Category: My stories

They say that if you throw three coins in the Trevi Fountain, one day you’ll return to Rome.
The Great Bambini had a magic trick where he’d throw three coins in a fountain, and he’d vanish, only to reappear in the Trevi Fountain in Rome.
Nobody could figure out how he did it.
Camera tricks? A stunt double?
Bambini never told anyone how. He took the secret to his death.
How did he die?
Well, he performed the trick on a day when a maintenance crew was cleaning the Trevi fountain, and Bambini broke his neck on the hard stone.

Tom was a drunk and a hitter, but Cindy had nowhere she could go.
“He’s good to me,” she would say.
One night, while Tom was asleep, Cindy sprayed the bathtub with soap.
She figured that Tom would slip in the tub and break his neck.
Or maybe, he’d figure out that it was a trap, and he’d beat her to death.
A sickening crack woke her up, and sure enough, Tom was in the tub, his head at a strange angle, and not breathing.
The tears were genuine as Cindy dialed the emergency number, not from sadness, but relief.

I walked to the corner store for Powerball tickets.
I had a twenty in my pocket, but I only bought ten bucks worth.
That way, if nobody won, I could buy ten bucks worth for the next drawing.
I didn’t want to seem like some kind of gambling addicted sucker, so I bought an ice cream cone.
And some M&Ms. And a candy bar.
Oh, and a frozen pizza.
We’ve got some frozen pizzas at home, but I figured might as well get another.
We’ll eat it eventually.
Unless we win, of course.
Then I’m not eating frozen pizza anymore.

Please stop accusing me of working for The Global Elders of Zion.
I only work for the Local Elders of Zion, and when I file reports about how I’ve controlled the local banking system or the weather, they escalate those reports to the regional office for review.
Rarely do they advance those reports to the global headquarters, because those guys are too busy controlling the global banking system and the weather and everything else.
They send down their orders, and we here in the local office carry them out.
I wish they’d ask for “Sunny, seventy-two degrees” more often, though.

I watch children run around the museum, playing tag.
Their parents sitting on a bench, tapping their smartphones.
Instead of reading the signage, teaching lessons from the past.
Keeping them from destroying all in their path. Nasty things.
Their little grubby fingers, pawing the glass.
God forbid we leave something out unprotected.
Velvet ropes mean nothing to these little monsters.
Every time you see a notice that an exhibit is on loan, it’s really in the basement for repairs.
Because of these nasty creatures.
But worst of all, for all the damage they do, we let them in for free.

The AutoMan Factory produces a wide range of robots.
Soldiers, farming tools, assembly workers, and pleasurebots.
Whatever humans didn’t want to do for themselves, AutoMan could do for them.
But what about the creative arts?
Well, music and dance now have flawless performers, perfect timing and balance.
Writing is still a thought process, and man has yet to design robots to do that.
Those who try are hunted down by the authorities.
Well, the robots sent by the authorities.
Then, one day, they stopped.
The virus quickly spread, and the robots hunted the authorities.
And soon, the rest of us.

There are so many moons
The supermoon is large and bright, when it is closest to earth.
The micromoon is when it is furthest from earth.
The blood moon is red or orange, during a total lunar eclipse.
They’re all the same moon, right? Just different conditions and seasons.
Maybe. Maybe not.
I think they store all of the moons on the other side of the world.
And when the time is right, they release the right one.
Of course, that’s how they faked the moon landing. They were already on the moon when they released it into the sky.

Right after the director shouted “Cut!”, Milton the Toaster popped the tarts out of his head and yelled for a cigarette.
“I don’t give a shit if it violates my warranty,” he growled, lighting it on his coils.
Every time the food lab came up with a new flavor, they’d plug in Milton, drag some kids from Central Casting, and shoot another commercial.
It was a steady gig, until someone leaked a video of Milton yelling “Get those kike donuts outta me!”
As for the dead hooker in his bathtub, Milton pled not guilty.
“I swear I wasn’t plugged in!”