Author: R.

Social Networking

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In the past year, I’ve signed up for all sorts of social networking sites.
I started with Myspace, then moved to Facebook, and over to Twitter and Jaiku and Utterz and Tumbler and so on and so forth.
Whenever I update one site, I feel obligated to update all the rest.
It’s not always automatic, so copy paste copy paste for hours a day.
What I don’t understand is with all this social networking, sitting in front of my computer every waking hour networking with other people, when do I have the time to go out and actually be social?

Joe Christ

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It was a great costume idea.
Joe would dress up like Jesus and we’d strap him to a cross on our porch. He’d hand out candy and blessings to all the kids that were brave enough to ask him.
When the big day came, we were a little drunk, so instead of strapping him to the cross at the waist, we went ahead and nailed him to it.
It took us a while to realize that Joe couldn’t hand out candy in that condition.
So, we broke his legs, speared him in the gut, and shoved him behind a rock.

The Same Day

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According to life expectancies, when I was born and my wife was born, we should die at around the same time.
Sure, we have our bad and good habits that add and knock a few years off that number, but pretty much they all balance out.
So, I’m sure it was no surprise to St. Peter when we both showed up at The Pearly Gates side by side.
“I guess you two planned this all along, right?” said St. Peter.
“Hell no,” my wife says, grumbling.
“I didn’t really plan on turning the wrong way down that street,” I said.

Ghost UFOs

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Some people believe in ghosts.
Other people believe in UFOs.
I believe in ghosts in UFOs.
Think of it… ghosts are the spirits of the dead who still have something left to accomplish in life that keeps them around, right?
So, there’s bound to be some ghosts who are obsessed with exploring the universe in search of life on other planets.
That means – ghosts in UFOs.
Of course, they could be the ghosts of ghost hunters, people who look for ghosts as proof of life after death.
That means they’re searching for signs of death on other planets, I guess.

Pumpkin Carving

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Okay, a true story:
I couldn’t decide how to carve my Halloween pumpkin, so I just left the knife stuck in the side of the pumpkin and put it up on the shelf.
It sat there for a day, two days… but I just couldn’t come up with any ideas on how to carve it.
I got really frustrated at that, hit my fist on the table, and it jostled the pumpkin so it rolled off the shelf and dropped to the floor.
As it fell past me, the knife slashed against my arm.
That’s right. The pumpkin carved me.

Weekly Challenge #80 – Garage Sale

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Welcome to the eightieth Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
The topic this week was selected by Chris Doelle.
It’s Garage Sales
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
VOTING

Who had the best stories of Weekly Challenge #80?
Michael from The Next Big Writer
Tom from Footnote Podcast
Laieanna of HodgePodge Point
Guy David from Guy David dot com
Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com


Go ahead and listen to them by clicking on the grammophone thingy there in the left column and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

MICHAEL

Shamus finally struck it rich. Allergic to any form of work, his past schemes and cons netted him but paltry earnings. Now, not only was he raking in money, he was contributing to a better world environment by recycling.
The magic word was “Garage sale.” It attracted bargain hunters with ready cash.
His success was that you bid on the total contents of his overstuffed garage. Old lamps, appliances, boxes and bags. Winner takes all.
Today, $1240, walked away with the lot.
Not as good as last week’s haul, but not bad for one little trip to the local dump.

TOM

The podcaster was getting pretty bored with this Dante crap.
So he pushed the bark away from the shore.
“75 cent for the next 5 minutes” intoned the voice.
The podcaster looked down to see a Halliburton change box.
“Frak this”
just as he was about to give the box a good kick
two near celestial being where deposited into the bark.
“Time to get out of Dodge” spit Burroughs
“Damn straight” say St Peter.
“Where we going” asked The Podcaster.
“In search of Garage Sales” chanted the boatmen.
“What?” cried Laurence.
“Hell it’s just the topic this week kid”

LAIEANNA

“New beginnings start with the shedding of our past. Garage Sale 10-4”
stated Libby’s sign. Two sisters of the order were helping,
identifiable by bald heads and potato sack clothes. New pupils of the
Enlightenment and Ascension Order, or as her ex-husband would say, the
short a few vowels cult, had to rid themselves of everything. For the
purpose they gave her, she gladly let go of hair and clothes. And now
she felt no loss for her belongings until the sale of a picture frame
with her children smiling inside reminded her of what she was truly
giving up.

GUY DAVID

Come on over, they are having a garage sale down here, every soul for a shekel. They have big souls and small souls, blue souls and red souls, fluffy souls and thorny souls.
I want a lollipop soul on a stick, one with extra sugar. Those are priceless and sexy.
You should check the couch potato souls. They are fat and comfy, and they wont protest either, so transfixed by images from the babble box that they hardly notice reality anymore.
There is a tortured soul. Look at it. It’s useless. Nothing to do with it now. What a waste.

PLANET Z

Excalibur, the Holy Grail, the Ark of The Covenant, – you name it, I’ve picked it up from some family trying to clear out an attic of a house they want to sell.
You see, people just sell their junk and baby stuff at Garage Sales.
Estate Sales, on the other hand, the person who valued the stuff is dead, knew it’s true nature, so it’s a relative trying to get rid of it for some quick cash.
They never know the value of what they’ve got. If they did, they’d be selling it at an auction house or keeping it.

State quarters

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It was 1999, and the Delaware state quarters were released into circulation.
The parking meters were confused at the taste.
It was shaped like a quarter, but it tasted… subtly different.
Cherry? Cranberry?
Something like that.
“Is this another one of those stupid dollar coins?” asked a parking meter.
“It doesn’t feel like it,” said another. “It still tastes like a quarter.”
So, the parking meters agreed to treat them like quarters.
With every new state quarter, a new flavor greeted the parking meters.
Maple syrup, lavender, orange… what a wonderful variety they enjoyed.
Until Utah.
That tasted like crap.

The Hamburger

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Condiments slipping, sliding from a sesame seed bun, flowing down a white shirt like a tidal wave, staining pants with yellow and red.
Brion Gysin was eating a hamburger in a manner no mortal man had eaten a sandwich of any kind, and the consumption of said hamburger was an experience I had the pleasure of witnessing in its entirety.
Like an Aztec war bib, that shirt became, a river of color.
It was no less than religious epiphany, a communion that I daresay has not been repeated since, not even by Jack Kerouac and his legendary overstuffed Chicago-style frankfurters.

The Wacky Adventures of Abraham Lincoln #81

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The White House Carpenter was passed out drunk again, propped up against a sawhorse and snoring.
Abe desperately needed the kitchen table leveled. Mary Todd was long past tired of the wobble.
He tapped the carpenter with his shoe.
Nothing.
Mary Todd yelled out through the kitchen window, telling Abe to fire the drunk carpenter.
Abe yelled back: “He has acted badly in this matter, but we must use what tools we have.”
That night, the table still wobbled.
The next day, Mary Todd put poison in the carpenter’s whiskey, killing him.
“Wonderful,” moaned Abe. “Who will build his coffin?”

Counting Sheep

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Oh, sure, you think those sheep you count to get to sleep are sweet and innocent, but I know better.
It’s a conspiracy. The counting sheep want to take over the world.
I was only pretending to sleep the other night when the sheep came by for me to count. I closed my eyes and made snoring sounds, so the sheep felt comfortable letting their guard down.
They used my bedroom as a staging area for their campaign of global domination, preparing signs that said “Eat Less Mutton” and “If You Eat Us, How Can Perverts Have Sex With Us?”