Robot Silence

The robot working next to me on this assembly line never speaks. It's a long day without conversation. I liked it better when Howie was next to me. He wasn't quite fast enough, so this gleaming piece of aluminum was moved in. I can barely keep up, but they'll never replace me. I'm the shop steward. Getting our robots to join the union has been difficult. They don't need benefits and work for nothing.
It's harsh to categorize them as boring. Sophistication and wit are beyond them to this point. I tell knock knock jokes and there's no response. I'm not even sure if I should tell jokes disparaging Mexicans. Maybe they were created in Mexico.
Last week one robot locked up and had to be taken offline. I'm afraid one of them will catch fire. They seem pretty strong and might go berserk.
Maybe if I mention The Pope I'll get a response. Who doesn't like the Pope?

The Newcomer

Cecil made assumptions about the city. He had just relocated from South Jersey, hoping to move past a broken love affair. It was a balmy Saturday in Bryant Park, full of people eating, reading, stretching, playing ping pong. He saw many opportunities. Suddenly one of the humans tossed out a piece of hite bread. Instinctively, Cecil flew over and was about to snatch it up when the largest pigeon he'd ever seen hovered over him.
Who the hell are you? the monster bird asked.
I'm Cecil, he stammered. New in town. By this time he was surrounded by angry pigeons.
Okay Buster, this is how this is going to go down. You stay out of my park. We own every inch of this place. Because I'm a nice pigeon, I'm giving you a heads up. Head downtown to Tompkins Square Park. I hear there's an opening. Tell them Monty sent you.
But I'm starving, Cecil pleaded.
Not my problem, fella. And spruce up your appearance. This ain't Philadelphia.

First Mate

I can't believe one flea is missing. Bennett, that's its name. Its partner Monty is upset. How can they breed now? Noah will be furious. As first mate I am responsible. I tried to keep them happy by putting them on Walt, a dachshund, who didn't exactly appreciate it. I think it is hiding on Carl, a wooly manmouth, who sits in a corner and sulks.
A separate problem is the opposite. Somehow three ground sloths sneaked aboard in the torrential rain. I was just trying to keep things moving. The rule states simply two of each. Try to toss a ground sloth overboard. Eventually Noah will want a complete head count, including 800000 species of flying insects. Why are there three ground sloths, Bubba? That's my name.
The birds never shut up, the bears just roll around the deck getting in everyone's way. I'm guessing they squashed at least ten species of bug.
I am going to try to convince Monty, the surviving flea to mate with Grace, a near sighted Praying Mantis. Oswego, her partner, is too busy chatting up a swan. Good luck with that.
Noah is yelling my name. God, is he a pain in the ass. Not You Lord-- Noah.

Blondie Love

So close. I am so close to her. Our panels are side by side, but cartoon rules state there can be no interaction between strips.
Look at her. After all these years a perfect figure, not a hair out of place. Look at that posture, the wide eyed approach to whatever life brings. I adore Blondie.
Dagwood is clueless. He does not deserve this woman. Look at him sitting there, his mouth full of giant hoagie. Disgusting. And she has to clean up after him.
The only time I got to speak to her was at the annual Cartoon Character Symposium. Beetle Bailey was the keynote speaker. Mary Worth got a Lifetime Achievement award. Blondie's voice was like silk. I could barely control myself.
Who am I? Some minor character in Dilbert. Once a month I make an appearance. I never get the good lines. Why would she even consider running away with me to, say, The Wall Street Journal, where we could live quietly?
I must come up with a good pick up line. "You tower over Betty Boop." That might work. I know I will burn in hell, but I must have this creature.

Soft, Gooey Center

I am a cook who enjoys challenge. I have a knack for sensing which of my house guests have a soft, gooey center. I had a poet over recently. Wasn't crazy about her writing, but, my oh my, was she delicious.
A contractor knocked on my door wanting to see if I wanted a porch deck. I despise porch decks. Only people who want to mind other people's business sit on porch decks. I invited him in for coffee, which is where I drop my magic pills. He was out cold in seconds. But the man's diet must have been crap because he tasted like cardboard.
There's this little place I know where writers gather. Some look potentially tasty. Writers, deep down, have a soft, gooey center. I'll pretend I'm a writer--so many do--and gain their trust. I'll even bring Twinkies. Who doesn't like Twinkies?
That reminds me. I have to pick up some spices and honey mustard. Flavoring is so important with these exotic dishes.

The Art of Crankiness

Wearing my fisherman's hat makes me look cranky. People avoid me. Children are frightened. I want to smell the roses, but the price makes me furious.
Kids are cranky because they want something. Adults use crankiness to get attention. Especially on lines going nowhere.
I'm sure there were cranky people in that singing group Up with People, whose joyousness made me wretch. You can growl cranky, mumble cranky, sing cranky like Dylan. No one embodies cranky more than Nick Nolte in every single photo, unlike Clint Eastwood who is plain ornery, seething with anger. He'll shoot you before either one of you reaches cranky.
Old people in coffee houses with their paper and java grousing about everything--that's my man cave. Old people even shift position with cranky, jerky movements. They listen to radio stations with cranky hosts and spread their attitude throughout lobbies, diners and gyms. They grunt cranky when the weight is too heavy.
Some old guy who was late, growled at a woman who attempted to sit next to him on the bus. He looked across at me for support. I looked down at my feet and began humming Blowin' in the Wind. I didn't have my fisherman's hat on.

