You know how child actors turn out badly?
Well, that Peppermint Lane show was one of the worst for the kids who starred in it.
Instead of going to school, they had tutors on the set, but they were paid to give the kids passing grades.
All they knew how to do was be a child actor. And that doesn’t last.
Some got into drugs and alcohol.
Others lost their money to greedy parents and turned to crime or other ways to get by.
The puppets made it into museums, or on toy store shelves, envied by the surviving few.
Author: R.
Towel
Every summer, my parents sent me to a daycamp.
Once a week, we’d go out to the local pool.
I’ve always hated swimming and water. I’d just stay on my towel, but now and then, the camp counselors would pick me up and throw me in the pool.
I’d try to run from them, but they always got me. Everybody ganged up on me.
I hated it.
One time, I forgot which towel was mine.
We had to wait until everybody got their towels.
Logically, mine was the last one.
Doesn’t matter. I wished they’d have hung themselves with it.
Arts
The National Endowment For The Arts was founded to foster artists of all kinds.
Except one: con artists.
So, The National Endowment For Con Artists was started to foster them.
From all across the country they came to apply for grants: con artists, frauds, bamboozlers, and hucksters.
Some flew in from other countries with false documentation and credentials. When you think about it, faking up citizenship papers is a good test for your con artist skills.
In the end, the Endowment failed, because nobody on the board could agree on a definition of “legitimate” con artist with a straight face.
Break
My wife is going out of town to visit her sister.
The last time she visited her, I went out on my bike to get groceries.
On the way back, I fell off my bike and broke my elbow.
This time, I’m not going to ride my bike.
And I’m not going to go get groceries.
Instead, I’m going to hole up in the living room and order pizzas for a week.
There’s no way I’ll break my arm now. As long as I don’t trip over empty boxes. Or violently piss off a delivery driver with a crappy tip.
150
Sesquicentennial is a silly-looking word, but we here in Ocean Falls take everything serious.
Miss Liza has been teaching the schoolkids to count to 150.
That counting came in handy for the whipping of Fred Murks, the town drunk. The kids counted out loud with every crack of the whip.
Except for Little Fred Junior. He screamed in horror at the sight of his father covered with gashes and blood.
Fred only took seventeen lashes before dying.
“There there, Little Fred,” we said.
And then gave him a bottle of gin.
You know. So he can practice. For the Bicentennial.
Envy The Mashed
Whenever I see that a restaurant sells potato skins as an appetizer, I look for mashed potatoes on the menu.
Because there is nothing more cruel than to flay the skin off of a potato and then cast the naked potato out into the cold, shivering and frightened.
At least they are not alone in their suffering, since one cannot just have a single potato’s skin.
Huddled together in the alley behind the restaurant… how cruel!
Better to throw them into a bowl and mash them up to end their suffering. The poor potatoes in the alley envy the mashed.
Weekly Challenge #488 – Mug
Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.
This is Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
We’ve got stories by:
MUNSI
The Mugging
By Christopher Munroe
It was a beautiful night, and I figured “What the hell?”
I’m a pretty big dude, and while it was late and the neighborhood isn’t the best, I wanted an adventure walk, headphones in, and figured there’d be no harm.
Little did I know.
From the alley he leapt, and I was too taken aback even to think of defending myself as he grabbed his cheeks, stuck out his tongue, contorted his face and, as quickly as he’d come, dashed into the night, leaving me shocked, confused and tremendously vulnerable…
… and that’s the story of how I got “mugged.”
JEFFREY
Mug Shot
by Jeffrey Fischer
His mug shot was a frightening sight to everyone, including Wayne himself: unruly hair, bloodshot and unfocused eyes, assorted cuts and developing bruises, and a snarl that explained the restraints that were just out of range of the camera.
The next morning, in the harsh fluorescent light of the interrogation room, Wayne held his aching head in his hands. He was sober now, and scared. The cop on the other side of the table kept asking Wayne what he recalled about the previous night and Wayne truthfully replied he had no memory past about nine p.m. What scared Wayne the most was that the cop refused to answer when Wayne asked if he had hurt anyone. He strongly suspected the answer was yes.
