Category: My stories

Ted’s doctor ran a few tests, and the numbers weren’t great.
“You’re fat and your cholesterol is too high,” said the doctor. “You need to go on a plant-based diet.”
Ted started a food diary.
Every time he ate an animal-based product, he’d buy a plant-based substitute for it the next time he went to the store.
After a year, he lost a lot of weight, his numbers were much better, and he felt great.
Until the heart attack that killed him.
Three weeks after the funeral, Ted’s grave began to sprout something.
The cemetery gardeners pulled up the weeds.

I can’t carry over vacation days from year to year, so I end up using a bunch of them at the end of August and beginning of September.
I’d rather use them in October or April when the weather is nice, but my work anniversary is in early September.
I could use those days in October or April, but what if I need time off between April and September?
I don’t want to chance it. So, I save the vacation days up.
I thought about quitting and getting rehired in late October.
But I don’t want to chance that either.

On the way home from the store, I witnessed a car collision.
One car was going West on Westpark.
Another car was going East.
The car going East tried to turn left without a protected arrow.
The sign says left turn yield, but they didn’t yield.
They steered right into the other car, and they hit each other.
The driver going West got out of their car. They were fine.
The other driver… well… who gives a fuck, really?
They were a stupid asshole and idiot for turning without a protected left into the other person.
Fuck the stupid asshole..

Business picked up at Dan’s neighborhood bike shop around the holidays.
He mostly sold assembled bikes, but some fathers insisted on doing it themselves from the boxes.
Those were the ones who called Dan on Christmas Eve, and Dan would charge them a lot more for a house call.
Kids would want to try their bikes Christmas morning, on the icy sidewalks and roads.
Dan would make a few more bucks from repairs.
And the restocking and scratch-and-dent fees for returns.
He’d get them fixed up for the next holiday season.
He also sold rollerskates and rollerblades.
And wheelchairs, too.

Hillary Clinton had the most votes, but lost the election.
Some people say she deserves to be in the White House.
Others say that she deserves to be locked up.
I say let her in.
The media can watch her walk the red carpet and cheer.
Waving to the cameras, smiling wide in her favorite pantsuit.
Bill at her side, with that shit-eating grin.
Then put her in chains, drag her into the basement, and lock her up.
As for Bill, he can visit, if he wants.
When he’s not collecting bribes… I mean charitable donations.
Or fucking his mistresses.

Jose Hernandez was a gardener here at the university.
He wasn’t a very good gardener.
He never trimmed the hedges. He never watered the grass. He never weeded the flowerbeds.
Fifty years, he couldn’t do a damned thing right.
When he died, he left all of his money to the university.
“Build a memorial garden for me,” his will said.
So, we did.
It’s over there, in the middle of the parking lot.
We toss all of our dead plants there.
Downed tree limbs and branches.
Every year, we hold a bonfire.
And we start the pile all over again.

They hauled in the school bomber last night.
Bloody and torn, barely recognizable as human.
“Fifteen minutes,” said the medic. “Twenty tops.”
The nurse whispers into the dying man’s ear.
“I’m with the Red Crescent. You’re not dying. Tell me who to warn off the attack.”
A head full of morphine, he mumbles names, places.
The nurse smiles, and injects the morphine blocker.
A moan, then screaming.
She lights the blowtorch, and slowly sears every inch of his skin.
Years later, she’ll take out a lighter, and singe the hair on her wrist.
The smell brings back such good memories.

Soaking in the tub, breathing slowly.
Watching the blood leak from my arms into the water.
Red spirals and loops, it’s almost beautiful.
I barely notice the pain.
Drowsy, relaxed.
Is it the warm water in the tub, or the loss of blood?
Probably both. Or maybe it’s the pills.
I slide down, and my head goes under the water.
I don’t even try to lift it back up. I don’t know if I could.
My eyes open, looking up, cloudier and cloudier.
And darker. From the blood in the water, or the loss of blood?
It doesn’t really matter.

Every year, we go out to Pringle Farms.
No, that’s not where they grow Pringles chips.
That would be silly.
That’s where they grow the canisters in which they sell Pringles chips.
You thought that those were used tennis ball canisters, didn’t you?
Well, that’s not true.
They’re not used at all. They’re picked fresh from the vine.
Then, they’re dried and sent off to the Pringles chip factory.
After you eat the chips and throw away the canister, they recycle it into a tennis ball canister.
Well, they have to wash it first. Otherwise, the balls get all greasy.

There’s so much to eat at the state fair.
As long as you want to eat something that’s been battered and fried on a stick.
Because fried things on a stick are easy to eat while you’re walking around the fair.
And you don’t need to carry around a plate or a paper tray.
It started with corn dogs on a stick.
Now, they’ve got fried Snickers bars, fried sticks of butter, fried chocolate-covered bananas, and fried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
After that, you’ll need a fried Pepto Bismol or Gas-X lollipop. Possibly a stomach-pump.
And a coronary bypass.