Category: My stories

Christopher Gunness
You fucking tool
You fucking fool
Do you let Hamas hide rockets
Up your ass
Or is your lying crying head
Jammed too far up there
Your schools
Teach kids to hate
And crave death
Your hospitals are ammo dumps
Rocket launching sites
And command centers for murderers
Reporters and civilians
Who call you on your lies
Are shot and killed
And dragged through the streets
All that concrete
To rebuild schools and hospitals
And homes
Used to build tunnels
Built by child slave labor
Drag out those dead children
Claim they were
Shot
Bombed by the Jeeeeeeeews

Eddie types fast. Really fast.
But his coding skills suck.
Bob, on the other hand, writes amazing code.
He just can’t type worth a damn.
So, we paired them together.
Eddie writes for Bob, then Bob corrects Eddie’s code.
Still not good enough.
That’s when somebody suggests a neural link. Wire their brains together.
Bob does the thinking, and Eddie is the output device. A mere printer, or a helper monkey.
Bob thinks this is cool.
Eddie didn’t, until we drugged him. And fitted him with the neural link cap.
Which still needs system drivers.
Who will write that code?

Woody Allen has used the same typewriter for fifty years.
However, he’s had a few worn-out parts replaced here and there. And he’s gotten fresh ribbons as he’s needed them to write.
Miles and miles of typewriter ribbons. So many miles, they could wrap around the earth…
How many times?
Two? Three? Four?
Or hundreds and hundreds of miles?
Well, it’s not that he’s ties them end-to-end and wrapped them around the earth. He’s too busy writing and producing and directing movies.
But he still has time to tie up his wife Soon-Yi with them, the twisted little nebbish freak.

Every year, my mom and dad would hire Bobo the Clown for my birthday, until I grew too old for clowns.
Facing the big fifty, I decided I wanted to see Bobo one more time.
Thing is, both my parents are gone. Maybe Bobo, too.
I did some searches, and had to hire a private investigator.
Three days to go, and he got a hit.
Bobo was rotting away in an old folks home.
I dropped by and thanked him, and apologized for getting too old for him.
“We all get too old,” he said, “Happy birthday.”
And died.

Every time I buy bread from the store, it gets smashed.
Even when I pack it myself.
Even when it’s the only thing I buy.
Even when I put it in my patented No Smash Bread Safe.
It ends up smashed.
So, I baked my own bread.
I used a bread baking machine, fresh ingredients, and 24/7 closed-circuit security camera coverage.
And it doesn’t end up smashed.
It smells so wonderful… so incredible… so fresh!
I pull it out of the baking pan, let it cool, and slice it with a razor-sharp bread knife.
And then I smash it.

I love the movies.
I love going to the movies.
I love the theater, the popcorn, the cokes, the sound…
Tear that ticket in half and hand me the stub.
The curtains open.
The lights go down.
And…
Previews. Ads. Public service announcements.
I love all of this.
When I was little, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.
“In the movies,” I said.
Actor? Director? Producer? Makeup? Set designer?
Nope. I just want to be in the movies.
My English teacher said the right word is at, not in.
And I got an F.

I hate Henry.
I wish he was dead.
Everyone knew that.
One day, I got my wish.
Henry’s car exploded.
And Henry was dead.
Dead.
I smiled.
And whispered:
“Thank you.”
To whoever.
Made the bomb.
Set the bomb.
And made Henry dead.
I went to the police.
And I said:
“Are you looking for me?”
They interrogated me
For hours
And hours
I told them nothing.
I just smiled.
They wanted a confession.
Nope.
“I guess you’re not
Looking for me.”
Laughing.
They never found
The bomber.
Because i distracted the cops.
They got away.
Did they thank me?

Bob Marley’s last words to his son Ziggy were: “Money can’t buy life.”
And then he died.
Ziggy was only thirteen.
At first he thought he’d meant that he could take all the Life cereal and Life board games he could grab.
But despite what Mikey says, Life cereal’s kinda bland. And that board game gets really boring after a while.
So, Ziggy practiced.
And then he made music, bought a nice car, bought a nice house or two, and bought a lot of nice things.
No, money can’t buy you life, but you can buy nice stuff for it.