Category: My stories

You have plenty of things to write with.
You have plenty of paper.
You have plenty of pencils and pens.
You have plenty of apps on your smartphone and tablet.
You have plenty of space on your laptop.
You have plenty of time to write something.
Ideas? Well, okay. You don’t have any of those.
So, steal from someone else.
Pick up a book. Watch a movie.
Sit in a mall and listen to all the bullshit in people’s lives.
Then just change the names around.
I hope you have plenty of money for a lawyer if you get caught.

There’s a party in my pants, and you’re all invited.
I sent out invitations weeks ago.
Not via email. That’s rude and cheap and crass.
Formal invitations with scented paper, expensive ink.
Carried by a footman in a tuxedo, who’d hand-deliver the message and wait for the response.
And there were true RSVP return cards and envelopes.
The whole fancy thing. No expense spared.
Well, except for the pants.
They’re kind of old.
But then, it’s a retirement party.
For my pants. Which I need to retire and replace with new pants.
I’ll have a welcome party for them soon.

So, if you laid all the hot dogs sold in Yankee Stadium end-to-end, they’d reach from New York to Los Angeles and back again.
Why would you lay hot dogs end-to-end like that? Won’t all that food go to waste? Shouldn’t you be selling those hot dogs to hungry sports fans instead?
Plus, it’s Yankees fans. They get really mad when you take away their food.
Does Chicago fall between New York and Los Angeles? Because they like their hot dogs with mustard, onions, relish, and sweet peppers, not ketchup like New Yorkers do.
Just watch the goddamn game, kid.

This is not a poem.
Because I am not a poet.
Who writes poetry.
Sonnets. Limericks. Or Haiku.
Rhyme. Or not.
I write none of that.
I do not write poetry.
Nor do I want to write poetry.
So, I don’t.
I write instructions, documentation.
Scripts for video tutorials.
I write them, I edit them, and I publish them.
And people all around the world
Read them. Learn from them.
It pays well.
But not poetry.
Poetry doesn’t pay.
So, I don’t write poetry.
Because I’m not a poet.
Not do I want to be a poet.
Who writes poetry.

After the legalization of same-sex marriages
A caterer refused to cater a same-sex wedding.
Priests refused to host them in their churches.
Bakers turned down orders for same-sex wedding cakes.
They were all branded haters, bigots, and protesters demanded that they had no right to refuse anyone’s business.
They were flooded with hatemail, death threats, and picketers.
“America is the worst nation on the face of the earth!” they shouted at the cameras. “America is evil!”
Half a world away, the Iranian Secret Police poured gasoline over a pile of bodies, tossed in a lit match, and burned their handiwork.

Ravens live a long time.
Forty or fifty years, I’ve been told.
They also make strong family bonds.
So when they are old and dying, all of their family gathers around.
A final tribute? To say goodbye.
The old raven falls from the branch to the ground, thrashes his wings, and lies still.
The others take flight, and circle above.
One after the other, they fly off.
Until there are no more.
You barely notice it lying there.
Until you hear the lawnmower choke.
A spray of black feathers with the grass clippings.
A brief, ghastly stink.
Just keep mowing.

Be careful when you get a laugh at Mindy Felton’s expense.
She’ll make you fill out an expense report.
Those are a pain to fill out, because you have to itemize and justify every laugh.
Don’t forget the receipts, either. No per diems allowed.
Copy and attach them to your form.
Then you have to get it approved.
“Why couldn’t you get a laugh at your own expense?” management will demand.
If you manage to get approval, then you have to deal with the taxes.
Most accountants won’t touch these kinds of cases.
Best not to laugh at Mindy at all.

If God has angels and saints, what does The Devil have?
“Fallen angels,” says the priest, as he goes through his checklist.
Bible. Crucifix. Holy water. The basics.
A wad of cash for bail, spare phone battery and charger cord.
A pack of gum comes in handy.
Garlic, a gun loaded with silver bullets… those are strictly off the books.
When you get to hyacinth petals for the Wookooloo, that’s where things get strange.
“There’s shit from China and India that’ll make your eyes bleed,” he says.
I nod, and do my best to hide my tail under my trenchcoat.

I was only four years old when Nixon resigned.
And the Vietnam War raged on half a world away.
For me, it was the summer after kindergarten.
I never knew anything going on.
Life was Sesame Street and summer camp.
A tire swing in the willow tree.
Catching fireflies in the evening so they’d flash in a jar all night long.
An AMC Pacer in the driveway.
Big Wheels in a bin by the garage.
We couldn’t ride them in the street.
We turned them upside-down on the sidewalk, worked the pedals, and spun the big wheel.
All summer long.

I don’t understand the Army-Navy game.
They say it’s a rivalry, but shouldn’t they be learning to work together?
You know, because they should be working together to defend our country and kill our enemies.
And why are they playing football? Or basketball? Or any other sport?
Why aren’t they learning to shoot guns, fire mortars, sail ships, fire torpedoes, and fly planes?
When was the last time we had to defend our country with a football or a basketball?
Take off the football helmet, pick up a gun, and put on a combat helmet.
And fight the real enemy!