There are many stories as to how the Indian god Ganesha got his elephant head.
But few say what happened to his original head.
Some people assume that it ended up on the body of the elephant from which Shiva replaced his head.
Others say that it was used to make Ganesha Head Soup.
And still others believe that the Eleven Gods of The Three Worlds use his head for football.
The Gods of Fire play The Gods of The Wind, and the winner plays The Gods of The Sky.
But that’s utter nonsense? Where would they get a referee?
“BUS YOUR OWN TABLES” says the sign on the front door of the restaurant.
And the cashier at the end of the buffet line reminds every customer to bring their trays to the window for the dishwasher to wash.
But half of the people leave their dirty dishes on the table when they get up to leave.
So, the restaurant owner hired a guy to clear tables.
And he raised prices to pay for the guy.
Some customers complained about the price increase.
And others stopped showing up.
The owner gave up, closed his restaurant, and bought a Subway franchise.
I like to listen to the Classical Music Instrumental station on Amazon Prime Music.
I know most of the tunes, mostly from Bugs Bunny cartoons.
I couldn’t tell you the title of the piece, let alone the composer, although Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart are easy to identify.
And some Chopin and Liszt. Oh, and Pachebel’s Canon in D.
It keeps me calm. And I can work while listening, because they’re all instrumentals.
No words to distract me from the words I’m working with on the screen.
When I’m actually working on work, and not just writing stories like this one.
I knew he was sick, but didn’t know he was that sick.
Then, the email came out.
He was sicker than that.
“Don’t be so negative,” people told me. “It’s not as if it’s terminal.”
Then another email comes out, to answer the people wanting to visit.
And it said no visitors, he’s in a lot of pain, and that it would be best to remember him as he was, than how he is now.
Me, I’d rather people remember me as a weak, passive lump in bed, knocked out by morphine.
Than the selfish, rambling asshole I usually was.
Some people can’t see the big picture.
That’s because they’re standing on it
The picture is so big, they can’t see it… the whole big picture
They don’t have a viewpoint that allows them to see it.
So, they take the 10,000-foot view.
Only then can they see the big picture.
Oops. Lost a contact. And forgot a spare pair of eyeglasses.
Oh well. Use your smartphone to snap a photo, and then see the big picture when you get to the ground.
What? You dropped your smartphone?
Maybe you don’t need to see the big picture all that badly.
Fat Freddy was so fat, he couldn’t see the numbers on the scale.
So, he bought a talking scale.
No, the talking scale didn’t groan or say “Only one at a time!”
It just told him his weight.
Which is a smaller number than pounds.
Freddy thought it was telling him his weight in pounds.
When he used his treadmill, it was set to use kilometers.
So he thought he was walking more miles than he actually walked.
He died of a massive heart attack.
His family paid for the funeral in dollars.
American dollars, not Canadian dollars.
Nobody at the dictionary company likes to work with Santos.
If you looked up the word “pedantic” in the dictionary, you wouldn’t just see a picture of Santos.
You’d see a picture of Santos arguing with Daniel Webster about the definition of pedantic.
Several editions of the dictionary missed publication dates because he wouldn’t stop arguing.
He was so obsessive about splitting hairs and tearing his hair out over the most minute detail, he ended up bald.
It left him without nits to pick, so he turned to nitpicking others.
The publisher gave Santos a final word to define: fired.
The handball championships.
The best of the best.
Playing in the finals.
They dive and swat and scream.
Scraping the ground, bloody knees and elbows.
Plastic goggle frames fly off their heads, cracking on the pavement.
Ragged leather gloves, torn surfer shorts, soles ripping off of their shoes.
Towels soaked in sweat, empty water bottles.
Pickle brine jars.
Anything for a win, anything.
Shouting at the referee, the crowd.
Kicking over chairs.
Time out, time out.
One more serve to go.
Bounce it on the ground.
Slap it, and scream with everything you’ve got.
We named the bomb disposal robot “Scooby” after that dog in the cartoons.
Scooby was great for snipping wires and dragging bombs away from crowded areas.
Then we’d remotely detonate the bombs, either by setting off the explosives with a small charge or shooting the hell out of them until they exploded.
Sometimes, the locals would shoot somebody, put a grenade or bomb under them, and call for the medics.
Scooby was useful at scouting these human bombs, flipping them over to reveal the deadly trap.
And then, a bomb took out Scooby. Blew him to bits.
Scooby became Scrappy.
Long ago, I remember going to a hot dog place, and it was great.
It isn’t there anymore.
There was this really good pizza joint, too.
It’s also gone.
The rib joint in Columbus?
The bar and grill where I’d get margaritas and fish tacos and salads?
Gone. Gone. Gone.
They’re all gone.
Meanwhile, I drive past McDonalds and Burger King and Wendy’s and Jack In The Box and Subway and…
The mediocre chains stretch across the city… the state… the country… the world…
I park and go into the local barbecue pit sandwich restaurant.
Don’t ever change.