Cooking Ignorance

I was given a crock pot and recipe book, which I opened once and got a headache reading a few. Too complicated.
I gave both to the Salvation Army.
I should learn to cook, but when you are this country's foremost flash fiction writer there are other priorities. My cooking friends claim it is easy. When you're afraid of opening the oven, let alone turning it on, that is an issue.
Ovens are basically evil.
All my serious cooking is done inside my head when I am bursting through a writing project and ideas assault me from everywhere. I am a brick oven pizza above the neck, aflame with anchovy alliteration, an absurdist chef with an apron stained with imagination.
Talk about muscular prose.

Cards on the Table

Will had a poker face, making it impossible to know what he was feeling. His project was to build a gazebo and Emily, his foreperson, was frustrated. I need more feedback, she complained.
Cards on the table, Will. Are you all in on this? A sturdy, elegant gazebo changes a town's personality and creates a meeting place.
Will understood her point, but explained his ambivalence. A gazebo is the frightening gateway to folk singers. They will converge from miles around, singing of clean air and water, pipelines, immigrants, health care, the broken middle class, not enough portable toilets, parks and park benches. Depressed people will stay home and eventually poets will arrive and take over our streetsbecause the folkies won't abandon this gazebo.
Will and Emily hugged. An early arriving folkie applauded.

The Problem

The problem is my bloated belly. A shame that body part diverts attention from my more impressive features. Removing navel lnt is not a solution. My doctor says I must given up potatoes. My existences revolves around that food staple. Stay away from carbs. The universe is full of carbs. Might as well tell me to stop breathing.
At the gym I envy flat bellied creatures. I could suck it in, but that is blatant denial.I am salivating for a Wendy's baked potato with all the toppings. All these young people eating everything they want, seeing me as a paunchy old guy who moves slow.
I hope Obama gets fat in retirement. No carbs make me cruel and insensitive.

Acting Impulsively

Kile's life was completely ordered and planned. He never made a move without analyzing the consequences. Every Wednesday from 10 to 11am he sat on the same bench in the same park meditating.
One day he opened his eyes and saw a squirrel staring at him. Their eyes met and a connection was formed. He was touched. Kile reached into his pocket where he always kept 21 white Tic Tacs and tossed some to the animal. It swallowed them and rolled around in ecstasy. Kile was bemused.
Every Wednesday he did the same thing with what he was sure was the same squirrel. One day, while walking, he discovered a racoon leaping from the bushes. He tossed some Tic Tacs at it, hoping for another connection with nature. This time EMS workers had to be called to tranquilize the beast so they could pry it from Kile's neck.
As he recovered, Kile realized impulsiveness had consequences. When he returned to the park the cold had driven away the squirrels and he was alone with his Tic Tacs and well ordered life.

My Greatest Sacrifice

I had a perfectly good life as a Boy Toy. Women could use me and pass me along to other older ladies. I fulfilled a need without having to go to work at some factory.
One day some of us Boy Toys were having brunch and Allen mentioned an article he'd read in Boy Toy Month;ly by a former BT, who declared this was a shallow way to live and we should be ashamed of ourselves. Much debate ensued. Yes, Boy Toys do debate occasionally.
When I got home I began thinking. It gave me a headache, but I questioned whether there was more I was capable of. It would have been simple to transition to Chic Magnet, but I made a sacrifice. I let my hair fall out, lost my six pack abs and abandoned my perfect posture.
I became a writer. Now I have gravitas, respect and substance.
Sometimes, just for fun, I will flash some chest hair, but I will never go back. Gravitas does not grow on trees.

Sink or Swim

Frank knew opening a garter belt shop was a gamble. They were not as popular as in the past. He has 16 different colors and fabrics. He came up with a novel promotion--edible garter belts. Get the customers in the store, then push the other products.
He discovered he needed something more. Condiments. Once he stocked relish, mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise, in store traffic exploded. His garter belts were flying off the shelf. Now he wants to open a second shop for men--edible cummerbunds. At some point he will try to market edible suspenders and cuff links. Making love and dining will be simultaneous.
This is a gamble, but as with any business venture, it is a sink or swim proposition.

Bikini Rage

So the Suburban Princess posts a shot of her in a bikini on Valentine's Day and I share it, figuring her positive message to other young women is I don't have a guy, but I still feel good about myself.
Bam! Delete that, she messages me. Immediately! No polite request.
Huh? What did I do? I didn't ask her to post it. Once it's out there you can't dictate what others do with a post. They can ignore it, hit Like or Love or Sad or make a comment or share or any combination of the above. Short of making racist remarks, all of that is appropriate.
Before that, she posts an eight year old video of her and a friend learning Spanish. And before that, a photo of her and her brother mooning the camera. I never asked to see this stuff.
While this nonsense is put out there, never does she post samples of her writing, which can then be linked to her website. She ignores all my suggestions to succeed as a scribe.
Plus, with all the stuff going on in our government, she never posts a single opinion about anything. Meanwhile, we have to see shots of her new hairstyle or outfit. This is an Ivy League graduate.
Suburban Princess thinks she's Tyra Banks.
So I un-friended her. She too self absorbed to even notice. No wonder she's single.

