"The President's Neck is Missing!"(With a nod to "The Simpsons" for title and inspiration)

1/17/2019-At approximately 4:52 a.m., the President of the United States awoke to the horrifying discovery that his neck was missing!

  Thankfully, his head had been expertly re-attached to his shoulders by the thieves, and a check of his vital signs indicated that he was otherwise in good health. His staff was called to meet in his office(not the Oval one, but a more traditionally square office he kept nearer to his bedroom).

  Of course, due to his necklessness, he could not speak, but the communication problem was quickly remedied by giving the president a tablet device that would speak the words he typed.

  Thankfully, the President was a fan of deep v-neck  t-shirts, so it was fairly easy for him to find appropriate clothing.He chose a nice cobalt blue, his wife's favorite color.

  

The White House engineers were dispatched to create several new devices that the President would need: First and foremost was a cradle for his telephone, as he would no longer be able to cradle the phone between his shoulder and his ear, and he was never a fan of ear-pieces, but did need to be able to work hands-free. Second, and of less importance, was some sort of rear view mirror system,as the President will be unable to turn his head.

  

 The Chief of Security entered and linked to the security footage form  the President's bedroom. At approximately 1:45 a.m. EST, there appeared to be a shadowy figure carrying a bag of some sort moving around in the east end of the room,but the room was then bathed in a blinding light that lasted for the next 35 minutes. 

  When the light subsided, the room looked as if nothing had changed, except, of course, that the President's NECK was missing!!

  As they all looked at each other in disbelief, the telephone rang. the President answered,and a voice said "Mr. President, I believe I have something that belongs to you."

  To be continued...

Post Number One Thousand Five Hundred !!!

Post # 1500!!

  Which really doesn't meaning anything other than I have hit the "Publish" button 1500 times. But, that's a LOTTA button pushing, so I'm pretty happy that I have made it to 1500 posts, and that I still manage to crank out the same crap that very few people have been reading for the last 1499 posts over roughly the last 6 years. Go me! Rah-Rah!

  Anywho, I tried to come up with some grand, exciting thing to do for 1500...And I didn't really come up with anything. So, what I am going to do is share with you a bit of based on life fiction that I have writed my very own self...So, without further ado, I give you...

  The Boys Who Cried "It's Them" 

    The earliest memory I have on that day is buying large bottles of booze in New York City, and trying to figure out how to conceal them in a backpack. It was one of those times I wish I was fonder of (and my stomach more tolerant of) the old “hard liquor”, as that would be a whole lot easier to conceal. Alas, I had not yet been introduced to the world of schnapps, so it was large bottles of beer for me and my friends (some people may try and tell you that it was wine coolers, not beer, but those people are dirty, filthy liars, who have a vendetta against us and cannot be trusted).

     I think that it was 1990. The reason that we were procuring these beverages on this warm summer day was to imbibe them during a James Taylor concert at what was then called the Garden State Arts Center in the great state of New Jersey. I’m not sure what it’s called now, but I think it has a corporate name. It maybe one of the thousands of Verizon Wireless amphitheatres that seem to exist in the U.S. these days, I don’t know. Don’t much care, either. Though if you care, I’m sure you can Gooble it or something. It’s in a place called Holmdel, New Jersey. Gooble away, my friends. Gooble to your hearts content.

    I’m pretty sure it was 1990 because that was the year that Sinead O’Connor caused all that ruckus by refusing to go onstage at the Arts Center because they always played the National Anthem before every concert or event. I don’t remember the outcome But I do remember James Taylor referencing the whole thing by coming onstage and saying that he was disappointed because he had planned to open with the National Anthem, but there was really no point now. He’s a funny fucker, that James Taylor, a real funny fucker.

   But enough about James Taylor, back to liquor procurement. We were in the big bad city to purchase our liquor because none of us had reached the magic age of 21. This made our desired purchase beyond our grasp…At least in a legal sense. But we had discovered through some trial and error, that in some of the delis in NYC, they would sell us some adult beverages without so much as a second look(I think we may have been the first people to ever realize this). So we decided on this fine day to traipse into the city and get some booze. I think we probably ate some lunch too…And maybe, just maybe purchased some weed as well.

