Tuscany 1954

If you go back and research it, there was a strange series of groundhog attacks in 1954 in Tuscany. One case stands out. An old man with a dog came upon a luxury car in the middle of the road. The doors were open. One shoe lay in the dirt. There was blood on the back seat. Giant holes were all around the scene
Detectives theorized this was a ground hog attack. They found a cummerbund, a silk scarf, bra and high end knee socks a short distance away. Evidently, a ground hog had lay across the road, pretending to be dead. The driver stopped the car, got out and attempted to move it, whereupon a gang of these beasts burst out of the bushes and quickly dragged both man and woman off to some cave where they were devoured.
In the glove compartment they found identification papers. This was Nick Santori and his wife Geraldine, rumored to have Mafia connections.
Perhaps these ground hogs were contract killers for a rival family. Nothing was out of the question.
Italian media outlets were all over this story. They made certain to mention the bra was a 38C.

Lottery

Warren thought hard about what he would do with his lottery winnings. A high end inflatable doll was a possibility. He was a single man with no friends. Loneliness haunted him.
Then he remembered hearing about a man in the next town, a man who could do magical things for a price. He realized what he must try to do with his winnings.
He knocked on the fellow's door and the short, rather rumpled man who answered was wary at first. But Warren held out a fistful of cash and the mood swiftly changed.
He was led inside to a back room and told to lie on a soft bed. The man gave him a pill to knock him out. He was confident this man could make his dream come true.
When he awoke he was no longer in that room. He found himself seated in an office cubicle. A short, bald, bespectacled man holding a giant coffee cup walked past mumbling wise cracks. Another bespectacled man wearing a tie that curled up towards his chin seemed clueless. A woman with dark hair stacked high glared fiercely at everyone. A man, bald in the center, with two steeples of hair on the sides seemed to be the boss and completely in over his head.
Other characters came and went. Warren was overjoyed. His dream had come true. He was now part of Dilbert's world.
Now he had friends, co-workers and a purpose.

School Yard Bully

Mo, can we talk about this?
There's nothing to talk about. Give me your lunch or I flatten you.
Sister Rosita said I shouldn't let anyone bully me.
What are you gonna do about it, you little ferret?
You're in the sixth grade and I'm in the fourth. This is wrong.
Welcome to real life, altar boy. Now hand it over.
It's just chicken salad with loads of mayo. You hate mayo.
I'm hungry. That is all you need to know.
Can I keep the Saltine crackers?
Keep them. Better be a damn pickle included.
Oh, here comes Sister Rosita.
Hello, Sister. Isn't this a great day?
Yes it is, Maurice. How are you today, Joey?
Just fine, Sister. I was about to share my lunch with Maurice.
Christ loves you, Joey.

Five Lines

Five Lines, each shorter than the previous one
1. Putin's impulse to remove his shirt in public is evidence of hubris that embarrasses all of Russia.
2.He is said to be worth $40 billion, much of it hidden in Swiss bank accounts.
3.He has no regard for the UN, Obama, The European Union or the Ukraine.
4.While taking his daily shirtless horseback ride he frequently climaxes.
5. Squirt.

Eat the Pain

I am sick of spitting out my emotional pain. Flinging it away and pretending it never existed is counter productive.
From now on I am going to eat that pain. If I eat it, I own it and if I own it I can control it.
I will swallow every snub, insult, every damning comment. Let them enter my esophagus, gurgle their silly inanities, then slide into my tummy where the digestive juices of my confidence will dissolve them into squishy fluid my small intestine can handle. Then onto my large intestine, where it will be further broken down and sent to my colon. I will expel this poison into the atmosphere in the form of a perfect fart.
Now let's discuss this shoulder pain. If you have long, strong, massaging fingers and can assuage my bursitis, you can disparage me  any way you wish. And I promise I won't pass wind during the process.

Feeling Invisible

When I lead a discussion group I am in charge. All attention is focused on me. My posture is superb, I speak in complete sentences using a deep, resonant voice. I make serious eye contact.
However, when it comes to dancing, I am invisible. I cannot dance. At various events that include this activity I stand alone in dark corners, a ghost. Sometimes someone will take pity on me and lead me to the dance floor. This leads to  severe embarrassment.
I have screwed up line dancing so bad I am barred from those events for life. You name it. Salsa, rumba, samba, marimba, all those dances ending in letter A,  I desecrate them. Latinos will not speak to me. The cha cha frightens me, flamenco causes sweaty palms, break dancing is down right dangerous, and that robotic stuff is dehumanizing.
Don't get me started on Fandango Failure.
All my erudition and education does not help.
Perhaps I should attempt Chinese fan dancing. The footwork is minimal.

