Body paint

They say that watching paint dry is boring, but have you ever done bodypaint?
That’s not boring to watch, although you’re not really watching the paint dry.
You’re looking at the body.
The best bodypainting doesn’t look naked at all, but you still sense that something’s unusual about it.
And then you see it. And you can’t unsee it.
That person is naked, and what you thought were clothes are actually painted on.
Or stripes. Or some other pattern.
That’s a powerful magic, really.
And here we are, you and me.
And some paint and a brush.
Who goes first?


The blood wasn’t dry in Orlando before the agendas came out.
Talking points, for every color in the political spectrum.
Gun control, immigration, gay rights, terrorism…
Accusations without solutions, calls for togetherness and understanding that end up just polarizing people even more.
I’d say that pointing fingers is more dangerous than pointing guns, but a pointed finger never gets anybody killed.
Unless its to point out more people to hate. And shoot.
Oh, is the blood dry yet?
Hey, can you take a photo of me?
It’s this button here. It’ll focus automatically.
Take a few, in case I blink.

Laundry Kitten

Sometimes, I wake up early to do my laundry before work.
One morning, as I was doing my laundry, I came across a tiny wet kitten.
The kitten had either fallen into the pool or been thrown in.
Either way, the little thing was sitting on the sidewalk.
I leaned down, extended a hand, and the kitten mewed and approached.
I pet the kitten, and then went back in for a can of chicken.
The kitten rubbed against my legs, but eventually ate the chicken.
By the time I finished laundry, the kitten was gone.
I hope that it’s alright.

God she

Feminists are right when they claim that God is a she, but God’s not the maternal type.
God’s a washed-up old barfly, the last out the door at Last Call every night.
You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.
So, who does God stay with?
Whoever she manages to pass out on, she always manages that.
A mumbling, wrinkled old hag on the sofa.
She’s never there the next morning.
Where did she go? Did she steal anything?
Who knows?
Until the bar opens again, when she’s the first in the door, ready for another night.

Blow it up

It’s not every day that you see a star explode.
We parked the ship a safe distance from the explosion, raised our deflector shields, and watched as a bright light erupted in the middle of our long-distance telescopes.
Everything in the system was incinerated.
Solar heat and charged mass spread out in all directions.
Then, nothing.
We sent a subspace message back to headquarters that the system had been annihilated.
“Good,” they said. “That’ll teach ’em to miss three payments in a row.”
We lowered shields, charged up our power reserves, and set a course for the next deadbeat system.


After every concert, every night, Janis shot up.
She shot up a lot, more and more every night.
She tried to kick the habit in Rio. But she started again.
A lot of other performers died from overdoses.
Blind Owl Wilson.
Jimi Hendrix.
“My people are pioneer stock,” she said. “They came across country and settled in Texas. They’re tough. I won’t die like that.”
But she did.
They found her by the side of her hotel bed, dead from an overdose.
Where are her ashes?
Did they ever make it back to Texas?
Did they ever make it home?

Mindy Miller

The Mindy Miller Show has been going strong for 75 years.
There used to be a real Mindy Miller, but she had issues, and she kept making all kinds of demands.
The network owned her likeness and name, so the network dumped her and replaced her with a clone.
Sadly, the clone had replication errors, so the studio built a robot.
It was pretty lifelike, too, and it suffered less breakdowns than the real Mindy Miller.
Eventually, they replaced that with a computer-generated hologram.
A friendly, tireless virtual extroverted lovable chatterbox.
And best of all, you can turn her off.


I haven’t always been so well-adjusted.
For a while, I had a therapist. And he did free association
Well, kinda. He just kept shouting “Buckminster.”
I’d say “Fuller” and he called the cops on me.
I now realize he wasn’t a lousy therapist.
I was just too possessive, and I followed him everywhere.
He’d lost his dog, and was out looking for him.
It’s funny, looking back at these things, and remembering them.
Okay, so I stole his dog, but Buckminster is a really good dog.
Although after every time I say his name, I keep wanting to say “Fuller.”

Turing test

After computing hardware and programming advanced to the point where we could beat the Turing Test, the next challenge was to create an artificial body to put that intelligence into that would fool a human.
Unlike the intelligence test, the body test was a lot more hands on.
Scientists were asked to fuck a series of robots and humans, and then were asked which ones were human and which were robots.
There were occasional glitches, resulting in broken bones, severe lacerations, and accidental beheadings.
And too many scientists would say “I’m still not sure, can I try that one again?”

Billy the fastballer

Billy was a fastball pitcher.
He threw fastballs.
Really fast. Faster than any other pitcher.
They were really dangerous.
Two hundred, three hundred miles per hour.
So fast, nobody could hit them.
If you tried to hit them, you’d shatter your bat.
Or if the ball was off-target, you’d get your arm or leg or skull shattered.
Nobody could catch them either.
He killed a few catchers that way.
The first one, total accident.
After that, yeah, should have learned their lesson with the first dead catcher.
Billy was banned from baseball.
Became a superhero.
Until somebody shot him dead.