Frisky the cat hangs out in the kitchen and demands two things: Parmesan cheese and butter.
Now that I’ve switched to that omega-3 spread plant sterol stuff, there’s plenty of butter left over for Frisky.
I don’t know where we got it, but recently we bought Grade AA butter instead of the Grade A butter. Until now, I didn’t know there were different grades of butter.
One was yellower than the other, but I couldn’t tell the difference.
Frisky could. He turned his nose up at it and chirped angrily.
I gave in and gave him the good stuff.
When I look in the mirror, I see a monster.
This hideous monster looks back at me, giving me just as thorough an inspection as I give it.
He follows me from mirror to mirror, never leaving me alone.
I’ve been tempted to smash the mirrors, but cracking them might smash the barrier between our worlds and let him step through to our world.
No, I cannot do that.
Instead, I cover the mirrors.
Frustrated, he tries to spy on me in the bottoms of pots and pans. Or in the sheen of a just-washed dinner plate.
Stay away, monster.
How many people can say they were killed by a butter knife?
Well, thanks to RJ, I’m proud to say I was.
It was a game called Assassination. You have to “kill” the players next to you in the circle without being killed.
RJ hid in a closet. When I passed by, he “slit” my throat. Best kill of any game.
Just got an email from him. He says my puzzled look was a highlight of his college career.
In the next round, I was armed with fire extinguishers. When asked, I said “Well, only I can prevent forest fires.”
Dinner was ready. They all sat down, said a prayer, and the wine was uncorked.
“When was the last time we had turkey?” asked Susan.
Fred scratched his chin. “Not since last Thanksgiving,” he said.
“Wait a second,” said Jo Jo. “We had some leftovers, so technically that was the last turkey we had together.”
“If turkey is such a wonderful feast, why don’t we have it more often?” asked Susan.
“Because it’s such a bitch to cook,” said Arthur.
“And I’m stuck with the cleanup this year,” said Susan. “Screw all this?”
They agreed. Next year, a Chinese take-out.
“History shall remember us as the Knights of the Round Table!” bellowed Arthur.
“Guenievere isn’t a knight,” mumbled Gawain. “But she’s sitting at our table.”
“She’s my wife,” said Arthur.
“Can I bring my wife?” said Tristan.
“No,” said Arthur. “I hereby declare Guenievere to be special authorized personnel.”
“I used that same exact argument for myself and you said no,” said Merlin. He vanished in a puff of smoke.
“I don’t mind her being at the table at all,” said Lancelot.
Arthur felt something rub against his armor.
“Stop that, ” said Arthur. “Go sit on the opposite side.”
She was wearing a push-up bra.
Or maybe she wasn’t a she. Maybe she was a he.
It’s hard to tell with sheep.
Yeah, I say I’m the guy who welcomes you to The Ritz and whispers he can get you anything, but I really just say that to get a big tip.
Still, when folks want me to deliver, I deliver pronto.
Some folks take me up on that for girls. Or boys. Or drugs. Or tickets.
This was the first sheep.
I hope it’s the last. I swear, call me crazy, but it’s starting to turn me on.
What a goddamned mess. Janey’s yellow and throwing up blood. Her eyes want to roll out of their sockets.
“Dragon,” she croaks. “Pretty dragon.”
Shit. Dragon Ride’s the worst shit out there. Your mind takes a trip to Paradise, but your body might not be there when it gets back.
I fill the needle with Knight and stab it in Janey’s heart.
“Slay the fucker!” I yell.
I check the label: “M”
Bastard sold Janey a dragon when I warned him not to.
Marco’s gonna ride his car to the bottom of the river. Tied up in the trunk.
As Joseph and Mary made their way back home, Joseph seethed at the memory of all those innkeepers turning them away.
He had begged and pleaded, but none raised a finger to help in their time of need.
“I will have my revenge,” growled Joseph.
In modern days, hotels and inns have sprinkler systems and smoke detectors, but two thousand years ago? Not a chance.
Just as the Star of Bethlehem led the wise men to the manger, the trail of mysterious inn fires led back to Joseph’s pasture.
Years later, Jesus forgave him for it.
Such a good boy.
What is it with people and shopping?
I never understood it when I was little. We’d go to another city and my family would go shopping at franchise stores identical to places back home. Same stuff, different place.
They’d also eat at franchise restaurants exactly like back home. Why not go local?
Seventy years later, and my grandkids visit me here at Tycho Base.
Straight to the mall they bound, Sharper Image and Macy’s. Same crap they have dirtside.
Never mind the huge fees for dropshipping this consumermass from orbit. I think shopping without consciousness or awareness is a compulsion.
As unfortunate as Helen A. Handbasket’s name was, one should not mourn her present circumstances.
Six happy but brief marriages, each to men more successful and wealthy than the last, have left her rich in memories and assets. Not many can say they have been first lady twice, you know.
So when people in this town say they’re going to Helen A. Handbasket, it is either to pay their respects or to beg of her a favor that only her great wealth and connections can provide.
Every community should have one like her.
But only one, to avoid nasty rivalries.