Category: My stories

When Harlan Ellison died, nobody believed it.
“Poke him with a stick,” said the head of the Writers Guild. “Poke him hard. The last time, he was faking.”
By the time they got to “Set him on fire and beat him with a shovel” they knew for certain he was dead.
His estate was put up for auction.
Except for his old typewriter.
It was encased in concrete and sunk to the bottom of a deep lake.
Sometimes, at night, a strange green fog bubbles up from the lake.
As for the screaming tentacles, that’s just a myth.
Isn’t it?

Edison wasn’t an inventor.
He was a miracle worker who raised the dead.
He made the dead speak through his phonograph.
And he made the dead appear through the film projector.
What other miracles could he perform?
Maybe raise the dead?
So, he dug up fresh bodies from the cemetery.
Laid them out on the table, hooked them up to his generators, and threw the switch.
They flopped about, but never truly came back to life.
So, he hooked up a phonograph under the table to play some sounds.
It was close enough to resurrection to keep the crowds entertained.

The old truck has been falling apart faster than usual.
The battery, the alternator, the air conditioning.
One of the doors is loose, and I think the transmission is going out.
So, I looked into a new car, and talked to the owner of the garage where I get the truck fixed.
“Oh, you don’t want an Audi,” Mac said. “We have three in the garage there right now. Go get a Lexus. They’re good.”
So, I did,
And a week later, it was in the garage.
Along with four other Lexuses.
Also owned by suckers who listened to Mac.

As you get older, you have an increasing number of moments where you realize “Oh, wait. They’re dead.”
Some of them, you feel sad because you miss them, and they would have really enjoyed hearing what you were going to say.
Others, you feel relieved, because you don’t have to deal with their crap ever again.
And then there’s the ones who know shit about you that you don’t want to get out.
That’s when you might have a moment where you realize “Oh, wait. They’re still alive.”
Then you get your gun and shovel, and pay them a visit.

Some people say that NASA faked the moon landing.
No, the moon landing was real.
And most of the stuff that people saw on television was real.
But there was one thing that NASA faked.
It was when the astronauts golfed on the moon.
Alan Shephard was supposed to hit a few golf balls on the moon during the Apollo 14 mission.
But instead of his golf bag, he’d packed his tennis bag.
“The PGA paid us millions for this!” shouted Pete Frank, the flight director.
After NASA played the film, astronaut Edgar Mitchell hurled a lunar scoop in disgust.

To the saint, it is a travesty that there is no Heaven.
To the sinner, it is a relief that there is no Hell.
I walk through Eternity’s mist, looking for a sign of anything… anyone…
But there is nothing but the light and the mist.
I am walking on something, aren’t I?
The mist doesn’t just settle on vast emptiness, does it?
I kneel down, and feel what I think should be the ground.
The mist bothers my eyes.
I have eyes. And hands to feel, legs to bend with.
So I keep walking through the mist, never stopping.

I remember that I once met Aretha Franklin, but I don’t remember when or where.
Bossy. Rude. Unpleasant.
Maybe it was her health bothering her, she was unhealthy and sick most of her life.
That can take a toll on a person’s psyche.
Some stranger, bothering you for something.
Even if they’re just saying hello or thanking you, but giving you your space.
I’ve met others who were gracious and pleasant and friendly.
Dom DeLuise was an absolute sweetheart.
He was unhealthy and sick most of his life, but he loved life and people.
Unlike that bitch Aretha, I guess.

A coworker gave me a baseball bat.
Engraved on the side is “You’re being awfully quiet today.”
There’s some days I don’t feel like talking.
And when people notice, they say I’m being awfully quiet.
There’s no good response to that.
Because if I answer, I have to talk.
Kind of defeats the purpose of staying silent.
Usually, I’ll raise an eyebrow.
Or just ignore them.
It’s not them, really.
It’s me. I don’t feel like talking.
Not specifically to them, but anyone.
No particular reason.
No particular feeling.
I just don’t feel like talking.
Or talking about it, really.

You don’t say that a guy’s getting divorced.
Instead, you say “He’s moving in with his Uncle Bob.”
We load up the truck with whatever he thinks he’s going to get to keep, and we head down to Bob’s Storage Facility.
Pick up a key from Bob in the office, enter the gate code, and drive down the alley until we get to the right unit.
“Hey, we’re neighbors!” says one of the guys. He’s got the next unit over.
We unload the truck, lock the door, and head down to the bar.
“To Bob!” we shout, and we drink.