Inflatable Expectations

People tell me I'm cheap, but I call it being thrifty.  I ordered an inflatable doll online for $59.95, a damn good price. Warren's Inflatable Companions.
I asked for the Lauren Bacall model and when it arrived I was a bit dissapointed. It looked more like Marlene Dietrich, who never did much for me.
I am used to pumping up my air mattress, but this was so much more exciting.
Well, to make a long story short, Lauren/Marlene suffered a slow leak in the left hip after our first passionate session. No amount of masking tape could solve the problem. It was still under warranty, but even in a slightly damaged condition she was still good company, someone to discuss my thoughts on Hillary Clinton with.
Plus, we could still cuddle.
I'm considering doing diligent research before ordering any more. I'll probably ask for the Wendy Williams model.

AC Moore Closes

Oh the pain. Watching my art supply store being dismantled. Where once there were shelves full of blaring color and all sorts of crafty tools, now there is only barrenness. How could this have happened? I always saw customers inside. Around holidays the place was packed.
All the brushes, paint, canvas, wood, glass and clothing I got there.All the coupons I cashed in on. All the great conversations with cashiers. Well, not that many actually. The lines were too long.
What will I do? Of course there is Michaels, but inside isn't the same feeling. It's like going from Lana Turner to Emma Stone. What will open in its place? A nail salon??
How many potentially great artists will never develop because of lack of supplies? I wanted to hug every worker, every customer, every roll of bright yarn.
Where would we be without yarn and its practitioners?
This is worse than the day Rag Shop closed. I have lost my appetite.

Salad Days

Carl, Howard, Nancy and I met once a year to reminisce about our salad days when we had a song and dance act and were booked everywhere. We did Sullivan four times. Howard and Carl alternated baritone leads, with me as tenor and Nancy as mezzo soprano.
We were tight until the money started flowing in and arguments ensued. We once opened for Eddie Fisher.
Yeah, we tapped up a storm, especially Nancy.
And then Elvis showed up. Goodbye career. People ran to him. Over night we were hasbeens.
Yeah, it all came apart.
Boy, have we aged. But there's still a spark. After a few beers, Nancy stood on our table and did a little dance. Of course we were tossed out for inappropriate behavior. We still had our history, our stories. I wiped the drool off Howard's chin and he did the same for Carl. Even now, Nancy seldom drooled. But we had handkerchiefs ready just in case.

Pig Complaint

Pig- Can I speak to you a moment?
Farmer-I'm busy.
P-This won't take long.
F-If this is about the mud level, I can't control the weather.
P-Actually I hate mud.
F-Nonsense.
P-Not all pigs like mud.
F-Data suggests otherwise.
P-I'm a Maryland pig. Not from NY state.
F-So?
P-Wewere allowed to roam far and wide.
F-Pigs can't roam.
P-This one can.
F-You need to be penned in. That's how this works.
P-Another thing. The food. I don;t eat dead things or garbage. I do enjoy sushi and garlic pickles.
F-Ridiculous.
P-I'll vomit on the others and they'll revolt.
F-Pigs don't vomit or revolt.
P-How about sirloin?
F-SHHHHH! My cows will hear.You're here for one reason. Ham.
P-I thought I was tutoring your kids.
F-No sarcasm in the pig stye.
P-I'd like a TV room with cable and Netflicks.
F-Yeah. When pigs fly.

Sense of Humor

Bastards strapped me down on the operating table. I had been warned about my sense of humor. They would operate on the humor portion of my brain and extract the whole thing. I'd spend my whole life humorless.
What would that make me?
I have no opinions or insights. One day you post a few innocent remarks about stroller people and the next you're getting brain matter cut out.
Maybe I can get laughs with impressions or dialects or accents. I'll memorize funny stories and jokes. Unless they screw with my memory too.
If I am stuck being serious all the time I'll have to work for the IRS. Or  sell small appliances. Will I be invited to parties?
Here comes that damn mask. Count backwards from ten. What a joke.