No Ordinary Love

Peter experienced his first Persian rug when he was six and immediately fell in love. He waited until his parents went to bed, sneaked downstairs and rolled around in the rug, smelling its exotic fibers.It was like being back in the womb.
This was no ordinary love.
Peter grew up and became an interior designer where he got to examine many types of rugs. None compared to the Persian. He saw a particular one online and was so taken he ordered it immediately. It was Baltic blue, as soft as cream. The night it came, he stripped naked and spent a good hour rolling around on it.
Peter had few guests, but at a dinner party one of his acquaintances accidentally spilled wine on the rug. An apology and an offer to pay for cleaning was met with rage. This rug will never smell the same, Peter sobbed. Before anyone realized it, he grabbed a steak knife and attacked the poor man, nicking him on the arm.
Peter was institutionalized. The rug was sold to Chinese investors who ignored the stain.
Some might say a warning should come with Persian rugs. Others play it safe and stick to bath mats.

Chit Chat Hell

I try to flee chit chat hell at parties.I am a man of scary ideas, convoluted thoughts, complex philosophies. My sentences are filled with nuance and subtext. My world view is many faceted. I am William F. Buckley, Gore Vidal and Susan Sontag rolled into one. God wishes He had my vocabulary. I sweat academia.
So when I am trapped at a social event surrounded by mindless small talk, you see my agony. How does one keep interested in a conversation with someone beneath one's intellectual capacities? Smiling and nodding is all I do.
The only way out is karaoke. Because of my highly developed frontal lobe I only karaoke to Paul Simon songs.

Cat Woman

After hours of pacing and fretting, you finally get up the nerve to knock on the door. Cat Woman answers, dressed in a black body suit that hugs her voluptuous form.
She glares at you through her mask. You try to explain why you deserted her on your first date. She calls you a sissy boy.
You lose your composure. She claws at your face. You insist crawling along ledges high up at night wearing black tights is a deal breakers. She hisses and arches her back.
You call her insane, fury bursting into the night.
She cuts off your anger and you become utterly docile as she purrs and runs her claws along her entire body, licking herself vigorously.
There will be a second date.

The Stampede

Augie tried to push his way through he scrum of people outside the coffee shop. Hundreds clamored to get in. Police barked orders to back away on a megaphone. Shouts of dismay filled the air.

What is going on, Wally asked those around him.
Joe Del Priore is doing a rare reading from his latest book of stories, someone answered.


Who is he? Wally asked.
Where have you been the past five years, a man yelled. Nine collections of stories, with a tenth on the way. The man speaks to my soul. His work brings me to tears.
Police were ready to turn on the high powered hoses. Suddenly the proprietor came out and announced the writer would not be reading. He had suffered a panic attack and locked himself in the bathroom.
Genius is a lonely existence.

Bad Cheese

I sensed it was bad Swiss, but I bought it anyway. It just didn't look right in the package. The color was wrong. I know my cheese, but I am also stubborn. So I got home and immediately made a cheese sandwich that night. I am also lactose intolerant. Incredibly, I forgot to take my pill.
The next day I felt woozy like I had a head cold. My stomach wasn't growling, but three bowel movements within a few hours told me it was the cheese.
Should I throw it out? Of course, you say. But I paid $4.99 for it and suppose the cheese isn't that bad. Maybe if I ate one slice with my pill I can salvage this purchase.
With avocados you can tell if they're overripe by their softness. If you are single you should never buy more than two avocados or lemons at once. Frankly, I limit myself to one banana. You don't want your food going bad because you can't consume it fast enough.
Now that I've imparted this vital info, I'm going out for a well deserved cup of chili. The large size.

Say Anything

It was a Saturday night in early September. The last of the free weekly concerts/movies was taking place at a local park. I set up my folding chair, placed my light jacket across the back in case it got chilly. I got my chips and diet berry Snapple and a roll of Rolo chocolates. I had my thick book to finish for a discussion the following week. I was all set.
Before opening my book, I noticed sitting off to my left, a young Asian couple. They were staring straight ahead, not speaking or hugging. Periodically, I'd sneak a peek and saw neither changed position. It was as if they were strangers.
I assumed they had been going together for some time and there were no more discoveries to make, no mysteries to solve. No secrets to reveal.
Perhaps if another couple was along the difficulties of conversation would have been overcome. Or maybe the result was four people sitting on a bench staring at nothing on a Saturday night in the prime of their lives.
How do married couples keep from going quietly insane?

Inheritance

John's uncle Malaky died at 94, leaving his nephew a key to a storage space. John had little contact with the man over the years, but he was curious.
Shaking with anticipation, he opened the space. It was dark enough so that he used his flashlight. It smelled like decay.
The first thing he saw was a pile of typed paper, at least five feet high.
The second thing he noticed was a skeleton in the corner.
Could this be his Aunt Louise, who supposedly drowned in a boating accident years before? Was his uncle a murderer?
Was this a way for the man to confess?
What was on all those sheets of paper? Was his aunt secretly composing a diary describing mistreatment? Could there be hidden brilliance in her work, something John could market? He felt ashamed. This was disrespect.
He began reading. His expression changed. Recipes, all recipes. Hundreds of them.
Evidently Aunt Louise was a lousy cook. At least that was his uncle's conclusion. Especially her sauce.

Tattoo Horror

Ernie was a renowned miniature tattoo artist whose work defied tradition. Tiny images of flowers, dots, squiggly lines, insects etc. that were hard to find. Behind the ear, between fingers and toes, the armpit.
One night he was confronted by traditionalists who threatened bodily harm if he continued his art. They felt he was stealing their clients. Ernie defied them, proclaiming his art was his soul.
A few days later he got a call from the wife of a client. Her husband, who had a tiny cactus tattoo on his butt, was accosted by a masked gang. They pulled off his pants, held him down and proceeded to expand that image into an entire eucalyptus tree forest that covered the rest of his butt, his entire back and the upper thigh.
Police were indifferent. Most had huge tattoos of bulldogs and Harleys on their bulging biceps and shoulders.