Category: My stories

People say that Dan wore Hitler-colored glasses.
Everywhere he looked, he saw Hitler.
They had thick black rims, and made Dan look nerdy.
So, he got Hitler-colored contacts.
Now, Dan looked cool, and he could still see Hitler everywhere.
However, Dan got tired of the cleaning solution.
And having to take them out and put them back in.
So, he signed up for Hitler Lasik surgery.
They could use lasers to burn Hitler into his eyes.
“Can you remove my Howard Dean tattoo so I can get a Hillary tattoo?” he asked the technician.
“Different kind of laser,” they said.

People say that Dan wore Hitler-colored glasses.
Everywhere he looked, he saw Hitler.
He saw Hitler when he woke up.
He saw Hitler when he went down for breakfast.
He saw Hitler when he brushed his teeth.
He saw Hitler when he got on the bus to work.
He saw Hitler when he got coffee in the breakroom.
He saw Hitler in the daily meeting.
He saw Hitler when his boss gave him his review.
He saw Hitler everywhere.
It was when he took off his glasses, he still saw Hitler.
Washing his hands, in the mirror, across from Dan.

I’m sure that you’ve heard that a handgun is more likely to kill a family member than a burglar.
But what if the family member is a burglar?
In that case, I think it’s perfectly okay to kill them.
Especially if they’re going to rob my house.
It’s perfectly fine to kill them if they’ve just come home from robbing my house, too.
Hopefully, the police who show up to investigate the shooting will realize that the van in the driveway is full of stolen goods.
And not believe the bullshit story that they were in the middle of moving.

Aristotle said that it is easy for anyone to become angry, but knowing the right person, reason, time, and degree are not easy.
Somehow, Plato always knew.
“Why are you always in that dark cave?” shouted Plato.
Aristotle tried to hide something behind his back, but Plato shook the boy until a set of geometric forms fell to the ground.
“Those are mine!” growled Plato.
“They belong to Pythagoras!” whined Aristotle.
“I was respectful to my teacher,” said Plato.
“Oh, sure,” retorted Aristotle. “He probably drank the hemlock so he wouldn’t have to teach you anymore.”
Plato slapped Aristotle hard.

I never sleep well.
Myst pesters me when I try to sleep.
Pawing my face, claws out, biting my hands and toes.
I have bad dreams.
Too many hypocrites out there.
Making their way in.
With all their noise.
The bed’s too warm.
Sweating and reeking.
When I wake up, I lay on the sofa.
Tinny sniffs and headbutts me to check if I’m okay.
She finds a spot on my shoulder.
Settles in.
Grooms her fur for a few minutes.
Closes her eyes.
She trusts me.
And then she stops, tucks up, and sleeps.
That’s good enough for me.

We have a big bird feeder in the back yard.
We fill it with bird seed, and so many birds come to eat the bird seed.
So many different kinds of birds. So many colors.
I have a spotters guide and binoculars, and I keep a diary of the birds I see.
I figured out that kinds of seed attracts different kinds of birds.
Every now and then, a hawk swoops down and grabs a bird at the feeder.
Which, I suppose, is okay, since it is a bird feeder.
It’s just attracting birds to feed to other birds.

They say that the Tree of Liberty needs to be watered occasionally with the blood of patriots.
Not that rioters who are burning down businesses and smashing cars should be mistaken for patriots.
They’re just violent jerks, and when they destroy other people’s property and livelihoods, they’re not bleeding on the Tree Of Liberty.
They’re pissing on it.
Well, on the rare occasion, they do bleed on it.
When they throw rocks and molotovs at the cops, and get their heads beaten in.
That’s when they scream about police brutality, and for their mommies and daddies to bail them out.

Cut the wire on the gates and push them open.
Look around.
Over there, you see the piles of shoes.
Over there, you see the piles of suitcases.
Over there, you see the piles of eyeglasses.
Over there, and there.
So many piles.
Clothes. Hats. Belts.
And bodies. Piles and piles of bodies.
Men. Women.
Children.
There is a fine grey ash over everything.
Run your finger through it.
It’s the ones they burned in the ovens.
Up the smokestacks they went.
Into the air.
And they drifted, and settled down.
On the piles. On the ground. And on everything.

So many hateful, angry people.
And people angry at those people.
It’s best not to say anything, really.
No good will come from it.
There is no common ground anymore.
It’s just a No Man’s Land, and nothing lives there.
Throwing insults. Throwing rocks.
So much hate.
The only thing you can do.
Is to sell slings to both sides.
They can scrounge up the rocks themselves.
Find some cover, and wait for the noise to die down.
Gather up the slings from the fallen.
Fix them up, and sell them all over again.
And again. And again. And again.

Hamburger patties sizzling on the stove.
Can you smell that?
Slicing up the pickles as the buns heat up in the toaster.
I like to warm my hands over them.
Just a dab of mustard, not too much.
Flip the burgers, and then put on the cheese so it melts a little.
On to the buns they go.
But it needs… something more.
Mushrooms? I open a can of mushrooms, toss them into the pan, and sprinkle on red wine and butter.
Stir them up, let them simmer, until they dry out and pop.
Now that’s what I call dinner.