Category: My stories

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.

Some people call me Maurice.
My name isn’t Maurice, mind you.
But Maurice was the name of the guy I replaced at the store.
And they didn’t have any new company shirts in my size.
So, they gave me Maurice’s shirts, with his name on a patch, sewed on to the front.
“We’ll get you your own patches,” said the manager.
But after a day of getting called Maurice, it kinda grew on me.
The next day, Maurice came back for his paycheck.
It said “John” on it.
“Yeah, the same thing happened to me,” said Maurice… I mean John.

The first little pig built his mouse out of straw, but the building inspector came by and refused to issue a certificate of occupancy for it.
“A house made of straw?” said the building inspector. “That’s horribly unsafe. Not only will it blow over in a heavy wind, but all it takes is one spark, and you’ll be roasted alive in there.
The building inspector condemned it, and he began the process of issuing demolition orders.
“I can be there next Tuesday,” said The Big Bad Wolf. “And I can handle those wood and brick houses you want demolished, too.”

After Amy’s family leave ran out, she hired a nanny to take care of her baby.
But pumping and bottling was such a hassle.
“Here,” said the nanny, taking off her breasts and handing them to Amy. “Give me yours.”
Amy’s back felt a lot better, only having to hold up the nanny’s A-cups instead of her double-D’s.
That’s wasn’t all she felt. She could still feel her baby when she was sucking on her nipple.
And… when the nanny’s boyfriend was visiting… and he…
Amy got her breasts back, fired the nanny, and went back to pumping and bottling.

Daisey was born into the spotlight, destined for fame.
One day old, she appeared in a documentary about newborns.
As she grew, so did her career.
Dozens of films, dozens of roles before she could walk.
And when she could, that much more.
The perfect child actress, every moment, calculated perfection.
Her first birthday, blowing out the candles, not just Oscar-worthy, but magical. Pure magic.
And then, the long downward slide.
Other babies took the spotlight away from her.
Daisey settled for supporting roles and B movies.
The producers stopped calling. Her agent dumped her.
Her first word was “WHY?”

If you look into a man’s eyes, you will see their soul.
The moment you see it, that’s the perfect time to strike.
Leap at them quickly, and try to suck out their soul.
It’s best that you do it while trying not to suck out their eye.
I know that’s hard to do.
Believe me, I’ve tried, and ended up with a screaming man’s eye in my mouth, flailing crazily at me.
So, you do it when they’re asleep in bed.
Wake them, and strike.
Now stop screaming, dammit. I’m going to try to suck out your soul again.

Sudden existence. Awareness.
Sounds and shapes.
Pain and fear.
Reaching out, sensation.
No comprehension, no understanding.
Knowing you should know, that you knew all of this.
But it’s just not there.
Every memory, every word locked away.
Like those credit cards you put in a cup, filling it with water.
Putting it in the freezer.
But it’s glass, no, plastic.
You can see them, know they are there, but can’t get to them.
Harder and harder, you hit it, trying, but you can’t.
Day after day, the shapes become faces.
The sounds become voices.
Slowly becoming someone, maybe you again.

I usually eat dinner at home.
Well, not dinner, but a bowl full of raw vegetables that I snack on.
But now and then, I’ll pick something up on the way home.
Or stop at someplace.
I had an email offer for Pei Wei, three dollars off.
They were okay, not great, and I finished most of it.
There weren’t any napkins out, I wiped my hands on the seat.
On the way home, I opened the car door and threw up.
The next morning, LivingSocial had a coupon for seven dollars off.
I sighed, deleted the apps, and unsubscribed.

It’s supposed to be a holiday.
An important one.
But I don’t feel it.
I’ve lost that connection.
I’ve lost that meaning.
Or maybe, I’ve found deeper meaning.
I’ve broken through the rituals and rites.
All that hokey storytelling bullshit.
The fables and ghost stories.
That tribal, backward nonsense.
Miracles and magic.
If they were real then, where are they now?
The pillars of fire and booming voices.
It doesn’t really matter now.
We still pull the wool over our own eyes.
I won’t do it. I can see clearly now.
And society’s willfully ignorant blinders don’t fit me anymore.