   Most of the rest of the day is fairly hazy…Which makes me think that maybe we DID purchase some weed. Or that nothing much happened that afternoon. Or perhaps “a little from column A and a little from Column B” as Abe Simpson once said.

    I do remember us entering the concert venue, and my friend Dave had the bottles in his backpack, and they rattled when the guy at the gate patted down the bag. I seem to remember us claiming that it was Orangina(the first legal beverage we could think of that came in glass bottles-rather ingenious on our part, if I do say so myself-which I guess I just did) in the bag, and the guy looked at us like he didn’t believe us but didn’t care, and let us, and our contraband, into the Garden State Art Center.

  The show was good. Some mellow tunes from James Taylor. We had lawn seats, so we spread out a blanket and just kinda hung out. Don’t remember anything extraordinary about the show or the other people. At least until it was time to leave. That was when we discovered that someone had stolen Dave’s shoes.

   We had not been in any rush to leave, and everyone around us was already gone, so even if someone had grabbed his shoes by accident (not very likely-it had the feel of a professional job from the get-go), it was too late to find out. We still fanned out in a much larger search grid than was really necessary(but who knew ? Maybe the shoes had boogied there way across the lawn) and scoured the litter strewn ground for a hint of the shoes…But there was nary a trace. We finally had to accept that they were gone.  Dave handled it well, but I sometimes think I still see a flash in his eyes that tells me he is still haunted by the questions to which we never received any answers…Why? Why HIS shoes? Why that night? Why, indeed.

    We made our way back to the car, Dave adeptly avoiding broken glass and random, unidentified puddles along the way. Our original plan had been to travel into the city to meet up with some friends who went in to see “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”. Did Dave’s sudden  and complete lack of footwear change that plan ? You’re god damned right it didn’t! We soldiered on into the city.

  I think what we did was: We drove to Hoboken, and then we took the PATH train into the city. We arrived at the theater, and I don’t know if we were not allowed in because we were too late, or because Dave did not have shoes, or whether we decided just to not go in, but I think it was one of the first two, because I remember us returning to the subway platform to wait for our friends.

  What I do know, is that at some point, we(Dave and I) pissed our friend Bruce off…Or something did. And if he was not pissed already, we very shortly made sure that he was pissed at us.

   Why did we do this? Because we were jerks.

    How did we do this? Well, Dave and I decided to update and re-enact an old time fairy tale…The Tale of the Boy Who Cried Wolf. Now, I don’t think this was a conscious decision on our part…I think it was something that just started happening, and we decided to run with it. Who said it first? I don’t recall. But at some point after we had been sitting on the platform, one of us said: “Hey, it’s them!” What we meant, of course, was that it was the friends from the movie theater. Except that is wasn’t. But two out of three of us looked. Funny, right ?

  It might have been funny the first two or three times. Funny the 10^th time ? Maybe, but probably not. Did Dave and I find it funny? Oh hells yes. And it got funnier each time. I don’t know that I will ever really know why Bruce did not shove one or both of us onto the tracks that night. We probably deserved it.

  But do you know what elevated this to all time classic status? Have you guessed yet? Let me set the scene. Bruce is sitting with his back against one of the columns on the platform. He is pretty angry at these two dicks he for some reason calls his friends. They are still saying, “Hey Bruce…It’s them.” Every few minutes, and giggling, even though he long ago stopped looking at the stairs.

    “Hey, Bruce. It’s them” I said. No response.

    “Really, Bruce, it’s them.” He was too smart to turn around. And he did not turn around. Until he heard someone else’s voice and then he just about jumped out of his skin. IT REALLY WAS THEM!!! It was unbelievable. Dave and I laughed so hard we almost passed out. Bruce could only shake his head and smile, or perhaps try to make our heads explode with the power of his mind. Either way, he forgave us, and decided against making our heads explode.

Tales of The 'Stache.

 That's right folks, it is finally time to break open the vault and start sharing the The Tales of The 'Stache. I know many of you have been waiting years for this work to be unvaulted(de-vaulted?), and we are now  closer than ever. All that remains is to do some editing and get some contracts finalized, and the stories of  Vernon "The 'Stache" Mustacherson will finally see the light of day.

