the Church declared Limbo obsolete years ago. There is no stinking Limbo.
I am Maury the Cactus and I belong here just as much as any statue or stained glass window. If I had arms I would send you to Dante's Third Circle of hell. Actually, if I had arms I could play that damn organ in the balcony.

Monday, June 23, 2014

Performance Anxiety

Cecil felt the blazing sun beating down on him. First day at work and he gets this. His assignment was simply to carry a crumb about two feet to the cave where Queen Patty lived. Then he had to repeat this act about twenty times before his day was done.
He mouth was dry as he lugged the crumb in his front pincers. Around him, his peers worked silently. So many crumbs. The human was sloppy removing toast from the toaster. Didn't care about a messy counter.
When he finally arrived at the cave, Cecil's whole body was shaking. He had never met Queen Patty. When he entered and dumped the crumb against a wall, he saw her in the back getting her legs shaved. Whether it was the heat or nerves, he began dry heaving.
Her voice echoed--my worker ants do not weaken! They have strong backs and strong stomachs. How dare you?
He quaked in fear. He'd heard that she fed underachieving workers to George, a Praying Mantis. He thought of fleeing, but realized how humiliating it would be for his family. He envied roaches and their classless society.
Nineteen more trips. Sweat dripped from every pore. Cecil's world had, indeed, become a very dark place.

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Happy Hoarder

Canned beets never go bad. There is something mystical about a perfectly formed beet. To some, sliced beets are sacrilegious. I beg to differ. Beets in any form are a wonder to be worshiped. I believe when God got to rutabagas He decided to take a break and refresh His creative impulses. When He returned, He came up with beets.
I have proud red juice stains on my shirts. I need to consume my beets slower and more carefully to savor the exquisite taste. During winter I stock up in case I'm snowed in. Very rarely do I share my beets with neighbors. I'm compassionate, but there are boundaries.
Interestingly, also in my basement are six elderly folks I've also been hoarding. I feed them well and one gave me an excellent beet recipe. Sometimes I crush my beets and mix them in yogurt. I test my concoctions on Fred, my terrier. He seems fine, but pees red.
I'm growing my own beets now. One needs a purpose in life. My family doesn't understand me. Value is where you put it. A French philosopher said that. I'll bet he loved beets.

Sunday, June 15, 2014

I Missed the First Part

Albert loved house sales. Every Saturday he drove to at least one. These sales were organized by family of a deceased person to make money on the furnishings, etc. He had bought a variety of objects--lamps, throw rugs, barely used toothpaste, pimento olives still in the can, place mats, shoe inserts.
His wife, Eunice was pregnant with their first child, which meant he had a difficult choice. The Petersens were having a house sale after their grandmother passed and Albert salivated at the thought of culling through her treasures. He'd been over there several times for dinner with the old woman and there was a china cabinet to die for.
He discussed it with Eunice, who assured him she would be fine. Go ahead, don't worry about me, she said.
As it happened, Albert was in the process of bid battling some ridiculous woman who lived three towns over for the cabinet when his cell rang. It was Eunice informing him her sister Margot was driving her to the hospital. The baby was coming faster than expected.
Albert made one final successful bid, jumped into his car and sped off. He got to the viewing section just as the baby was halfway out. This would not do. Nope.
Hey doc, he yelled. I just got here and missed the first part. Can you start over?
The doctor sighed and grumbled something obscene before shoving the baby back inside the uterus. Eunice's screams were becoming annoying, but Albert forgave her. After all, how was she to know they'd be getting an exquisite china cabinet at a fraction of the cost.

Dripping with Sweat

Tied to a post in the blazing sun. Covered with biting red ants. Dripping with sweat. Hoarse from screaming. Mouth too dry to even swallow.
I was stupid and stubborn. I convinced myself I could do my own taxes.
And now look at me.
My audit did not go well. The deductions for stained clothing dry cleaning expenses caused by obsessed fans of my writing slobbering over me did not pass muster. All those contest fees I sent out for which I neglected to document came across as fraud. Six state of the art mouse pads. No good. On and on.
The IRS has given me no indication when or if I will be released. I glanced at the fellow tied to the pole to my right. He kept whining about legitimate writer deductions. People want my book, they want ME, he sobbed. I must travel across country, which costs money and I should have been reimbursed. They said I padded my expenses. Padded is such a nebulous term.
The guy on my left had deducted his sister in law, whose home went underwater mortgage wise, which led to her living with family. Shot down by the fiendish tax blood suckers.
I wonder which of us will have to pee first.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Brick and Mortar

I am a contractor. Bricks are my sustenance. Mortar puts food on the table.
One day a tiny Indian woman came into my office seeking to upgrade her new home. I could see she was inexperienced and innocent. My mouth watered. I quoted her a price. She fainted. I revived her using smelling salts. I knocked $500 off the quote and she hugged me.
I use material that I feel will get the job done. We built her an extension. It looked sturdy. It was sturdy. Until the storm hit. Afterwards, her house wound up on the news--total devastation.
She charged into my office holding a brick fragment, which she slammed on my desk. She cursed me out in two languages. Pulled out a carving knife and eyed my groin.
I offered her a discount to rebuild. Gave her my compassionate expression. She broke down and dropped the knife. I came around my desk to hug her and got a knee right in the groin.
Fortunately I always wore a cup. I am a contractor after all.
Unfortunately, the cup was made of the same cheap material as the bricks.

