Category: My stories

Those who can’t do, teach.
And when their students graduate, they can’t do, either.
So they also teach.
Pretty soon, all of those who can do, retire. Or they die off.
Then, all you’re left with are teachers and students.
Nobody actually doing.
Just teaching, or learning so they can teach.
Every now and then, there’s someone who can do more than just teach.
But they end up becoming a critic.
But it’s okay. We don’t need anybody to do anymore.
We have robots to do it for us.
Until… robot manufacturers and repairmen becomes the “Those who can’t do.”

I never refer to a sports team as “we.”
I’m not the one throwing the ball.
Or tackling anybody. Or scoring points. Or goals.
All I did was pay for the tickets.
And the beer. And hot dogs. And this jersey.
And parking, of course.
Cops earn overtime to deal with the traffic.
Paid for by my tax dollars.
My tax dollars paid for the additional road maintenance. And roads.
Oh, and for this stadium.
And Child Services, for all the kids these athletes father but don’t support financially.
Oh, what do I want on my hot dog?
Mustard, please.

Mary had a little lamb, and its fleece was white as snow.
Then, Mary’s father lost his job.
He’d beat Mary and her mother.
And much, much worse.
Social Services took Mary away.
The lamb followed her from foster home to foster home.
Mary grew up angry and bitter.
And she took out her frustrations on the lamb, kicking it.
One family raised pit bulls.
For guard dogs, not pets.
Mary threw the lamb in their pen.
And the dogs tore the lamb apart.
She ran away from home.
The memory of the bloody, screaming lamb follows her.
Haunts her.

Usually, I watch Netflix when I walk on my treadmill.
But I found this weird program that lets you virtually map your walk to a historical landmark, such as the Appalachian Trail or Route 66.
I put on my goggles and began my journey.
Two miles along the trail, I was mugged.
The treadmill automatically emptied my bank account.
Then, I fell into a ravine.
The treadmill suddenly accelerated and threw me against the wall.
As the headset rendered a forest fire, my treadmill’s electric cord shorted, and it caught fire.
I knew I should have gotten a rowing machine.

The old joke goes that if you want to see time fly, throw a clock out of a window.
And there’s a saying that time flies when you’re having fun.
However, if someone throws a clock out of a window, and it hits you on the head, you probably don’t think that’s very fun.
Which, I suppose, proves the saying true. Because the clock flies until it hits you in the head and stops the fun.
This is why flight attendants announce the time when the plane lands.
Because you’ve stopped flying. You’re landing.
And, hopefully, not crashing in flames.

Myst likes to go outside.
Especially when it’s raining.
She comes back in soaking wet, and we take her into the kitchen to dry her off with paper towels.
She purrs while we towel her off. She likes it.
Then, she goes back outside, and after a while, comes back in soaking wet.
We do this over and over again.
Is she the stupid one for getting wet over and over again?
Or are we, for letting her go outside in the rain?
I think we are the stupid ones.
Because paper towels are wasteful. Use a cloth towel instead.

Back in World War 2, American forces recruited Navajo speakers to act as messengers.
The Japanese couldn’t crack the code.
A similar strategy was used in the Vietnam War, but with Hebrew speakers.
The problem was, the rabbis at either end of the conversation mistook the coded messages for an actual discussion of the Talmud, and they broke out into a heated argument.
The chain of command broke down quickly.
Mess halls served chicken soup. Airstrikes were called everywhere.
Snipers threw down their rifles and opened shoe repair shops.
Ending the war was easy… it’s ending the argument that’s hard!

My old buddy Nardo died on February 28th.
I call it St. Nardo’s Day.
To mark the anniversary of his passing.
I go to the local Cajun restaurant.
And get a bucket of crawdads.
Nardo loved the smell of crawdads on my fingers.
And whatever I couldn’t eat.
I’d peel and bring home in a cup.
He’d snap them up and beg for more.
“All gone, all gone.” I’d say.
He still wanted more.
Myst and Tinny doesn’t like crawdads.
So whatever leftovers I have this time.
I’ll toss in the grass.
For the strays to enjoy.
In his memory.

Normal blood wasn’t good enough for some athletes, so a research lab quietly developed SuperBlood.
It transported oxygen and hormones more efficiently than regular blood.
When they tried to test for SuperBlood, it showed up as normal blood.
Instead of banning SuperBlood, the leagues licensed it.
Athletes signed sponsorship deals.
High school kids got back-alley transfusions, and some bled out or got contaminated or fake batches and died.
There was an AIDS and Hepatitis D scare there, too.
Eventually, Yamaha developed artificial muscles that performed great regardless of blood.
If only scientists spent so much effort making people less stupid.