Category: My stories

On Election Day, they hand out “I VOTED!” stickers for people to wear after they voted.
I guess it’s our way of doing the whole “purple finger” thing that other countries do, but a lot more civilized.
Me, I want to wear a sticker that says “I Couldn’t Vote Because I’m A Convicted Felon.”
It would sure be a conversation starter at parties.
Or in prisons.
Do they have parties in prisons?
I don’t know. I never get invited to any.
Maybe the invitations get lost in the mail?
I sit by my mailbox and wait… and wait… and wait…

When new video games are released, all of the geeks take the day off and play it over and over, going for every level and achievement. The next day, they come in tired and worn out and brain fried.
I’m the same way, but not with video games.
I’m that way with new toasters.
I buy a dozen loaves of bread and bags of bagels, and I toast them all day, spreading jam, butter, and cream cheese and eating it all.
Light? Dark? Bagel settings?
I do it all.
The next day, I’m fine.
Because I throw it all up.

When I was young, I watched Saturday Night Live on Saturday night, live when it aired.
There wasn’t any videotape or syndication, let alone an Internet with on-demand video, so you watched it live or not at all.
Syndication deals aired reruns now and then. And a cable channel or two picked up episodes. You could watch on those nights when it aired.
Video stores began to rent and sell tapes of the series. Unless you figured out how to program your VCR yourself.
You could watch it anytime.
I guess that’s why nobody knows what SNL stands for now.

To ask a politician not to politicize a tragedy is madness.
That’s what politicians do. They politicize. It’s the name of their job.
It’s like telling a butcher to respect the sacrifice made by an animal and not to butcher it.
It’s what they do.
Of course, this is what you would expect of an honorable profession, one who actually contributes worth.
A builder who builds.
A teacher that teaches.
A healer who heals.
Which a politician, who feeds on fear and hate, doesn’t.
A whore that whores.
A rapist that rapes.
A killer who kills.
Smile for the camera.

Francis Bacon said that hope is a good breakfast, but it is a bad supper.
When asked how good hope was as a lunch, he said he preferred the soup and salad.
“Ever tried hope at the brunch buffet?” I asked.
“I prefer the fresh melon slices and the maple oatmeal,” he responded.
Which is a lie. I see him loading up on biscuits and gravy, sausage, and stuffing cereal boxes into his coat pockets.
Oh, and those minosa drinks. The ones with orange juice and champagne?
He downs a pitcher of that stuff, and gets drunk off his ass.

I used to smack stupid people with a rolled-up newspaper.
But newspapers are smaller and lighter these days.
The Sunday edition is full of coupons and features sections.
Not that there’s many people to smack around on Sunday.
I watch football on Sunday. Why smack my own television set?
Monday morning rolls around, and my Sunday paper is already in the recycling bin.
What will I smack them with?
I load up the local paper on my tablet and…
I don’t want to break my tablet.
So, I print out all of the articles, roll them up, and…
Why bother?

In order to get a mortgage on a house, you need to give the lending institution access to your recent financial status.
Bank statements, credit reports, credit card balances, and paychecks are a part of it.
So are tax returns.
To my horror, my past two tax returns never got filed, so I filed them late and sent in the base payments.
I got one letter back. It contained a bill for one year’s penalty.
I promptly paid it.
I’m still waiting for the bill for the other year.
That’s right. I can’t wait to give the IRS my money!

Oklahoma State and Auburn’s football game ended in a tie.
So, they went into overtime.
College football overtime rules give each team one possession at the 25 yard line.
The team that scores most, wins.
If they both score the same amount, they play another overtime.
Oklahoma State scored a touchdown. And an extra point. Then Auburn.
Back and forth, each scored the same.
Six… seven… eight overtimes.
The exhausted and broken players crawled on and off the field.
For weeks, they played.
Eventually, the game was called when the students flunked out.
Who knew they had to take classes?

If you dig deep enough into a person, maybe you’ll find a heart of gold. Maybe you won’t.
But you’ll always find something that you find utterly repugnant, horrifying, and stupefying.
It doesn’t matter where you dig; you’ll find it eventually.
Life is about learning when to stop digging and when to accept someone for who they are.
No matter what that one thing is that you find utterly repugnant, horrifying, and stupefying.
Still, you’d best keep that shovel around.
In case you need to slam them in the back of the head.
And bury them in the back yard.

We watched the demolition crews drive into the amusement park and unload their trucks.
Other crews had cleaned out anything useful.
They had emptied the stores, pulled out all of the chairs and tables and kitchen equipment from the restaurant stands, and hauled off the toilets and sinks from the restrooms.
All of the rides had been unbolted and disassembled, piece by piece.
All that was left were empty shells of buildings and shacks and bleachers too old and rusted to sell off.
Bulldozers and cranes tore them apart.
And all that remained were the memories of endless summer days.