Arrested in Monte Carlo

To be arrested in Monte Carlo for not walking in the same direction as everyone else left Teddy in tears. He had been warned about their strict laws before he left Wisconsin, but brushed it off as nonsense.
Now he was trapped in his cell with only a Raymore & Flannigan bed, with Bed, Bath & Beyond pillows, a Westinghouse refrigerator and toaster oven, see through curtains on the window, and  previously used silverware. They force fed him expired pepper jack cheese on extremely mushy Italian bread, stale crackers left over from Prince Albert's birthday bash, and GERMAN wine.
Animals!!
Yesterday guards had tortured him by forcing him to listen to the Three Michaels for hours. Michael Buble, Michael Bolton, and Michael McDonald. He almost lost his mind.
He wondered if his country had abandoned him. If Hilary knew of this miscarriage of justice she would be on a plane post haste.
Or not.
He moved the curtains aside and peered through his window. Maybe he could catch a glimpse of Princess Caroline riding past on her horse. After all, Monte Carlo was a tiny place. How far could she ride?

Something is Odff

Something is off with the woman upstairs. She never empties her mailbox. She orders boxes that remain in the vestibule.This is against fire regulations. She screams at her dog. Something is wrong with that dog too. It keeps barking and barking when she leaves.
She said I could look through her mail for my mail in case an error was made. There was so much mail in her box it was almost falling out. So I rubber banded the letters and put them in front of her door. Now she says never to touch her mail because I left the magazines in the box.
This is how people get their identity stolen, I tell her. I've gotten my identity stolen many times, she boasted. We seem to be at a stand still. My sanity versus her crazy.
I just wish the dog didn't pee in the vestibule.

Mistaken Identity

He burst through the door and came right at me. I know you, he said. I stared and shook my head. Ralph, he said more urgently. My name is not Ralph I responded. This was in a Dunkin on Easter night. I was alone, sipping an ice tea.
No, he said, MY name is Ralph. You live over on Howard Street. I shook my head. Then maybe it's that bar up the block. I told hm I don;t drink. Years ago? I've never drank, I said. He was pot bellied, wearing a blue golf shirt. He was also missing some teeth.
I decided I could finish my tea in the car. I grabbed my hat and coat as he apologized. I don't want to upset you, he said. But I was up and gone, as he moved past me, perhaps to confront another 'friend.' Maybe he was looking for someone to buy him hash browns.
But what if he was right? What if, unknown-st to me, I was leading a double life? Maybe we were close friends. Maybe in my other life I was a bar rat.
Or..maybe this was Jesus on Easter, risen again and testing me. Did I really love my neighbor?

The World is My Oyster

I can travel anywhere and feel I belong. I am comfortable in any situation. Let me give you a metaphor.
All sorts of hidden things happen within an oyster. We can't see or hear them. But open one up and there you have it--a perfect pearl.
In the same way, I don't look like much from the outside, but there is a cauldron of activity inside me. Not a pearl forming of course, but isn't there something to be said for kidney stones?
I soak up the world around me, moving freely, snapping my fingers to my own beat.
Which leads to the question--why can't clams make pearls? Are they so disconnected from their environment that the process evades them? No, the world is not any clam's oyster.
Don't get me started on lobsters, who lack kidneys, or mussels or shrimp or baby shrimp or, God help us, squid. This is why we have men with large nets.
I've given you a splendid metaphor you can take home and impress your family with. All you have to do is look wise.

Older and More Mature

Marvin glanced at his liver spots and sighed. Nothing he could do about it. This was the older, more mature Marvin who didn't agonize over things he could not control. Small annoyances used to eat him up. Late paperboy, gooey pizza, burnt pork chops. Okay, he could control that one, but another sign of maturity was forgiving himself for his imperfections.
He was not a good hugger. Either he went too long, leading to awkwardness or too short, resulting in disrespect. He hugged his pillows for hours until he got the angle, pressure and length of time just right. Now most of the neighborhood waited outside his house for one of his hugs.
Alas, there remained vestiges of his former childishness--making duck noises in church, faking a stroke in a crowded waiting room. Maturing is a process. Cucumbers mature into slush much too fast, while avocados are forever adolescent.

Pits

Temple oranges have pits. Big pits that could choke you. Many more than navel oranges. Unlike flat watermelon pits, these are circular and hard. Bananas, apples, pears, nectarines and peaches don't have multiple pit families. Like avocados, they have one giant pit in the center. I'm talking about peaches and nectarines. Pay attention.
Peeling a temple orange means juice squirting all over the place. If you're on a first date, don't order temples for dessert. You'll look ridiculous eating them, what with juice running down your chin. Certain foods are meant to be eaten alone in the dark. Like artichokes, the single messiest food in existence.
Other types of melon have their own pits. The point here is unless we all switch over to pit-less hybrids created in labs by farmers children on scholarships from Warren Buffet our future is entire landfills consisting of pits.
Now I'm going to attempt to peel this temple orange by placing it in a deep bowl and wearing goggles and a large bib. Paper towels at the ready.