   Follow along with this ex-porn star, current  police detective as he thwarts crime on the mean streets of  Toms River, New Jersey.

  Stay tuned, crimestoppers!

Can You Help Me ?

The best laid plans, huh? It was all going to be so great.

  I would go to college, of course. The first step in becoming a doctor, to be more precise. I was to get my degree and be a psychiatrist.

  One problem with the plan, I have an intense hatred for books. I despise them. I hate them more than receiving oral sex from a prostitute with jagged teeth and nervous tics.

  It’s bizarre. It’s totally “lame”, to quote the young people. Why would I hate books? I just know I do. When I get near them, my brow starts to sweat,  my legs turn to rubber, my bowels turn to stone(it’s not funny, if I spend time in  a library, I need to take Fibercon for a week), and the rage starts to build in me.

  I remember one Christmas, a new girlfriend gave me a book of Laotian short stories, and I threw it in the fire!!  Christmas was ruined; I couldn’t even enjoy the lederhosen or flugelhorn she bought for me. She had gone with a whole Laotian/German theme. She was such a peach. She stormed out, throwing the treasure chest I had bought for her fish tank right through my television.

  How can I be a doctor and hate books? It would be like dreaming of being a mathematician and hating a square!! Or wanting to be a Pharaoh and hating the pyramid!!

  I need to get past this. I want to have kids some day, what if they want me to read Goodnight Moon and I freak out and go on a profanity laced tirade? I can’t have that!!

  So here I am. I have come full circle, in a way. I wanted to be a psychiatrist, and instead, I’m here talking to you, a therapist.

Can you help me?

Local Beauty Queen Stripped Of Tiara For Screaming Obscenities at the Elderly

Tenafly, N.J. - Shannah DeMarco, Miss. New Jersey Auto Parts of 2007 was stripped of her title on Wednesday, just 6 weeks into her reign. 

    Apparently, she was appearing at a Valentines Day for Lovers Luncheon at a local old age home, and one of the citizens of the home asked her to keep the singing down, as it was disturbing his game of solitaire. Miss. De Marco did not appreciate the comment, and paused her rendition of “I Will Always Love You” to call the man a slang term for homosexuals.

   “She’s quite beautiful,” said Herman, an attendee of the party,” but she’s no Lillian Gish, and she is certainly lacking in social skills. I am dubious of any beauty contest that would crown her a winner. And I though that her calling Jimmy a cross–eyed (expletive deleted) was really uncalled for.”

   Miss. De Marco was not done with her rampage. As the crowd began to murmur with disapproval, DeMarco turned her ire to a group over by the punch bowl. She apparently used several inventive slang terms for the female genitalia, and accused the ladies of having sexual relations with various farm animals.

  “It’s such a pity,” said Matilda, one of the women by the punch bowl “when I was a young, girls simply did not talk like that. I highly doubt she’ll ever get married talking like that. And quite frankly, she’s no Liza with a Z in the singing department, either. Her whole performance was quite dull.”

  Immediately after the farm animal remark, the party’s organizers dragged a still screaming DeMarco off of the stage and into the nearby kitchen. Several residents who were nearby said that the heard racial epithets coming from the kitchen.

  A spokesman for the Pageant issued a statement announcing DeMarco’s removal.

  “We are sorry to say that Miss. De Marco will no longer hold the title of Miss. New Jersey Auto Parts. We at the Pageant sincerely apologize to anyone that was offended by her remarks. We are proud to announce that Miss. Patsy Sullivan will be the new Miss. New Jersey Auto Parts and we will crown her in a ceremony on Saturday at the Legion Hall.”

  Miss DeMarco was not available for comment, but her publicist did issue a statement that Miss. DeMarco was taking prescription medication for pain at the time of the outburst, and that her comments are “something she regrets, and certainly do not represent her feelings about the elderly, homosexuals, cross eyed people, women’s private parts or farm animals.”

  Other than this incident, the party was viewed as a success. Though it was reported that the chicken served for lunch was a little dry.

The Phone Call

The phone just kept ringing.

