Category: My stories

I used to wonder about obituaries that appear days or months after the person had died.
When my sick evil father died, I wondered what pack of lies and bullshit would appear in his obituary.
So, after a few weeks, I searched for it.
And didn’t find anything.
Well, I wasn’t about to write one.
And my brother wasn’t either.
His widow? A dementia-ridden crone only capable of digesting expensive food and shitting everywhere.
Whether prompt or delayed, they all still say “survived by” in them.
When the actual survivors of evil scumbags like him never write them at all.

My grandmother lived to ninety-nine.
Her husband, a drycleaner sued into bankruptcy by workers poisoned by carbon tetrachloride, left her broke.
She remarried. The stepfather of a real estate mogul.
But he died, leaving her broke again.
Her younger daughter took her in, stole all the heirlooms.
Then her eldest daughter, my mother, took her in.
I was told my grandmother died of old age.
But I was lied to.
She drained my parents’ assets dry, and my mother harassed and tormented her for it.
So she starved herself to death.
And her murderer keeps her ashes on the shelf.

They say he was getting his life back together. A new, fresh start.
You know, just like they said after the last eight times he’d been released from prison for drugs, stealing, and beating up women.
What makes this time any different?
This time, the cops didn’t put up with his bullshit.
He got high, like he always did.
He passed a bad twenty, and when the cops got called, he fought back.
Like he always did.
And they killed him.
Somewhere out there are all the women he’d have beaten.
Whoever they are, they all should thank the cops.

Achmed fell in love with the figure in the window.
All he could see was the burqua, the Islamic robe that covers women from head to toe and reveals absolutely nothing.
Her modesty was her beauty.
Every day, he would walk by the window, bow to the figure, and walk on.
She stood there, unmoving.
Sometimes, he thought he heard whispers.
And each time, his heart beat stronger.
Until one day, he worked up the courage to ask the shopkeeper.
The shopkeeper laughed, and lifted the burqua… revealing a birdcage beneath.
So, Achmed bought the bird and the burqua anyway.

I don’t get worked up over favorites on Flickr.
Some folks don’t have a Flickr account.
Others are in locations that won’t allow smut on the Intenet.
And then there’s the ungrateful fucks. Bless their heats.
Out of every show, maybe there’s one above-and-beyond photo, if at all.
One that captures the emotion and motion of the act.
The other 30 or 40 are serviceable.
And then there’s the hundred or so I trash because a good photographer is just one who deletes their shitty shots.
(I’ll never be a great one, because I keep posting those 30 or 40.)

My grandfather was a sportsman.
All he wanted was a son to share his love of sports with.
Golf. Bowling. Pool.
But he had two daughters.
And all they did was eat.
Well, my grandfather loved to eat, too.
He was huge. But not as huge as he’d been if he didn’t golf, bowl, or shoot pool.
When he finally had a grandson, he was thrilled to be able to share his love of sports with him.
But, by then, he was too fat to golf or bowl.
Shooting pool, however, he could still do.
And, with us, he did.

Most secret sauces include mayo.
Most special sauces include mayo.
I’m allergic to eggs, so I’m allergic to mayo.
I used to love mayo, but now I despise it.
I fear it. I loathe it.
I truly detest mayo and what it does to my body.
If I say no mayo, I mean no mayo.
NO MAYO! IN ANYTHING!
No mayo, no mayo sauces, no mayo dressings, no mayo anything.
If your clothes are made out of miracle mayo fiber, you’d better be bare-assed naked when you hand me my burger.
With no mayo on it.
Or secret special sauce.

Just as fast food commercials lure you into eating food that causes diabetes, heart disease, and strokes, the Hallmark Channel movies lure you into feeling guilt, regret, and a mistaken desire to forgive and reconnect with the toxic people who fucked you up as a kid. I’d love to see a parody of these movies where someone goes back to that small town, sees how shitty everyone was and still is to them, doesn’t fall for their nostalgia trap, and leaves. Oh, and they bang that still hot old flame guy/gal who’s now conveniently single or widowed or whatever.

Billy played bass.
Roger played the drums.
John was lead guitar. And he wrote all the songs.
Mark did keyboards and vocals.
And Janet did the tambourine.
Everybody got paid equal shares.
After a while, John got pissed off at Janet because she didn’t want to sing.
“You just bang a tambourine,” he said.
Sure, she looked good on stage.
And on the posters and album covers.
But getting paid the same as the songwriter-guitarist and the keyboard-playing vocalist, they got mad and let her go.
Janet banged her tambourine solo, and made a fortune.
While her former band folded.

When I see some famous athlete or celebrity in an insurance company’s commercial, I hope that they suffer some grievous injury or loss.
A season-ending break, or a raging wildfire that destroys their mansion.
And they have to suffer through the same claims process and rejection that ordinary people suffer through.
But the thing is, they won’t.
They’ll scream how they’re the famous athlete or celebrity in the commercials.
And get special treatment.
The insurance company paying out more millions to them.
While the rest of us are stuck on hold, or waiting for a rejection letter in the mail.