Eventually the police would charge Wayne, at which point he would call his lawyer. Until then, it was just Wayne, the cop, the lights, and one hell of a headache.
New Friend
by Jeffrey Fischer
Morrison was the kind of guy who made friends easily. People instinctively liked him, and he had a way of putting others at ease. He would often bring home these new friends for dinner. His wife couldn’t convince him that this was both a bad idea and inconvenienced her.
This time he could see in her face that she wasn’t pleased with his latest acquisition. “Kathleen, meet Tony. Tony and I met because I left work a little late, and took a shortcut through that alley – you know, the one that you said was so dark that anyone could be lurking in there. Sure enough, Tony was lurking. After he mugged me, we got to talking, and, well, here we are!” Morrison and Tony both smiled a little sheepishly at Kathleen. “Oh, by the way, do you have a twenty Tony could have? My wallet was a little short when he demanded my cash.”
CHARLIE
My favorite was the white, ceramic mug I used in the service. In over three years on the base, it was never washed. It was dressed in a patina of dark roast, and the incidental coating served as insulation. I could carry a steaming cup of coffee from the lounge to my desk — with the temperature remaining stable, even on colder winter days in New Jersey. It served me well, and was disgusting enough to get a rise out of the buttoned-up, knife sharp, creased Commanders. The more they groaned and grimaced, the more I treasured my precious mug.
Second
An obvious tale that refers to, or based on, MUG, would include mug shot. The best mug shots are the before and after shots of meth addicts. A female addict can age twenty years in two years of heavy use. Dentists won’t treat an addict because of the condition of their mouth…even the Dentists that do volunteer work in mobile clinics. I am moaning now about a loose, bottom incisor. There is some discomfort when I gnash down on something like a macadamia nut, but I can’t imagine the horror of a whole mouth full of dead or dying teeth.
Third
Mugging was a pastime in my area of town. I was buzzed, having stopped at the diner for chili and beer. It was dark, and I started walking home, pausing for two guys hanging out near the entrance to an alley. One of them jammed a pistol into my chest. I reacted, having trained in Krav Magna with some older friends. I pushed the slide back on the pistol, preventing firing, and kicked the guy’s knee. I heard a crack. I had the pistol now, and forearmed the second guy in the throat. Both were down when the police arrived.
RICHARD
Dragon’s Lair
Limbo Laggins was most unhappy – “Hobbits”, he stated to nobody in particular, “are not cut out for quests and adventures. Ewww!”
Gingerly, he inspected what he had just stepped in – dragon poop – making him acutely aware of two important facts:
Firstly – he should have worn his boots.
Secondly – the dragon’s lair was very close.
A huge roar, up ahead, sent him scuttling for cover. Cursing the wizard, he realised he stood no chance of finding the Chalice of Eternal Power.
Rooting through his satchel, he pulled out his mug… Maybe, in the dark, it might just pass?
Worth a try!
LIZZIE
Years ago, my neighbor Ronan bought an 18th century hand-painted mug for a handsome amount. “It’s an investment,” the seller had told him.
After losing his job and struggling for years, Ronan tried to sell the mug back to the same seller. The man sneered.
“But… I paid you a fortune,” said Ronan.
Yesterday, I went to the store. Ronan was behind the counter.
“Are you the owner now?!”
He nodded.
“Where’s the other guy?”
“I don’t know,” he sneered, while taking a beautiful long-knife from my hands. “Don’t buy this, it’s a fake.”
Yes, Ronan is a good man.
SERENDIPITY
Everybody in work knows not to touch my mug – it’s a special mug, with sentimental value.
It’s been with me since day one: Seeing me through three promotions, numerous job changes and one disciplinary.
It’s been my constant companion throughout countless meetings, focus groups, late finishes and early starts – that mug has outlasted many of my colleagues and has been more reliable than anybody I’ve worked with.
Best of all – it’s the perfect size for my coffee.
So, when the new guy broke it, I had no choice, I killed him.
I have to go now… Time for my mugshots.
