When I was little, my family had a great big green car.
It was from the days when everybody smoked, and there were ashtrays in the back.
I remember pulling out the ashtray assembly and stuffing a toy plastic dinosaur in the well of the seat panel.
I’d look in there every time I rode in that car.
Then, one day, my dad traded in that car for another.
The car and the dinosaur were gone.
I don’t worry too much about losing things.
I like to think of them as being with the dinosaur in his little ashtray cave.
Instead of getting presents for my birthday from my parents, I give them presents.
After all, weren’t they the ones who gave me life in the first place?
I give my dad a tie and some flowers to my mother.
Then, on Fathers Day, I demand a present from my dad, because, after all, aren’t I the one who made him a father in the first place?
On Mothers Day, I demand a present from my mother, because, after all, aren’t I the one who made her a mother in the first place.
“That was your father’s fault,” she says.
I’ve always been a zipper-fly jeans wearer. Never been the button-fly kind of guy.
Never zipped the zipper into my cock, either. Never been that careless. Or drunk.
So, here I am in the hospital, all stitched up and drugged to the point of not caring.
I wish I had been drugged to the point of not remembering, too.
They asked for my ID and my insurance, and I told them it was in my wallet in my back pocket.
“Be gentle,” I said.
Seen the bill? The cuts will heal long before the wallet will.
It started with a simple filter. Fred sent email from his bank to a Banking folder.
Then, Fred filtered some mailing lists into their own folders.
All the while, Fred was creating filters for Spam, sending it to the trash.
A few rules here, a few filters there.
Then Fred added auto-responders. This let people know he got their mail.
Pretty soon, Fred’s email box could run itself.
Fred’s car, on the other hand, couldn’t drive itself.
He got drunk and ran into a tree, and died.
But Fred’s email box kept on going.
And so will yours, one day.
A friend once told me that when a beloved cat dies, their tenth lives are our memories of them.
The truth is, their tenth lives are as ghosts, and they haunt the shit out of us.
We see them out of the corners of our eyes.
We feel them near when we are trying to sleep.
We hear them in the kitchen, or in the closet, or under the bed.
And it scares the shit out of us.
Maybe when we tend to our other cats, or the new kitten, do they get bored with us, and they move on.
In a world gone wild, the stage was set for the decimation of the world record. The stadium was loud and rukous. Bets were being made in Vegas and the back rooms of laundromats. No one believed it could be done. No one but one little man from the dirty streets of Woodburn, Oregon. He alone believed he could chuck a hot potato 100 yards into the gaping mouth of a 12 year old child from bangladesh. With a wave of his potato, he silenced the crowd and eyed his distant trembling, sunbaked target and let his starchy legacy fly.
He wanted to have a cool code name. Like Raging Bear or Screaming Eagle. What he got was Hot Potato. He thought it might be some kind of a joke, but the GRU isn’t what you would call a laugh riot. This of course didn’t stop his fellow Russkey spooks from including it in ever dispatch back to Moscow. They thought it was terrible funny. Moscow didn’t get the joke, so they promoted him to section chief. With all the traffic incepts scoped up a myth grew around Hot Potato inside the NSA. Moscow scopes of the NSA made Hot Potato a legend
Billbert’s mother watched the Ferarri following them in the rear veiw mirror. “Who is this Marissa girl?”
“She sits in front of me in math class. She’s really pretty, really rich, and super popular. I think her dad is in the mob,” Billbert said. “Earlier in the week she acted like she wanted to go to the dance with me. Then she dropped me like a hot potato when her old boyfriend, Tony, showed up.”
His mother frowned thoughtfully. “I didn’t think we had the mob here in Winklerville. What’s Marissa’s last name?”
“It’s something Italian, like, Balloni or Rigatoni.”
You loved your food, didn’t you?
Always taking the last helping, grabbing the largest slice of cake, helping yourself to other people’s snacks… My snacks!
I never got to lick the bowl, choose my favourite, or enjoy the last slice of pie. It was you who got the best pickings, while I did without.
