Category: My stories

Stanley built a time machine in his basement.
A fully-functional, God’s-honest time machine.
All you had to do is plug it in, and it would work.
The problem is, there were no electrical outlets in Stanley’s basement.
And he didn’t have an extension cord long enough to reach from the kitchen to the basement.
He tried to daisy-chain all of his surge protectors, but they still didn’t reach.
So he went to the hardware store to get an extension cord.
And was killed by a drunk driver.
Stanley’s sister had the time machine dismantled and sent to the scrap yard.

Frankie had a good thing going in his act.
He had the best writers, the audience in the palm of his hand as he threw gag after gag.
He played that audience like a conductor of an orchestra.
Everyone laughed.
But when they put him in movies, he fell flat.
No audience to play off of, no audience to show up.
If the crew laughed, he had to do another take.
Box office poison.
Defeated. Desperate.
Back to television? Back to the stage?
He watched as the crew tore down his posters, putting new ones up giving others top billing.

Freddy sneezed himself back in time.
It wasn’t by much. Just three minutes.
But still whenever he sneezed, he went back in time.
Little sniffles sent him back a few seconds.
A big blast, maybe an hour.
Whenever he caught cold, he went to Vegas.
Turning a few bucks of chips into a nice stack to cash out.
The casinos tried to prove he cheated, but their tapes showed all kinds of strange glitches and errors.
They couldn’t prove a damn thing.
So, they took him out back and shot him.
Dead men tell no tales.
And they don’t sneeze.

Customers don’t buy prostitutes.
They only rent them.
Pimps, on the other hand, buy prostitutes.
How they do it, well, this is no Julia Roberts fairy tale, folks.
And prostitutes who are owned will save up money to buy themselves out from under their pimps.
Not that many ever really get free, because of the drugs. Or the pimp taking their cash and killing them anyway.
Then there’s the independent contractors who work for organized brothels.
Those arrangements vary depending on the contract.
Healthcare, security, retirement plans.
Look at your job.
Look at your contract.
Are you a whore, too?

Before Broadway, Yul Brynner was a television director.
He did dramas for CBS. And he did them well, he did them his way.
CBS executives, being executives, wanted more.
And being executives, they ordered him to direct the Whats My Line? game show on Sunday night.
Yul hated it.
So, one night, he rolled the credits 4 minutes early.
And for the last three minutes, the camera showed Yul’s director credit while the audience clapped.
The executives relented, but they didn’t fire Yul.
He continued to direct his beloved television dramas, while doing 8 shows a week as The King.

Smoking came naturally to Bill.
He’d be writing a story, and then pause… and he’d need something in his hand and his mouth.
Gum? Carrot sticks? Celery?
No, only a cigarette would do.
He was a writer, after all, and that’s what writers do.
Take out the pack, open it, knock out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, ready for the lighter, and light it.
Maybe he sits there with it in his fingers, thinking.
Maybe he’s typing so much, he smokes it down to the filter.
Stubs it out, lights another one.
And keeps writing whatever he’s writing.

I used to have a rolling laundry hamper, but it wore out and broke.
So, I bought a beach wagon.
The kind that people use to cart beer to the beach
I put two laundry baskets in it: One for whites, one for darks.
It’s easy to separate things as I put them in the baskets.
But it’s also easy to make things hard for myself.
After a few days, I throw everything in one basket.
And I sort them out on laundry day. Badly.
Invariably, a sock ends up with the colored stuff.
I should just buy colored socks.

The virus came, and hasn’t left yet.
So, we stay apart, we keep our distance.
There’s no sports going on right now, so the sports stations are showing documentaries and repeats of classic games and matches.
And, of course, panel shows and interview shows… where the panelists and interviewers are in their homes, of course.
They’re even showing marble racing.
That’s where people set up elaborate tracks and challenges, with ramps and loops and other features, and they race and collide and roll along.
You could say that in finding marble racing, the sports stations have completely lost their marbles.

Whenever Peter Lorre would leave an actress’ dressing room, he’d make like he was zipping up his fly.
The crew and costars would see him do this and laugh.
The jolly prankster went from the heavy to the Hollywood outcast, comeback after comeback.
Off to Germany. And then radio serials and television horror comedies.
He did it all for his daughter, to leave her with something.
Sick and tired, he suffered Jerry Lewis and The Patsy.
The shame of that role, he said he wouldn’t see it when it came out.
Did he die before its release out of spite?

So, where was Camelot and The Round Table?
Well, you know how any airplane that the President is on gets the designation of Air Force One?
That’s the same with King Arthur and any building he’s in or the name of any table he’s sitting at.
He could be sitting in an outhouse taking a dump, and he’d be in Camelot.
(It’s why we call the toilet a throne, you know.)
Or he could be at a table in Olive Garden and that’s The Round Table.
Oh, did I call it Olive Garden?
Sorry, I meant to call it Camelot.