Take Out

Garbanzo Heaven was packed. Bill saw dollar signs. All he served was garbanzo beans and pimento olives.
Joe sat in the corner by himself. His face was literally buried in a bowl of pimento olives. He came up for air, face covered in grease. He licked his lips and dove down again. People were lined up around the block at 11 pm. Bill wanted to close up and go home to his family. What to do?
Take Out Available!! he yelled. The line attacked the counter, barking out orders. His workers moved fast and the line shrunk. Soon the place was empty except for Joe who had dozed off, face buried in pimento. EMS had to be called. Joe was revived and staggered home, rubbing his belly.
Please note: No Italians were harmed during this post.

Wisdom Teeth

Maury Baum became the first person to actually request wisdom teeth be implanted into his gums because he had no wisdom or intelligence and he figured how could this hurt?
I made a deal with my wisdom tooth. If it didn't act up, I would show it porn.
Let's hear from my gum.
Hi. I'm Joe's gum. He flosses every morning, brushes his tongue, uses a pic to dig in between teeth.
Despite all that, it would not surprise me if his wisdom tooth acted up. Look at his diet. Peanut brittle all day long.
He has power issues.

Good Omen

Winston emerged from the coffee shop only to have a bird poop on his windshield. He was late for an appointment and had no time to wipe it off. As he drove along others pointed to the spot and shouted Good Omen!
This drove up his blood pressure, which his doctor noted. Dr. Farley nodded when told of the situation and confessed he collected bird poop and tossed it on his own car, furniture, friends and crossing guards for good luck. He also left poop in church pews.
Winston felt better. Outside, someone had wiped off the poop. Winston silently cursed. The rest of the day he drove around looking for flocks of birds.

Promises

We are immersed in promises. Marriages are all about vows, which are life long promises. Taking a job means promising your employer you will give it your best effort. People promise to call you back, to be at a certain place at a certain time. Men promise to leave the seat down.
How do we deal with broken promises. I say punishment is in order. You get three broken promises, after which you will be dragged to the center of town and beaten witha bamboo stick. This includes politicians.
The Salem witch trials have gotten a bum rap. You never see witches around there anymore. Pets  and kids can promise happiness. Yeah right. Loser kids should be sent to military school.
A while back, I promised myself I would create a body Hercules would be proud of. Plus, I would smell good every single day.
Still working on that.

Simple Solution

The solution to overcrowding is to send about 40 million folks to Alaska. They have plenty of room, especially if you focus on small people and kids. Offer free moving expenses and one year free housing. Stress the nutritional value of seal meat. Alaska is beautiful. Give these transplants warm clothes and winter underwear.
Global warming means less ice, more green. Push the adventure of hunting caribou. Plenty of parking, excellent garbage collection. The aurora borealis is almost spiritual. I'm pretty sure they have self flushing toilets. I'm told nobody hugs like Eskimos.
Nine monthys of snowball fights. Your kids will love it. So quiet one can spend hours meditating.
Unless we act fast, Russia will annex the whole territory. Not possible? Talk to the Ukraine.

Got This

Steam burst out from under the hood. Jim leaped out of his van, waited a minute and saw a damaged hose. In seconds he had replaced it with a duplicate from that van. A small payment by a grateful driver followed.
Cruising the city, he saw a woman doubled over in pain. Jim ran behind and yanked with his arms around her waist. Thank you, she gasped. He refused money and continued on his informal rounds. His van was full of useful stuff, ready to solve all sorts of problems. A couple struggled to fit a couch through a front door. Jim applied elbow grease and it slid right through.
A man and his son played catch on the front lawn. The boy kept missing the ball. Jim supplied a bigger glove and eye glasses. Problem solved. A tattoo artist ran out of ink and Jim was there with replenishment. A lady fumed over a run in her stocking. Jim, as always, leaped into action, proclaming, I got this!. In fact, that was printed on the side of his van. I Got This!
A snapped jump rope, a bicycle chain replaced, a walker for an elderly man.
Unfortunately, the walker had uneven legs. The man fell over and sued Jim for six figures. Jim was crestfallen and eventually drank himself to death.
At the funeral parlor, the mortician looked down at the body and announced to no one, I've got this.