He knew she wasn't going to answer it.Not this time.

Then why did he call?

Well, what if she DID answer? What if she gave him a chance to explain ? Wasn't that at least worth the dialing of the number? Sure it was.

But  what would he say if she defies all logic and answers the phone? Does he tell her the whole truth? Does he hold something back, to try and maintain a grasp of some shred of his dignity? there was really little point to that now.The damage was pretty extensive. there was not much point to try and save anything. This was going to have to be a start from scratch kinda thing. he needed to lay it all out to her, and see what happens.

Of course, this theorizing was all fairly moot, as he was sure she would not answer the phone.She made it fairly clear that she did not want to talk to him.And, of course, he could not blame her.He had screwed things up, and for what? He didn't even know anymore.It didn't even matter.

All that mattered was the chance to explain.He didn't hold out any hope that she would take him back, did he? Somewhere back in the recesses of his brain, perhaps, he believed it was possible. Back there with UFOs and the possibility of a Veronica Mars movie, but that didn't matter so much. He simply wanted a chance to explain himself, to maybe have her hate him just a little bit less.Was that really so much to ask?

It probably was...

"Hello?" said her voice on the phone.

A FIND!(18 Word Challenge #2)

Okay, so here is the first of the stories written with the 18 words(bolded in the text) some of you folks provided.I used Kevin's words in this one. 

   

A Find!!                                                        

This is huge. I mean monumental. I cannot believe that we found one, and in pristine condition, too! And in my parents backyard!! We are on the precipice of history here, Johnson! The excitement is palpable. We have found an honest to goodness fossil!! We are going to be rich! And famous! The ladies will most certainly become flirtatious! We will probably be asked to appear on many local morning talk shows!! I bet I could become polyamorous if I so desired!! Women will follow me and offer me a flagon of mead and one of chartreuse as I pillage all the neighboring towns!! The celebration shall dwarf the one held for the American centennial!!

 What? What do you mean? No, there would be two flagons, one of mead and one of chartreuse. No, mead is not a color! I know that chartreuse is a color, it is also a fine liqueur, distilled from 130 herbs! My God man, have you no class? What I am trying to tell you is that once I become rich and famous, I will have women following me with exotic ales and liqueurs! Way to ruin my moment, Johnson! Well, what should I expect from someone who eats his taco with a knife and fork?

  You know what I think I will buy with some of my wealth? A bathtub that will be filled with cinnamon and allspice, and placed exactly in the center of the bathtub? A single tigerlily. Why? To symbolize the eternal battle between good and evil, of course.

   This is so very exciting! I feel like Jonathon Livingston Seagull!  Huh ?  Wasn’t he the one that met that explorer guy in the woods or something? “Mister Livingston Seagull, I presume?” No, that wasn’t him?  Sorry, Johnson, I guess I’m not as smart as you! Mister “Two Semesters at Junior College”! Big deal, all you took were electives! I got a much more prestigious degree. You know where from? “The School of God-Damned Hard Knocks”, that’s where! University Of The Streets! How about that?

  Oh, man, Johnson, I cannot wait to take this fossil, and go visit that smartass from the Circle K, Dwayne. I’m gonna back that smug fuck into a corner, and make him squirm! Teach him to ridicule my Green Lantern tee shirt! Try to tell me that the Green Arrow is cooler. My ass he is! I’ll reduce that jerk to a pile of ashes! It’s gonna be sweet.

  And he won’t be the only one! All of my enemies shall bow before me, and try their best to placate me. I will scoff at them as I gnaw on my succulent turkey leg that one of my many minions will always carry with them, in one of those heated bags that the pizza places use. Revenge will indeed be a dish best served cold, but with a side dish of warm turkey leg! Everything is better when one is gnawing on a warm turkey leg.

  And all this we be possible because we found this extremely rare fossil!! Hand me that brush, let us delicately clean off some of this dust. Ooh, it looks like there might be some writing on it! Ancient hieroglyphic, I bet. Let’s see here…T-w-i…Twist! It says Twistoff! Twistoff! Perhaps it’s a rare coin from one of the great czars of Russia! Not as old as I thought, but still it could be very valuable! Quick, Google the name Twistoff!

