Category: My stories

Days after he finished filming Soylent Green, Edward G Robinson died.
And according to his will, he wanted Charlton Heston to eat his corpse.
“Not raw,” said the will. “You’re not a savage or an animal, right?”
Robinson’s estate provided for the best of chefs, access to his extensive wine collection, and the utmost discretion.
Heston was horrified. More horrified than when he found out that his friend was dying.
And even more horrified than when he found out he’d have to film a death scene with him.
“Just a salad, please,” said Charlton, sipping some wine. “This is excellent.”

It was a show set in a small town in the woods.
A courthouse, a sheriff, a few stores and streets, and a small lake for the best fishing around.
Nothing much changed in the town.
The same stuff on the shelves in the general store.
The same movie at the theatre.
The same people in the park.
And the same toaster and iron on the counter of the fix-it shop.
For thirteen years.
You would think the owner would stop by now and then to ask about those broken things.
Or maybe they gave up and bought new ones.

When people say that something bad is like opening a can of worms, I wonder if they’ve actually opened a can of worms.
I don’t see cans of worms on Amazon to try for myself.
Do they come with pulltabs, or do you need a can opener?
And don’t worms need air? A sealed can would just be full of dead worms.
Instead, I’d think they’d be opening a canvas bag of worms.
Canvas allows some air to breathe through the fabric, but keep everything inside.
So, you open the can. Or bag.
It’s not like worms are dangerous, right?

Thomas Edison invented so many things.
Which was his favorite?
That would be the talking doll.
It contained a miniature phonograph (also his invention).
And it played the recording when its string was pulled.
Some people thought the device contained some kind of ghostly spirit.
Which, to be fair, Edison was known for trying to communicate with the dead.
Alexander Graham Bell was, too. It was his reason for inventing the telephone, after all, right?
But not for the purposes of sticking the dead spirits into dolls to make a child’s plaything.
Because that would be weird.
Profitable, but weird.

In a 5-man rotation, a starting pitcher only pitches every 5 or 6 days.
Sure, they’re supposed to be ready for a relief appearance, but those are rare.
Ronnie, he’d get drunk the night after a start, and stay drunk until the morning of his next start.
Propped up in the dugout, sunglasses over his face.
That’s not Gatorade in those cups.
So blind drunk, he couldn’t read the calendar.
It was his day to start.
He took the ball, walked to the mound, and passed out.
And woke up in the locker room, his contract shredded in his locker.

Nash often let his mouth get the best of him.
So, he found himself in a lot of duels.
He was a master of the sword.
Nobody was his equal with a sword.
And he never lost a duel of swords.
He relied on this, his sword covering his ass.
Until the day when he was challenged to a duel, and his opponent opened up a pistol case.
“Um, okay,” said Nash. And he chose a pistol.
Ten paces. Nash went down with a bullet in his chest.
His opponent stood over him, laughing.
Nash stabbed him with a sword.

Arthur was an award-winning freelance writer.
Studios would call him in to write scripts for shows and movies.
And he would. He’d sit down at his typewriter and bang out something and hand it in.
The executive producer would look it over, cut Arthur a check, and thank him.
A few weeks or months later, Arthur would catch whatever movie or episode he’d worked on.
It was nothing like what he’d written.
Every scene, every line of dialogue changed.
At first, he felt insulted.
But over time, he learned not to care.
Collected his wits, his checks, and his awards.

It’s only a matter of time before the emperor goes mad.
They all do eventually.
Is it too much mercury in the wine?
Maybe. Or maybe it’s just bad genes.
Making their horse a senator, dressing up as gods. Kooky.
Which makes the current emperor tame by comparison.
Okay, so he celebrates his birthday every day and expects everyone to bring him presents.
And putting them all in a pile and burning them?
Yeah, that’s a bit much.
So, are we ready to stab him?
Fine. You lure him into the cellars, and I’ll get some guys together with knives.

I pick up a bible, thumb through the pages, and ponder its contents.
Because Jesus was a Jew, he spoke Aramaic.
His Testament was written many years after his death in Greek.
Then, translated into Latin as the Vulgate.
And from Latin and other sources, English.
And then into hundreds of languages.
Add to that the many generations of copies and copies of copies.
One error, one change… then another. And another.
Scholars pore though all of the texts to determine the truth.
Or, at least, the truth according to the authors.
What was the actual truth?
Who knows, really.

Freddy liked to watch the home decoration shows on TV.
The ones where some renovators would buy a house, tear it down, clean it up, and sell it.
Looking around the house… the old bathrooms… the tiny pantry… the awful floors… he said, “I can do this.”
So, Freddy bought a sledgehammer and started demolishing everything.
He had a dumpster delivered, and he hauled the debris out to it.
When everything was torn down and hauled away, he drew up some plans and wrote up a shopping list.
And that’s when the people he was house sitting for came home.