Category: My stories

Powering up in the Whole Foods parking lot.
They don’t charge for charging.
So, I got 5 miles worth of power for free.
It’s 5 miles to Whole Foods and back.
So, okay, so free trip to Whole Foods.
Never mind that I spent a hundred bucks on groceries there.
I’d planned on just getting Just Egg.
A hundred dollars worth of How’s that plan working out for you, idiot?
Not sure how much I’d have saved if I’d have gone to Kroger.
Probably more than what I saved in power in the car.
I’m not very smart, am I?

Betty White would have been 100 today.
Aside from her hawking a chunk of hypertension and diabetes called Snickers to the public, she did a lot of good, too.
And she was very kind to animals.
So, in honor of her birthday, I’ll give something to the local animal shelter.
No, not Tinny or Myst.
People who give up their animals to shelters because they needed a temporary companion while working from home and now they’re too busy to care for a pet are assholes. They’re fucking selfish assholes.
Kind of makes you wish someone had sneezed on their Doordash.

Yes. Yes there is.
Just as there is a Kitchen of Fame, a Dining Room of Fame, a Basement of Fame, and a Bedroom of fame.
There is a Bathroom of Fame.
And it’s absolutely disgusting in there.
You’d think they’d use the supplies in the Janitorial Closet of Fame to clean the Bathroom of Fame, but you’re not allowed to take anything out of there.
Nor are you allowed to actually use anything in the Bathroom of Fame.
So people just piss and crap in the hall.

For every locksmith that claims that his new lock is unpickable, there’s a lockpicker who is ready to prove the locksmith wrong.
Especially when the lock locks up something so valuable, the lockpicker can’t resist wanting it.
Some locksmiths, like Royce Smith, were so proud of their creations, they’d advertise a challenge.
He sent out a diagram of a lock so simple and a reward so great, every lockpicker and thief signed up for the challenge.
They met at the Main Street Hotel that Saturday, seeking their fortune.
Royce locked the doors and windows and set the hotel on fire.

Upon being discovered in the Baby Bear’s bed, Goldilocks got up and fled for her life.
“Alexa, lock the door,” said Papa Bear.
Goldilocks felt the lock engage as she grabbed at the door handle.
She took out her phone.
“I’m livestreaming this!” she yelled at the bears.
“That’s a nice phone there,” said Mama Bear. “Let’s just talk this through and work it out, okay?”
Baby Bear cried. “I just want my sheets washed. I think she peed the bed.”
Goldilocks and the bears came to a peaceful agreement, and she put the phone down.
Then, they ate her.

Cook County Illinois.
That’s Chicago.
In the Thirties, they called it Crook County.
North Side, South Side, Lake Side.
They were all on the other side of the law.
Al and his furniture store.
Bugsy and his hotel.
Frank and his flower shop.
Frank, now that was a guy who got his hands dirty.
A notch on his gun for every man he killed.
Twenty-seven notches did him no good when they got the drop on him, filling the shop full of lead.
His flower shop provided the flowers for his funeral.
And Al had a special coffin made up.

The virus came, and the virus went.
Some people used the opportunity to eat healthy and work out in their homes.
But so many others just sat in front of their laptops and TVs and ate to fill the time.
Delivered meals, delivered groceries.
One Mexican restaurant delivered margaritas by the gallon.
My pal Fred did just that.
He got everything delivered.
And when they lifted the lockdown, Fred was ready to go out and meet his friends.
Except that he had eaten so much delivery, he couldn’t fit through his front door anymore.
So they ended up visiting him.

They say to have a good home, you must fill it with good books.
And when you’d go into a home and see a lot of books, and you’d think it’s a good home… right?
What if they never read those books?
What if they bought all those books by the yard to fill their shelves?
Or, what if they don’t own physical copies of books, and they read everything on a kindle?
What if they’re blind and can’t read those books?
Or they can see, and they’re Braille editions?
If they’re all Jackie Collins, okay. It’s a bad home.

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.