They say, those who live by the sword, die by the sword, so…
We’ll start with this steaming hot potato, mashed into your fat face, followed by a nice Naga chilli rub.
And then, the pizza… Scalding hot sauce, that’ll flay your flesh from the bone!
“This is a problem.”
Everyone nodded and looked at the entrance of the tunnel.
“This is a huge problem.”
Everyone nodded some more and looked at the entrance of the tunnel.
“What if we close it down?”
All eyes landed on the unfortunate soul who uttered such nonsense.
“It’ll be the end of the town!”
Everyone looked back at the entrance of the tunnel.
“There’s a light over there,” whispered the unfortunate soul.
“We know, it’s the hole caused by the landslide.”
“There’s a light…”
The light at the end of the tunnel was not the hole.
Turn of phrase
“You think you’re a real hot potato, don’t you?”
I looked at my boss quizzically, “I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow?”
“And that’s your problem – you don’t follow… Instructions!”
You may have noticed my boss has, well let’s say he has an ‘interesting’ turn of phrase, so management instructions could sometimes come across as… Confusing!
“Look at you now, thinking on your feet, instead of up here”, he snarled, tapping his temple. “Now, how about you make me my coffee? Go… Push the envelope!”
How he ever got a job as Dean of the Language Faculty, I’ll never know.
It’s pretty simple to cook a potato these days.
Poke a few holes in it with a fork, put it on a plate, and run it through the microwave for a few minutes.
I know some folks who slice potatoes in half, sprinkle on some salt and pepper, and put them in their toaster ovens.
Me, I prefer boiled potatoes.
Especially when they’re boiled with crawdads and corn.
The seasoning permeates the potato and gives it a lot of flavor.
I know one guy who wraps them in foil and runs them through the dishwasher.
That dude’s really weird, though.
OCT 4 money
OCT 11 boxer
OCT 18 kitten
OCT 25 PICK TWO: piano, mongoose, tower, cartoon, evil, serve
NOV 1 revolution
NOV 8 plump
NOV 15 chainsaw
NOV 22 cluster
NOV 29 PICK TWO: reward, puppet, global, gear, shop, pit stop
DEC 6 still
DEC 13 pick one
DEC 20 fruitcake
DEC 27 PICK TWO: the hand that feeds you, scope, dresser, pit stop, quip, knave
Why is mother crying?
Get a life!
How does that grab you?
Behind a bush
When Hercules went to Hell, he gave drugged cakes to Cerberus the three-headed guard dog.
Cerberus fell asleep, and Hercules got in to do whatever he had to do in Hell.
Recently, I had a rescue someone from Hell, so I tried the same trick.
Except that I got my drugged cakes and personal stash mixed up.
Cerberus got the Hostess Cupcakes, while I got a lethal dose of sleeping pills.
So, I made it into Hell. But getting out is posing a bit of a problem.
Mind coming to rescue me?
(Make sure to label your supplies clearly, too.)
We wanted to call the twins Terri with an I and Terry with a Y.
The hospital said no. The state said no.
We didn’t care. We did it anyway. Again.
Bobby with a Y and Bobbi with an I welcomed their new baby brother and sister home.
While we went upstairs to get started on what we hoped would be Sandy with a Y and Sandi with an I.
We had triplets. Sandee with two E’s snuck in there somehow.
The school district registrar hated us.
Moreso when Danni with an I and Danny with a Y arrived.
They say that The Flying Dutchman is a haunted ship that is doomed to sail the seas forever.
No, it is not an actual Dutch man who can fly. Because that’s Rolf P. Gunderson.
Sure, Rolf’s got one of those fancy jetpacks, and he wears a pair of carbon-fiber wings, but when he goes zooming around there’s no arguing that he’s flying.
He’s very careful about power lines, birds, and church steeples, but no insurance company will sell him a policy. Just too dangerous, they say. Too much risk.
Yet it’s an insurance company’s ad banner that he’s towing today.