  What’s that? It saysTwistoff was a member of the cola family? What cola family? Coca-Cola? What ? I am conf…oh, shit.

  Stop laughing, Johnson! Just stop it. And let’s get back to digging.

I Got a Proposition For You...

Psst…You there. Yeah, you…Can I talk to you about something? Where you from? Soho? St. Louis? Huh? Chicago? Oh, Jesus. I thought you looked like there was something wrong with you. Just kidding, my friend. Chicago is a great town. Great town. Boy, I could tell you some stories. 

But I won’t. I’m not here to tell stories, my friend. And I ain’t here to dance with you in the candlelight and sip champagne, either. No I am not. I’m here to get to the nitty gritty, the old brass tax, as they say. Are you passionate, my boy? Have you a spine? I ask you this, because I can already tell that you don’t look dumb. You don’t look like you just fell off of the turnip truck. I can tell that about you. I can just tell. But I cannot get a read on whether you can take the physical toll of what I am talking about.

Are you masculine enough? Or are you a Nancy? A Lola? A Sissypants? Are you? If you are, stop wasting my time right now. I don’t have time to get all muddled up in a deal with some Petunia who ain’t got the stones, you know? If you ain’t got the guts, there’s the door. This is my last shot, my friend, I have done it all, I’ve kissed the girls in France, I’ve run with the bulls in Spain, I’ve gotten drunk at the Vatican and given a cardinal a knee to the groin. This is the only thing I have left to do. And I need your help.

Are you in, or are you out?

One Last Memo(18 words #1)

Okay, so here is the first of the stories written with the 18 words(bolded in the text) some of you folks provided.I used Karin's words in this one.I didn't do a whole lot of editing on this one, I just kinda let it flow. I'll be curious what you think.

One Last Memo

“Shall I close my mouth? Is the glare off my teeth blinding you?” Simon asked and chuckled.

 “No, but your breath is curling my hair! Criminy, what did you eat for lunch? Fish wrapped in dogshit and dipped in sewage?” Gina answered. It was shameless that way we flirted. Gina was the receptionist at the pebble refinery where  Simon worked. She was a good egg, that Gina. When he first started working there, Simon thought she might be a misanthrope, but he was way off on that judgment. And he was glad that his miscalculation of her attitude had been so astronomical. She was one of the reasons Simon still enjoyed driving down that long and winding road to that grubby little office building, and taking that long elevator ride to the 18^th floor.

   That’s right, recently Simon have been thinking about turning over a new leaf, and getting out of the pebble refining business altogether. Shocking, huh? Because business is vigorous right now, but somehow the joy is gone, that visceral reaction he craved had just disappeared. And if he was not passionate about pebble refining, then nobody wins, you know? Sure you do.

   He walked down the hallway to my office. He paused as he unlocked the door, did he really have the fortitude to do this anymore? I mean, pebble refining is a young man’s game, and while Simon wasn’t quite dead yet, he was no spring chicken anymore, either. He pushed the door to his office open, and caught his reflection in the mirror on the wall. His brown curly hair was receding ever so slightly, and the bags under his eyes didn’t go away with a good night’s sleep any longer.

  He sat down at his desk and turned on his computer. He hoped we would not see another e-mail from that jackass McNulty. Good lord, was that man opaque. He head was where ideas went to die. He was one of the main reasons that Simon had contemplated taking the leap.

   It wasn’t just that McNulty was absent inspiration, it was like he was literally some sort of human black hole. His mere presence in a room actually had the power to negate intelligence. It was like negativity and stupidity formed a bisect in his soul.

    How could that man rob the joy out of pebble refining? Ever since he had inherited the company from his father, he took a prolific pebble refining workforce and ground the spirit out of it. And unfortunately, he used Simon as his conduit. As the office manager, it was Simon’s job to translate the younger McNulty’s stupidity into soul crushing memos. And it ate away at Simon.

  Simon felt a duty to the elder McNulty, though. He had promised his boss that he would look after the company and his son, and he felt like he had failed at both tasks. He felt he needed to try and write the wrongs, but it was taking its toll, that’s for sure. He was no longer sure how much longer he could do it.