Potato Ban

I am no longer allowed to have potatoes. Let that sink in. Too many carbs, my doctor says.
I am doing nothing but dreaming about potatoes. Not just fries and hash browns and chips. Wendy's baked potato with all the toppings. Eat just one there is no need for sex all week.
God, what am I going to do? Beans? Maybe for awhile that will suffice. Pork rinds are his orders, nothing but pork rinds without carbs.
Maybe I'll order hash browns and sniff them.
I want to bury my face in a sliced yam and suck out all the yamness. Without potatoes is there a reason to go on?
I hesitate to ask him about gelato. What if he shakes his head? How will I fit into society if I can't partake of those two food staples?
You will see me wandering around supermarkets sobbing quietly, forced into the organic foods aisle. Even organic potatoes are off limits. I knew thought adulthood could be like this.

Dream Team

Dwight was having horrible nightmares and a medical dream team was called in. The neurologist suggested faulty brain wiring and not enough serotonin. The psych guy thought he was molested as a child. The ENT lady thought it was a sinus infection. The nutritionist diagnosed too much lettuce and not enough fiber. The urologist just want to poke around up there. The cardiologist sensed an irregular heartbeat, while the endocrinologist surmised it was mini stroke caused by diabetes complications.
On the patient's fifth day in the hospital, the custodian noticed a postcard on the  floor in the closet. He showed it to Dwight, who began screaming.
It said "Species Unknown--Paintings by Joe". An illustration of a monster was included.
The mystery of Dwight's nightmares was solved.

PS- I have such an exhibit at a local library.

Ugly Chair

She told the salesman she needed an ugly chair as a conversation piece because she was so dull guests would doze off. He nodded and said we may have something.
When he returned dragging a chair that looked normal, she had doubts.
This looks like perfectly average chair, she said.
The salesman smiled and said, I'd like you to meet Keith. He comes with the chair. Keith gave her a toothy smile.
I don't understand, she said.
The salesman nodded to Keith, who began speaking.
"The Flying Wallendas are down to third cousins due to so many accidents. The average weight of a certified accountant is 183.5 pounds. People in Arkansas pass more wind per minute than any other state. East Honduras is a fake country created by drunken cartographers."
He went on for another five minutes before she agreed that this would do.
The salesman told her Keith needed to hydrate and get enough fiber and he would be serviceable for a decade.
She kissed the salesman on the cheek and left smiling.

Things We Walk On

sand
gravel
hot coals
timid people
dead insects
loving insects
damp bathroom rugs
crumbling dynaties
quicksand is we're quick
someone's back as a masseuse
cobblestones
stick on tile
toes if a dancer
someone's hopes

The Hole Whisperer

I sit before the mirror waiting for my ear hair to grow back, trimmer in hand. Some would say there is a void in my life. I am a retired shoemaker. I have fixed over 28000 holes in the soles. They did a documentary on me. I am known as the Hole Whisperer.
Let me hold up this mirror. Ah, a tiny hair that wasn't there two hours ago. When you stick that trimmer right up your nostril it can be arousing. Really.
I also enjoy waiting for toast. You know the result, but when will the process take place? I will place my fish tank nearby and watch the fish leap in fear when the toast pops. Or maybe it's excitement.
Would it be inappropriate to use my trimmer on my armpits? Why am I asking you? You're sitting there eating a bowl of kale.

By Candlelight

I count my Pimento olives by candlelight. I rub them across my bare chest.My wife doesn't understand me.
Everyone looks better in candlelight. I once bought a Mother Teresa candle, but feared lighting it. Blasphemy. My favorite is one depicting rhesus monkeys with their arms folded. So romantic.
There should be a meet up group for those who like to caress melted wax.  Large dinners with candles and famous fashion designers is my goal.
Enter a cave with just a candle. Gently engage with the bear living there. Experience spirituality. Then run like hell.
One man with a candle can enlighten more people than a hundred government officials on Twitter,
I just created a bumper sticker.

Park Things

Old men slumping on benches.
Old women yelling at strangers.
Mediocre musicians and mimes.
Kids splashing in germ loaded fountains.
Homeless poets with chapped lips.
Important people making vital calls as they stride past.
The splattered pigeon droppings
So much mud.
Religious ranters.
Sometimes a little bit of quiet.
Compassionate folks who straighten out slumping old men.
Locked bathrooms.