Dancing in the Moonlight

Alice led Ralph up three flights of stairs to the roof.
"Honey, you know I can't dance."
"Oh, be quiet. You never take me anywhere anymore. We haven't gone dancing in ages."
Alice loosened his tie, removed his cap, and took off his jacket. Ralph was flushed and sweating, out of shape.
"Pretend Perry Como is singing "Temptation." She put his arm around her waist and led him across the roof, silhouetted by light and shadow. Ralph let her put her head on his shoulder. Life in a tiny Brooklyn apartment did not lend itself to many magic moments, but this was one of them.
Until the trap door opened and two figures climbed out.
"Ralphie boy! Seems like we all had the same idea. Plenty of room up here. Me and Trixie need to work on some moves."
Ralph grimaced. "Norton! Get out of here!"
Norton shrugged. "You don't own this roof. If you can dance up here, so can we. Let's shake it, Trixie."
They launched into a wild cha cha.
Ralph and Alice sighed and continued slow dancing, but some of the magic was gone.

The Meeting

Sol was rubbing his wife Naomi's stomach in the pasta sauce aisle when Rochelle burst into view. Her cart was filled with vitamin water bottles, something he refused to try during the two years they dated.
Eighteen months after they broke up, here they were facing each other, with Sol's pregnant wife right there.
"Rochelle. What a surprise. This is my wife Naomi." Sol swallowed hard.
Rochelle stared at them so hard Naomi grabbed a can of pasta sauce, prepared to use it in self defense.
"So this is the same man who said he wasn't the marrying type," Rochelle snarled.
Naomi moved between them. "Get out of my husband's face or I'll crush this can against forehead."
Rochelle laughed. "You've got it all wrong, sister. I could care less about your precious hubby."
Just then Louise, Sol's mom, entered the aisle carrying a frozen turkey.
"Mom, I didn't know you shopped here."
Louise smiled. "I never did until Rochelle and I became a couple."
She turned to the other woman and slipped her some tongue. Naomi stood there mouth agape. Sol heaved up his macaroni and cheese lunch.
"He always had a sensitive digestive system," his mom said.

Sunday, June 8, 2014

Fuzz and Static Cling

In all my years exploring the unusual, the mystery of fuzz and static cling continue to perplex.
After numerous experiments and hours of observation, I have formed a Unified Theory of Fuzz and Static Cling that I will present to a consortium of scientists in Vienna next month.
I have concluded fuzz is the physical manifestation of all the unfinished sentences, incomplete thoughts and fool hardy ideas that clog interstellar space. It is light and formless like much of contemporary thinking. Fuzz has neither taste nor smell, nor does it make noise. It follows its own rules of physics, quietly filling the ear canals of unaware elderly people.
Proclaiming 'my thinking is fuzzy today' is a perfect description of the distinct fugue state many cultural icons enter when tweeting. Fuzz can't be destroyed, but it is constantly being created. See Baldwin, Alec.
From my research I am convinced static cling was first identified in 1973 when Aretha Franklin had a gym workout wearing Spandex. The condition spread quickly. Intense sweat creates a powerful vacuum that sucks in surrounding electrons and causes static shock.
Clinging fabric collects mountains of fuzz, thereby becoming something unwearable, inedible, uncomfortable, and basically unexplainable, except by academics like me.
You are quite welcome.

My Junk, Your Treasure

You recognize me. I am indeed Elmo Raciope, Mr. Strike, world class bowler. How many Saturday afternoons have you seen me on TV with Chris Schenkel doing commentary. Dozens of times I've battled the best and held my own.
Celebrities have garage sales too. Take your time. Browse. All those crock pots are almost new. My wife has a thing for crock pot sales.
Those? No, they're not part of the sale. I know they were located in the garage itself, but they are strictly off limits. I am not considering offers. Those twelve pairs of bowling shoes will be buried with me. Yup.
Well, even a staunch bowling fan would think it odd that one guy is obsessed with another guy's shoes. I could see if it were my Dynashield Hall of Fame windbreaker in jasmine, but not the shoes. Even the wrist and hand band I wore to fight carpel tunnel syndrome would make more sense. We're not even the same size.
My answer is final.
How much???
Let me take a step back right here. I could build a pool for that. Yes, bowlers swim too. I would have to keep the striped pair, my favorite. The rest are yours. Yes, I take checks with two forms of ID.
What? No, I'm afraid that woman is off limits. That's Edna, my lovely wife of 26 years; stood by me through good and bad. Not for sale. Nope.
HOW MUCH??
Edna, could you come over here? We have to talk.