  Actually, that was not true. He knew exactly how much longer he could do it. He took a piece of paper out of his desk and quickly wrote something down on it and placed it in his outbox. Then he stood up, walked across his office, opened the window, and jumped.

The Post In Which I Ask You A Favor....

So, this guy brought my attention to a writing exercise/challenge by this guy , which I am thinking I might give a whirl.

  This also reminded me of a word game that a lovely lady named Cindra was running a few years back, in which she would provide people with 18 words, and you had to write a story incorporating those 18 words.I thought it was a lot of fun, and I have actually been reposting a couple of the things I wrote over the last coupla weeks.

  I am not going to try and revive the contest, as I am far too lazy, but I did like the inspiration and the challenge of the 18 words, so here is the FAVOR I ASK of you, dear reader: Send me 18 words(either in the comments or e-mail me) and I will try and write something up using those words.

  What do you say ? Can you help me out ?

Knowledge Is Power ?

My nerves are shot. I’m chilled to the bone. I feel like a stranger in a strange land. The weight of the world is on my shoulders. I’m behind the eight ball. It’s the bottom of the ninth and there are two strikes, two outs, and the winning run is on third…is that enough clichés for you? I have a few more if you need to see them. Or can we move on? 

Excellent.

  Truly, I just want to sit my ass down on the pavement and cry. Wallow in some of that juicy self-pity. Why did this have to happen to me? Just ‘cause, I suppose. That’s the answer my dear sweet old Dad would give me anyway. That was the reason for everything bad that ever happened in my childhood. Usually followed by a slap upside the head. Good times, good times.

  You know what I wish? I wish that I could open a door in my mind, and free this pestilent thought that is floating around in there. Perhaps give me just a little peace of mind. I want to go back to being a starry eyed innocent. Skipping along, eating my ice cream cone, dreaming about my beloved New York Mets winning the World Series.

   But I cannot undo it. I can’t unlearn what I have learned. I can’t unring that bell. I can’t unfold that laundry. It’s absolute rubbish, but it’s the truth. It’s in there, and it will now always be in there. Until it leads to my complete destruction. By then, I will probably welcome death. I will have become one of those raving madmen on the street, carrying on about falling prey to the mutant sharks in the sewers, and them becoming our masters. All because this one piece of knowledge ate away at my grey matter.

  So, please, take my advice: Whatever you do, do not Ask Jeeves why birds suddenly appear, anytime you are near….You do NOT want to know the answer.

5 Mistakes....

Now that I’m in police custody, and I have time to think about it, it was not the pinnacle of wisdom to drive to Vegas, but it did seem like a great idea at the time. Obviously, I couldn’t know how it would end, but I did not think that I would end up in my underwear, handcuffed to a bench in a police stationhouse, with a mob contract on my head. I’m sure hoping that “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas”, is true, because baby, I need a whole lotta shit to stay in Vegas. The way I see it, I made five mistakes.

  Let me start at the beginning. My wife and my two kids went to visit their Grandmother. My Mother-In-Law does not like me (she’s a very perceptive woman), so I was not invited. Fine by me, I would stay home and catch the “Walker, Texas Ranger” marathon on the USA Network. I sat down on the couch, and turned on the TV, to commence a lazy afternoon of watching the asskickings. Then, the phone rang. I answered it. (Mistake #1) It was my friend, Reb (we called him that because he resembled Jefferson Davis). He was in Vegas, and he wanted me to come get him. I said I would. (Mistake #2).

   Vegas was only about a two hour drive from where I was, so I go there before nightfall. I found Reb sitting outside the MGM Grand, and he got in the car.

    “ ‘sup, Jimbo ?”

   “ Nothin’, Reb. How are you?”

  “Jimbo, I have had better days, I will tell you that.”

   “I would hope so,” I said, and merged back into traffic.

    “Can I ask you a favor, Jimbo ?”

     “On top of me driving all the way to Vegas to pick you up?”

      “It’s just an itty bitty one,” he said, and began to rub my shoulder.

       “Fine (Mistake # 3), just don’t touch me anymore. I don’t know where you have been.”

