What if that spot on your arm isn’t just a spot?
A patch of rough skin or a simple blemish?
It doesn’t hurt. It’s not growing… much.
It cleared up a little with the cream, right?
It’s nothing to worry about, really.
Maybe if you stopped scratching it. Or picking at it.
It’ll clear up eventually.
But what if… you should have it checked.
Just take a morning or afternoon off, see the doctor.
Have them look, maybe clip a sample off.
What’s the harm?
Better to know and do something now than wait, right?
What’s the harm in that?
Category: My stories
Thank goodness it was just Nazis
Elie Wiesel, the author and humanitarian, died recently.
His books are scary enough as is, but they’re even scarier when you substitute the word “cannibal clown” for “Nazi.”
Because, let’s face it… there’s some evil people in this world who love Nazis, or hate Jews, or both.
But everybody’s afraid of cannibal clowns, right?
Cannibal clowns down’t stop at Jews, Gypsies, cripples, gays, and political dissidents.
They eat everyone. And unlike the Nazis, no amount of appeasement by the Swiss will stop them.
Those cannibal clowns would rip those clock-making, chocolate-swilling mountaineers to bits.
Thank goodness it was just Nazis!
unclean ex
I have allergies, and I sneeze a lot.
But I don’t ever bother with Kleenex or other brands of facial tissues.
Instead, I buy paper towels.
Because every time I felt a sneeze coming on, I was in a different room from where I had the Kleenex box.
In the bathroom, I had the toilet paper. And I could quickly dispose of it.
In the kitchen, there were paper towels, right there and ready.
I keep a few in my pocket when I go out.
And when I forget them in the wash, they don’t shred apart like Kleenex does.
Follow the script
Back when I worked in a technical support call center, we had to follow a script.
This would walk the customer through identifying themselves, their equipment, and their problem.
The script rarely ended with a resolution to the problem, and the customer was usually left even angrier and more frustrated.
So, I offered to write a new script.
Ten days and six rewrites later, I was done.
And, boy, what a script it was!
The customers were in tears and gave me standing ovations at the end of it.
Only later, did they realize, I hadn’t solved their original problem.
Christmas is over
Christmas is over.
Take the ornaments off of the tree.
The glass globes.
The tin soldiers.
The silver stars.
And wrap them well before you put them back in the box.
So that they don’t break. And we’ll have to buy new ones. Again.
Pull off the strings of lights and wrap them around the cardboard tubes.
Otherwise, they’ll get tangled. And we’ll have to buy new ones. Again.
All that’s left is the angel on the top.
Whisper the prayer to release him.
So he can fly back up to Heaven.
We’ll catch another angel for next year’s tree.
Texting Santa
In the old days, kids would write letters to Santa and mail them to the North Pole.
Real paper, real envelopes, and real stamps.
For a while, they called him.
But those services charged by the minute.
Kids were supposed to get their parents’ permission.
But what kid ever does?
Now, kids send texts or emails or instant messages.
Santa never got any of those.
Russian and Chinese hackers picked them up.
“And what is your mother’s credit card number?” they asked the children. “You want to be on the good list, right?
Oh, and how naughty those hackers were!
Tinsel the Elf is Happy Now
Tinsel was an elf. He made toys at the North Pole.
Elves are supposed to be happy all of the time.
Tinsel wasn’t.
He didn’t like making toys.
He wanted to be an architect.
“There’s a lot you can do with snow and ice,” he said, pulling out some blueprints.
Santa signed the order to have Tinsel sent to the re-education center.
Two months later, Tinsel came back.
He was always smiling.
But he didn’t talk. Or laugh.
He just worked, harder than anyone.
His green felt cap covered the surgery scars.
Everybody makes a show of being happy now.
Vincent the Elf
“VINCENT!” shouted Santa over the intercom. “WHERE ARE YOU?”
Vincent the Elf carried a clipboard, a cup of coffee, and an extra 30 pounds he could never seem to lose.
Stress eating, he told his doctor.
“Do you want a heart attack?” said his doctor, handing Vincent a prescription.
Santa wanted Vincent to carry a beeper, or one of those new-fangled cell phones.
“Kids ask for them all the time,” said Santa. “Just grab one off the line and give me the number.”
Vincent set up a phone, charged the plan to Santa, and looked online for a new job.
Santa’s Secret Journal
For centuries, Santa kept a journal.
This wasn’t Santa’s Nice and Naughty List.
He left that on his desk so elves who handled logistics could plan routes and shipping manifests.
No, this was Santa’s deeper thoughts, about life, everything else.
Things he’d done that never made the Rankin Bass holiday specials.
Famous people he’d met, and the ones he’d fucked.
Or done drugs with.
Santa wrote the book in code, one he’d never shared with anyone else.
Not even Mrs. Claus.
But every now and then, he’d forget, and the nosy elves would gossip along the production lines for weeks.
The Immortal Snowman
Frosty The Snowman was a happy soul.
Every Winter, he’d come down from the North Pole to visit.
He’d go to the Christmas pageant, year after year.
As the kids got older, they went off to college, or found jobs in town, and some settled down with families of their own.
One after another, generation after generation, they died.
Over time, Frosty’s face became lined with icy tracks from all of the tears.
Frosty The Eternally Sad, they came to call him.
He took off his hat, a kid smoothed out his face, and put it back on his head.