Category: My stories

President Roosevelt’s face is on the dime because of The March of Dimes.
Roosevelt had Polio, and The March of Dimes raised money for research to cure Polio.
George Washington owned quarter horses, so his head went on the quarter.
Abraham Lincoln said “A penny for your thoughts” to his wife before he was shot and killed, so his head is on the penny.
Thomas Jefferson’s life wasn’t worth a plugged nickel, said his angry neighbor who argued over a border fence between their farms, so his head is on the nickel.
Nobody uses all those other big, fancy coins.

Bob the Butcher was the best butcher around.
He had the best meats, the best knives, the cleanest store, the most generous scales, and the biggest smile.
Whatever you wanted, you could get.
And you could get it any way you wanted.
He could slice meat so thin, it only had one side.
The sausages were blended to perfection.
So fast with his knives, there never was a line, and the Take A Number dispenser still had the original 1 on it.
He even had a bone for every dog.
As he lured them into the back room for butchering.

The manager took the waitress aside.
See the guy at table seven?
The one with the wild hair.
He’s rich. He’s famous.
He’s a good tipper.
So, treat him nice.
Okay, said the waitress.
Famous last words, I suppose.
The next day, she was found dead at the guy’s mansion.
The guy claimed she’d shot herself.
Suicide? Accident?
Just as long as it wasn’t him.
Because he was a success, and she was a failure.
Guilty, they said.
See the guy in cell seven?
The one with the wild hair.
He’s rich. He’s famous.
And he’s going to die here.

Angry leftists want people to stop using the term “Mother” and instead use the term “Birth Person.”
They think the term “Mother” is sexist and denigrates transgender people or something.
By trying to change the term, they’re denigrating Foster Mothers and Adoptive Mothers.
People who step in and try to help a child who’s been abandoned or given up by the person who gave birth to them.
People trying to ruin the language can be some seriously stupid motherfuckers sometimes.
And I mean motherfuckers. Not birthpersonfuckers.
Although, to be fair, I should just call them fuckers and be done with it.

I used to wonder about obituaries that appear days or months after the person had died.
When my sick evil father died, I wondered what pack of lies and bullshit would appear in his obituary.
So, after a few weeks, I searched for it.
And didn’t find anything.
Well, I wasn’t about to write one.
And my brother wasn’t either.
His widow? A dementia-ridden crone only capable of digesting expensive food and shitting everywhere.
Whether prompt or delayed, they all still say “survived by” in them.
When the actual survivors of evil scumbags like him never write them at all.

My grandmother lived to ninety-nine.
Her husband, a drycleaner sued into bankruptcy by workers poisoned by carbon tetrachloride, left her broke.
She remarried. The stepfather of a real estate mogul.
But he died, leaving her broke again.
Her younger daughter took her in, stole all the heirlooms.
Then her eldest daughter, my mother, took her in.
I was told my grandmother died of old age.
But I was lied to.
She drained my parents’ assets dry, and my mother harassed and tormented her for it.
So she starved herself to death.
And her murderer keeps her ashes on the shelf.

They say he was getting his life back together. A new, fresh start.
You know, just like they said after the last eight times he’d been released from prison for drugs, stealing, and beating up women.
What makes this time any different?
This time, the cops didn’t put up with his bullshit.
He got high, like he always did.
He passed a bad twenty, and when the cops got called, he fought back.
Like he always did.
And they killed him.
Somewhere out there are all the women he’d have beaten.
Whoever they are, they all should thank the cops.

Achmed fell in love with the figure in the window.
All he could see was the burqua, the Islamic robe that covers women from head to toe and reveals absolutely nothing.
Her modesty was her beauty.
Every day, he would walk by the window, bow to the figure, and walk on.
She stood there, unmoving.
Sometimes, he thought he heard whispers.
And each time, his heart beat stronger.
Until one day, he worked up the courage to ask the shopkeeper.
The shopkeeper laughed, and lifted the burqua… revealing a birdcage beneath.
So, Achmed bought the bird and the burqua anyway.

I don’t get worked up over favorites on Flickr.
Some folks don’t have a Flickr account.
Others are in locations that won’t allow smut on the Intenet.
And then there’s the ungrateful fucks. Bless their heats.
Out of every show, maybe there’s one above-and-beyond photo, if at all.
One that captures the emotion and motion of the act.
The other 30 or 40 are serviceable.
And then there’s the hundred or so I trash because a good photographer is just one who deletes their shitty shots.
(I’ll never be a great one, because I keep posting those 30 or 40.)