     What he wanted me to do was drive him over to this dumpy little casino way,way,waaay off of the strip named MERV’S Vegas-O-Rama. I shit you not, that is the name of the place. I thought for a second we were extras in Vegas Vacation.

  Apparently, in the basement of MERV’S, a magical event takes place. It was something that Reb had always dreamed of seeing, and who was I to shatter a man’s dream? What is the event, you ask? Why Merv’s is one of the three places in the whole world where one could witness, AND wager on, a monkey knife fight.

   We entered Merv’s and I sat down at a Black Jack table. The dealer was a lovely young lady by the name of Cindra, and I quickly lost five straight games to her. This favor was becoming more expensive all the time. I was tempted to grab Reb and drive on home, back to the relative safety of our gated community, but I didn’t (mistake # 4).

  I did go looking for Reb, and finally found him involved in a high stakes poker game with five fat, coke sniffing ladies. I declined their invitation to join, and went outside for a smoke. Reb promised to come get me for the fight.

   Magic, a hostess from MERV’S was on a break as well, and we struck up a conversation. It turned out that she was only hostessing until she could realize her dream of being a marine biologist. She said she really “…digs fishes.” I wished her well, and went back inside.

  I bet a thousand dollars on a monkey named Furious George(an obvious nod to the Simpsons-how could I not bet on him?), and then I went back to Reb’s game and asked him how he was doing. He said that he was down a couple of hundred.

   “200 bucks ? That’s not too bad.”

  One of the coked up ladies started cackling, “Try two hundred THOUSAND, there sweetcheeks!” and then she grabbed my ass.

  I leaned down and whispered in Reb’s ear: “Are you fucking nuts!!?!?!?”

   “Don’t worry, I have a plan.” And then he overturned the table and yelled “RUN” As we left the casino, I could hear one of the ladies yelling that her husband was Paulie Cinzano(well known mob boss), and  that we were dead.

  We hit the street and got in the car. We tore outta there. We finally stopped in an alley. Reb decided that it would be a good idea for us to change clothes (mistake # 5), and like in the movies, there just happened to be a clothes line in the alley. We grabbed some clothes and started to change.

   Reb dressed much faster than I, so when the cops hit their siren, he was already dressed and hopped in the car and drove off, leaving me in the alley in my underwear.

  And that’s where you came in. I didn’t get to see the monkey knife fight. I don’t know if Furious George won the fight, or if he was beaten by Bonzo the Destroyer. I may never know…And I think that’s what hurts most of all.

   
 -February,2007.

Demon Weed

A bit of a disclaimer on this story here. I wrote this I guess about a year ago(maybe more?) as part of this word game contest. We were given 10 words that we had to fit into a story. Then the entries were posted anonymously and voted on. I never won(and you may know why in a few seconds) but I just came across a couple of my entries, and I thought that they were kind of amusing. I hope you enjoy.

“I see London, I see France, I see Bush’s underpants!!”  Screamed the transvestite in the halter top as he ran down the street.

  It was nice to see someone making a political statement. Trying to make a difference in this crazy world. I myself was in that sketchy neighborhood trying to score some pot.  That was all that mattered to me. That’s a good start. I could tell them about the guy who was gonna hit someone upside the head “with a reel to reel tape!” No, I can’t say that without laughing. That dude was too funny. I could just say that something really awful happened. And now I have a criminal record. No, that will never work.

  Pot. Weed. Maui Wowie. Chronic. Doobie.  Wacky Tobacky. Call it whatever you want, but don’t call it harmless.  No, we always thought that poster was stupid.

  I could have been something. I was smart. I could have gone to an Ivy League school. Become a banker. Had a protégé. And maybe even escaped a scandal unindicted. A real power broker. But nooooo. I thought it would be more fun to smoke some dried herbs out of a hollowed out apple. Or out of a pipe made out of a monkey’s paw. Okay, I never smoked out of a monkey’s paw. That would have been cool, though, huh? What am I saying? No, that would not have been cool. Gotta stay focused.