Western Wind

I want to write a poem about the western wind, but I'm completely blocked. In a room full of writers focusing on this prompt, I fear ridicule.  I glance at Mirela's notebook hoping for inspiration. It is blank. She sits there, head braced against her palm, also blocked.
Carla has beautiful hand writing, but, as usual, she's ignoring the prompt and writing about this guy who dumped her. I won't protest because her arms dwarf mine.
I sigh. I think of the Santa Ana winds in California, which is west. It's a dry wind and who wants to read a poem about dryness? Blake Shelton should write a song about the western wind.

I am so inspired by a well written show like Breaking Bad, I call a meeting of all my characters to discuss this idea of chemistry in a story. I work my tail off to create vibrant writing, but too often my characters complain my stories aren't fleshed out and lack a satisfying conclusion. This is the epitome of ungratefulness. Without me, there is no them.
They actually wander off into other writers' pieces. Especially Susan's, who they seem to regard as funnier than me. I submit I have more gravitas.
I had just finished my talk when I became aware of a disturbance in the back. I charged right up to the characters involved and saw they were giving each other noogies. I looked closer and realized they were Keith's characters, sneaking into my talk. I always considered Keith's writing juvenile.
I escorted them out. Boundaries have got to be set among us writers.

A Hike

Joe was an unhappy Scoutmaster. His life wasn't going in the right direction, but molding these kids made him feel useful and fulfilled. He told the boys hiking builds character. His assistant, Ernie, kept humming patriotic tunes which drove Joe crazy. This nonsense of girls joining was ridiculous. They couldn't pee in the woods like boys.
Midway through this hike, Joe dropped back to inspire the stragglers as the temperature rose. Let's go guys! You can do this. These three had almost capsized a canoe and could not start a fire if their lives depended on it. Joe kept shouting until they had enough. They pinned him to the ground, took out lighters and set fire to his boots. Ernie came running, tripped over a branch and knocked himself unconscious. Joe pleaded. I'll sign off on any badge you want, he offered.
We want the bow and arrow badge, they said. He nodded vigorously. They freed him and continued hiking at their own pace. Ernie was found three days later, starving and thirsty.

Bee Colony

Roddy asked the Queen for a leave of absence. He was one burnt out bee. She could see his performance had fallen off, so she granted him a one month leave to find himself.
In gratitude, he shot a wad of honey that landed on her. She laughed it off.
Roddy then moved among the other insects to see where he fit. He embarrassed himself trying to leap like a grasshopper. He failed to carry the load of an ant. Inspecting fetid garbage with roaches made him sick, as did feeding on corpses with dung beetles.
Fireflies mocked his attempt to light up his bum. He lacked the elegance of a Praying Mantis. Houseflies were too quick. Mosquitos were too obnoxious.
At one point, Roddy fell hard for Roweena, a black spider. She rejected him after he failed to produce a web.
Wisdom was all he came away with after his sojourn. Upon returning to the hive, he apologized to the Queen. He still had to produce honey, but at least he didn't have Roweena's quota of five flies a day.

Ant Colony

I went looking for insects with my magnifying glass. More interesting than people. I discovered the worst ant colony ever. Hundreds of them just lying around in hammocks and lounge chairs doing nothing. No carrying or building or storing. No work happening.
Where was the leadership? Bees have a queen. How about a supervisor here?
Most looked overweight and possibly stoned.
Suddenly a gang of warrior red ants attacked. The black ants were helpless.The red ants ate the hammocks. Carnage prevailed. Dead, fat ants everywhere.
I had to turn away. Butterflies are more my taste. Later, a dozen Praying Mantis showed up and offered prayers for the fallen. Nature does care.

Paradise

Sunday nights are my evenings in paradise. A time for writers living in Hudson County, NJ. I walk up and down Bergenline Avenue with my hand weights, absorbing the symphony of smells, sounds and sights.
I look in windows full of people eating. So many restaurants, fast food outlets, bakeries, nail salons, and shops selling just about everything. Spanish fills the air. Music blared from creeping cars, shouts of recognition to pedestrians who reply in kind.
The smells of this urban safari sift into my nostrils. So much to record in my memory. The suburbs closed down hours ago. Keep your mountains and beaches. I prefer the paradise of vibrant interaction among the exotic tribes of this thoroughfare.
Of course, they think I'm undercover and keep their distance. Maybe it's how I aggressively swing my hand weights.