Bumperstickers

I don’t go for cause bumperstickers.
There’s only one on my car, which I rarely drive, and it’s a clearish Debauche sticker.
Right side of the rear bumper.
Nobody will get the joke, and I don’t care if they do.
You see those cars out there, plastered with stickers, and they look like crap.
As if the bumpsterstickers are holding the damn thing together.
I’d rather not be a lending library or road hazard with all that writing.
Provide your own damn entertainment.
The only thing I care about people driving behind me is that they use their brakes right.

An apple a day

In school, there was always that one kid who’d bring the teacher apples.
That kid was me.
“Thank you,” the teacher would say. And she’d eat the apple. “Delicious.”
I was a smart kid, and I got good grades on my own.
But I’m sure the apples helped.
Until one day I got a bad grade for something.
That’s when I mentioned that the first apple had poison in it.
“And the other apples have a temporary antidote.”
From then on, I got good grades.
And the teacher got the full antidote on the last day of class.
I think.

Important day

Today is an important day.
I wrote IMPORTANT on the calendar.
But I don’t remember why it is important.
I looked through my mail and my notes, but there’s nothing telling me what’s so important today.
I haven’t gotten any phone calls or emails or other messages about today.
I’ve asked everybody I know, but they have nothing… they need nothing from me, so it’s not something important I have to do for them.
So, I’ll just stop worrying and go through my day.
And if anything comes up tomorrow, or someone asks, I’ll know what was so damn important.

100 pegs

One hundred pegs along the wall of the cliffside monastery.
A brown robe hanging from each.
The monks had hung their robes on the pegs, filed out of the dormitory, and out the front gate.
Lining up at the edge of the cliff, one by one, the naked men leapt to their deaths.
Later that evening, one hundred naked men arrived at the gate.
They walked into the dormitory, picked out a robe, and put it on.
The new monks of the monastery.
Saying prayers together, praising their creator.
Until it was time for them to leap from the cliff.

Sarah doesn’t have

Sarah doesn’t have nightmares.
She doesn’t need them.
She just remembers everything bad that’s ever happened to her.
And that’s a lot of bad things. Horrible things. Terrifying things.
When she wakes up, she writes down all the memories.
After a cup of coffee and a bowl of yogurt, she looks over her notes, and begins to write.
At the end of the day, she sends her writing to her editor.
Dinner, walking in the evening light, a shower, and off to bed.
For more memories to harvest.
And turn into novels
To give so many readers their own nightmares.

Campaign season

As November rolls around again, it’s the return of campaign season.
The ads and social networks are a cesspool of delusion and madness.
I can avoid them as best I can.
But my phone?
BING! BING! BING!
You’re not campaign volunteers. You’re goddamned parasites.
I turned off text alerts and vibration last week.
When do I look at my phone, I Report Junk on every campaign text.
And then go back to what I was doing.
I’ll turn it back on when this year’s shitshow ends, the credits roll, and the pundits throw shit at each other during the post-credits scene.

The fourth of July

Every year, Nathan’s Famous sets up the tables and chairs for the contestants.
Trays of hot dogs and buns, and pitchers of water.
The crowd gathers, the contestants take their seats, and the judges set out the trays.
The crowd counts down from ten… nine… eight…
When they get to zero, the contestants peel out the hot dogs, swallow them, then dunk the buns in the pitchers and swallow the buns.
The judges keep tally… ten… twenty… thirty…
Some contestants stop… others vomit… but a few keep going.
The crowd counts down to zero, and the judges tally the winner.

The crawl of fame

The walk of fame is just a bunch of names on plaques in a sleazy part of Los Angeles.
Weirdos in costumes harass the tourists, and pickpockets steal whatever they can get their hands on.
Or you get mugged and robbed and you’re crawling on the ground asking for help.
It’s the walk of fame, not the crawl of fame, loser.
Show some dignity. Get the fuck up.
This is Hollywood, dammit.
And stop bleeding on Charleton Heston.
Well, his star… not the actual man.
I can take your picture with it for five bucks.
Just hand me your phone…

Smart Monitor

My doctor told me to lose weight, eat less sugar, lower my cholesterol and blood pressure, and exercise more.
So I got a smart scale, a smart watch, a smart treadmill, and a blood pressure monitor.
And for the past few months, I’ve dropped 30 pounds, my blood pressure is normal, and all my numbers are much better.
All those numbers are reported to my doctor’s office.
She doesn’t believe any of it.
“Who did you pay to take all those tests for you?” she asked.
“Nobody,” I said.
And I don’t have enough freeweights to stack on the scale.

NDA

Yes, I write. And I’ve been published.
Well, my work has been published.
Me, I prefer a low profile.
Pseudonyms and ghost-writing.
Let someone else take the credit, I just want the money and the challenge of writing.
Sometimes, the people I ghost-write for don’t honor the contract.
They refuse to pay.
So I offer to write for their political opponent or enemy, or go to the press with what they told me.
“The contract includes the non disclosure agreement,” I say.
They threaten lawyers. They threaten revenge.
But they always pay up.
And it makes for a good story.