ZACKMANN
Clara’s Sister-in-law confided that she hated her husband’s big ugly mug. Clara hated it too. One day her brother had been splitting wood. Clara saw his big ugly mug and she picked up the splitting maul then accidentally hit the big ugly mug roughly forty times. “Oh no, that mug was a gift from his mother.” cried her brother’s wife. Clara put away the maul then calmly explained that her mother gave it to him because it was ugly, her husband hated it too but wouldn’t give away a gift and how this accident that made everyone happy was unavoidable.
TOM
Ceramics 101
I was fortunate to attend a seriously well-to-do high school. Just one of those random rolls of good fortune on my parents’ part. Not only did we have art classes, we had a master potter in residence. Before a student was allowed to throw on the wheel they had to master the Zen of Coil Pot Construction. The coiled form I made was a six inch mug with walls 3/4 of an inch thick. I was a miracle it didn’t explore in the first firing. After the second firing my teacher ask for it to put in the school’s permanent collection
NORVAL JOE
We used to live in a zero lot-line house. In the backyards there were small portions where the were no house walls and were filled in with a six foot high walls for privacy.
Neighbor’s cats used to scale them to get into our yard and poop in the grass.
I found that putting baby oil along the top of the wall kept the cats off.
I’ve always wondered, how many babies does it take to make one bottle of baby oil? Do they render down a burlap sack of them, or do they just collect their drippings in mugs?
TURA
Mug
———
There’s a fad in geek circles recently for drinking your food. A complete food replacement in a bottle, it saves all that irksome chewing and swallowing, not to mention the drudgery of cooking. Soylent was the first, then Joylent and Purelent. The latest is called Queal.
These people certainly have a way with words. Purulent queal! I’ll have a steaming, suppurating mug of that! Freshly expressed mucus from the nether parts of hand-reared Komodo dragons, fermented with rotting mussels, mixed with live tadpoles and bottled. At least, that’s what the name suggests to me.
Herr Ober, bitte noch ein Queal!
———
PLANET Z
When I was a kid, my mother used to make soup in a pot on the stove, and we’d eat it from bowls.
Then, when we moved into a house with a microwave oven, she still used the pot on the stove. But I’d use a casserole dish with a lid in the microwave. Still ate it from a bowl.
When I was on my own, I’d use an oversized coffee mug in the microwave. Only had to wash the mug and the spoon.
And the microwave, too. Because I keep forgetting to use a small saucer as a lid.
Thanklessgiving
When I hear the phrase “heavy with child” I imagine a large burlap sack stuffed full of babies.
Juicy, delicious fat babies.
So… so tasty!
Sadly, Old Doctor Parker doesn’t go door to door anymore with his burlap sack. His heavy, squirming burlap sack.
For a while, though, you could call his office, and he’d let you in the back door, and you could pick out the one you wanted.
But the angry mob, waving their torches and pitchforks, made quick work of Old Doctor Parker and his shady “day care center.”
We’ll settle for turkey this Thanksgiving, I guess.
Fail
Every time I watch baseball games, I like to see the look of joy on the faces of kids who catch foul balls.
Or some adult catches the ball, but they hand it to a kid.
A foul ball. A ball hit out of play.
A failure.
And yet, a kid out in the stand gets so such joy out of it.
That’s way, way different from you laughing at my latest fuckup at work, kid.
That’s a mistake.
Me, I don’t laugh at others mistakes.
I learn from them.
Like, who to fire next.
Pack up your shit and go.
Message
Staples in my skin.
All over my body.
I am on a towel, on a table.
You pull them out.
Slowly, with pliers.
Dipped in the alcohol.
Slowly, you pull them out.
My eyes, closed.
They’re everywhere
How did this happen, you ask.
When did this happen?
You pull them out.
Hold the cloth to the spot.
Stop the bead of blood.
They’re scabbed over, grown over
Dig gently. Pull them out.
Slowly.
You hum a soft tune.
I feel nothing.
Did you drug me?
Or is it just the tune?
Staples.
They spelled a message.
That I cannot read.