Caught in the Act

Stupidly, I left my laptop open next to my notebook. I had been finding strange changes to my polished writing on the Toshiba. Was someone sneaking in and fooling with my text?
I set up a recording device to monitor my work space.
I am a rational man who believes only in what I see. What I saw left me speechless.
Crossed out words and sentences from my notebook were crawling off and into my laptop, insinuating themselves in my edited text, in the process pushing out better word choice and imagery.
Evidently, rejection infuriated them. I locked up my notebook and assumed the problem was contained.
However, when I attended my next writer group meeting, Cecelia showed me her screen. My work is disappearing and is being replaced by total silliness, she said.
I immediately recognized my own work.
It's hard to keep a straight face when you're throwing up inside your mouth.

Slice It Thin

Marty, the Word Butcher, had a tattoo of Dmitri Pushkin on his forearm. His apron was stained with rotting similes.
What's good this week big guy, I asked.
Five haikus for a buck, he shot back. I shook my head. Got a year's worth of those. Got any sonnets? Last time you didn't trim the fat and I rambled at an open mike. He looked offended. I sell lean prose, fella. No fat.
Well, this is poetry and flabby syntax doesn't get it.
I got a bad shipment, Lenny. But if you're looking for tasty anecdotes...
Are they fresh?
In my freezer as we speak. I shrugged. Anecdotes are so 1988. Gimme a dozen limericks, no topping, preferably English. Hold the punctuation. And slice them thin. This is a sensitive group with delicate pallets.
Lenny, you're trying to be Bukowski and I told you they can't digest that stuff before 10PM.
I grabbed my limericks wrapped in wax paper and left the place, muttering eat my vowels. The problem with audiences today is they never chew slowly and savor the images. Thinking about my latest poem, my mouth started to water. What to wash it down with? Something Irish.

Do Not Refreeze

Unless I use my ideas quickly they spoil. My freezer is already full of unproven theories, so I can't store them there. Once you remove intellectual material from your freezer you must thaw it out and immediately do something constructive. Do not refreeze. I tried that once with a frozen rant. Once it thawed out I felt I only had the energy to recite part of it. I stuck it back in the freezer and three days later when I went to remove it, it had shrunk into a smelly haiku.
I've left damp hyperbole out on the window sill to dry, went out jogging and when I returned, discovered only stale crumbs of sentence fragments. I keep all my punctuation in the top cabinet where it is cool and dry. One time I left a sealed box of metaphors under the sink and a leak in the pipe left me with mold and mildew covering my powerful work. Editors far and near were heartbroken went I informed them.
My theater pieces I keep in the stove next to my frying pan. Sometimes they get greasy, but that only adds to their poignancy I think. The one time I put them in the vegetable bin next to a head of broccoli, a week later I found nothing but curled, blank pages. My words, fearing the unknown, which was the broccoli, had scattered all over my place, in the wardrobe, under tables, beneath my quilt, in the dishwasher.
Since I don't own many shoes, I use my shoe rack to stock my short stories. I keep my stream of consciousness ramblings close, even sleeping with them.
My witty asides are in my knife drawer as you might expect. They are quite sharp and often draw emotional blood. Aimless musings are lined up in my storage space above the towels, waiting for the next yard sale.
You know, I seem to remember you purchased a dozen or so for $5. Hey, if you pay for it, it's not plagiarism.