 Pot is bad. Very bad. It will blow your world to smithereens. You’ll get mixed up with backstabbing drug dealers. You’ll embroil yourself in crazy schemes. You’ll write inane sentences and think you are a poet. You will think your friend Kelly is a qualified barber, and end up with gashes in your skull. No, that’s too harsh.

 You’ll sit around with your friends, stoned out of your gourds, and write a letter to the Frito-Lay corporation, telling them to cease and desist with their Just Say No To Drugs campaign, or you will boycott their Doritos, and that will be a problem for them because it is a well known universal truth that stoners eat A LOT of Doritos. That will show those folks at Frito-Lay. Man that was funny. What am I saying? I can’t tell them that story.

  What if I claim that I had a promising career in the minor leagues, but I failed a drug test and that ended my baseball career? No, they would probably want proof.

  Criminy. How the hell do I talk to my kids about the dangers of pot? Where’s Nancy Reagan when you need her?

True Tales of Sheer Terror

Wow...Helluva title I came up with there, huh ? Boy, if someone puts a title like that on something, he really better have something truly terrifying to talk about, huh ? I mean, it would kinda suck if someone who really had nothing to say decided to put that sort of title on something, huh ? Sure would. Yessirreebob.

So, you folks gave put two and two together, right ? You're smart people...You already know that I have nothing remotely interesting to say, let alone a true tale of sheer terror.What the fuck was I thinking ?

I suppose I could tell you about the time I...No, statute of limitations has not run out on that one yet, so I had best keep it to myself. What was that? That sounded like something knocking on my window. I hope it's not some sort of maniac. And I certainly hope he is not an axe wielding maniac. And by axe wielding, I of course, am speaking of a literal axe, the wood chopping tool, and not referring, via slang term, to a guitar. I mean, what would be scary about someone outside the window holding a guitar ? well, I guess he could club me with it, or something of that nature, but for the sheer chilling effect, I think it needs to be an actual, honest to goodness, wood chopping axe that I'm hoping he doesn't have.

And I guess it's rather sexist of me to assume that it would be a man wielding the axe, isn't it ? I suppose it could be a woman. Boy, this sheer terror is harder than you would think.

Now, where was I ? Oh yes, was that a knocking at the window ? My goodness, I sure hope that is not some sort of axe(of the wood chopping variety) wielding maniac(either male or female) out there to hack me into bits ! Perhaps I should go to the window and see. Let me just slowly pull back these red and white checked curtains I have here on the window and...Oh my god...Oh, there's nothing there. Well, I guess i got myself all worked up for nothing.

I don't know about you, but a healthy scare like that always puts me in the mood for a bath. I think I'll take one right now.

Let's get that water started...There we go...And we'll add some of my bath beads that make my skin so soft and kisssable. Now, I'll just slip out of these cumbersome clothes and into my robe. Next, I'll put on my cee dee of sea lion breathing sounds, which always helps me relax in the bath, and reminds me of the time I spent on that whaling vessel.

Hmm...Did I remember to lock the front door ? I don't know ? oh, well, too late now...It's time to get into the bath.
Aaaaaah. That feels good. Now. I'll lean back, put a washcloth over my eyes and drift away to the soothing sounds of the sea lions' breathing.

Hey, what's that ? Is there some either male or female crazy person out in my bedroom ? What is that sound ? Are they meowing ? That's odd. Why would a maniac be meowing ? Oh, of course, they're crazy!

Oh no, they're pushing the door open. AAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!

Oh, it's just my cat, Mr. Pibbles. Hello there Mr. Pibbles. How are you, my little furry friend ? Wait, why are you plugging in that toaster ? Mr. Pibbles...What are you doing ? Mr. Pibbles!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

"And then there's just a bunch of meowing on the tape, Chief. I guess this guy was dictating a book or something, and apparently this Mr. Pibbles must have killed him."

"Have we found the cat yet ?"

"No sir.Though the place looks like it has been ransacked, and the victim's wallet is empty, and there are spaces where a computer and stereo system should be. Looks like the cat killed him, and then cleared the place out. No telling where he might be by now."

"Alright then. Let's put out an APB on that cat. Mr. Pibbles is not gonna get away with murder. Not in my town."

"Right, Chief."