Category: My stories

Hillary fainted at the 9/11 ceremony.
She said he had overheated. On a nice day in the mid-seventies.
So, a group of large men in suits put her in a black van and drove her away.
Her doctor said that she had been suffering from pneumonia and had become dehydrated.
I’m not confident in a presidential candidate who thinks that the solution to dehydration is to ask for a group of men in suits to shove them into a black van instead of, perhaps, giving her a glass of water.
No wonder why medical care is so fucking expensive.

A poet died recently.
I think you knew them.
They were good, weren’t they?
The poets agree.
A good poet, and a good person.
Had they been ill?
I don’t know.
I don’t know what they died from.
Unless she was killed by a serial killer who travels the world and kills poets, what business of it is yours?
You want to know, so you can hold a fundraiser?
If she died from cancer, a cancer fundraiser.
If she died from heart disease, a heart disease fundraiser.
I still don’t see the point. It’s far too late to save her.

My grandmother didn’t have a funeral.
She’d outlived her two husbands, and everyone from her generation of the family.
“Why doesn’t anyone visit?” she’d asked.
“You’re the last one left,” said my mother.
My parents took over caring for her after my mom’s sister had pretty much robbed my grandmother blind, selling off everything, giving her kids all kinds of gifts.
Let’s not talk about my brother. He’s dead to me, okay?
So that just left me.
“What’s the point?” said my mother.
So, I hung up the phone, sat in the parking lot of the grocery store, and wept.

Billy Smith was a great quarterback.
He could throw, he could run.
And he was the best quarterback ever at the quarterback sneak.
If all he needed was a yard, then he’d get it.
TOUCHDOWN!
Not only would he get the yard, but he’d steal the defensive line’s wallets.
“Here you go,” he says, tossing them back.
Lose your car keys? Billy’s got em.
He was so sneaky, he’d fuck one or two of their girlfriends without them noticing.
The problem was, he was the holder for the extra point kick.
And that’s when the defense would kick his ass.

I used to type a hundred words a minute.
Now, I stare at the alphabet on a screen and blink to form words.
It takes patience to write this way. And I have to slow my thoughts, because I cannot write as quickly as they form in my mind.
I find that I produce better writing now than I did when I wrote with a typewriter, or pen and paper.
Did I have a car wreck? A disease?
No, I just needed to slow down.
I’m perfectly fine.
But the twitching geek who I threw out of this chair isn’t.

Ted has a face for radio. His face is shaped like a sound booth, and radio talent step into his face and speak into his nose.
He also has a penis for radio. It’s a thousand feet long, and when he lays on his back, it’s an antenna mast to which he can mount a transmitter.
In fact, pretty much every part of Ted’s body is for radio. His eyes, his ass, his feet… they’re all for radio.
One day, the amplifier in his spleen burned out, and he needed surgery.
The surgeons didn’t ground themselves, and everyone was electrocuted.

His name is Fritz Fitzimmons.
You can call him Fritz, or you can call him Fitz.
Every Tuesday, he’s down at the Auctioneer Union Hall, playing Bridge with his buddies.
He’s not very good at it, but neither are they.
They used to shoot pool, but arthritis made it hard.
They can barely shuffle, deal, and hold the cards now.
But the bidding’s pretty fierce.
Rattling off their hearts and spades and diamonds.
And their no trumps.
When the bidding’s over, the dealer shouts SOLD! and the winner takes the cards.
As I said, they’re not very good at Bridge.

All across the world, bright lights have appeared in the sky, and people have risen into the lights and vanished.
Nobody has seen the source of the light, and nothing appears on radar or cameras or other means of detection.
Some say it’s UFOs. Others say it’s God sucking the people into Heaven.
There’s no pattern to the disappearances at all. Analysis of the victims reveals no rhyme or reason to the incidents.
There aren’t many of them though. Ten or fifteen a day.
So many more people die of other things every day, but still, the fear spreads quickly.

Never stare a gift horse in the mouth?
Who gives a horse as a gift?
How the hell do you wrap it?
And what if they don’t like horses?
Can they exchange it for a sweater or a waffle iron?
I never got any horses as gifts.
I got my horses with hard work.
It took a lot of effort to steal them.
Horse thieving isn’t easy, you know.
Maybe I have a few leftovers I could give as gifts.
If I give you a horse, don’t just regift the thing, okay?
And don’t look it in the mouth.