Category: My stories

My grandmother spent her last twenty years in the care of my aunt, my parents, and then a retirement home.
She suffered from dementia, and was only occasionally lucid.
In her nineties, the doctors determined that she had breast cancer.
Why were they checking her for it in the first place?
The hospital performed surgery, and removed the tumor easily.
Meanwhile, people across the country… across the world don’t even have basic medical care.
So many are sick, or die young before they have a chance to live.
But it’s different when it’s family… it’s different when it’s you.
Right?

Every time a Palestinian stabs, shoots, runs over, or bombs Jews, the streets of Arab neighborhoods fill with celebration.
People hand out candies to symbolize the sweet taste of martyrdom and death.
Nobody condemns these barbaric and bloodthirsty customs, not even the Palestinian Dentists Association.
“As long as they brush their teeth afterwards,” say the dentists, and they fire their guns into the air with joy.
Despite skyrocketing diabetes rates, the Palestinian Medical Union refuses to condemn the passing around of candy.
“In Paradise, Allah will provide all the insulin shots you need, with 72 virgin nurses to administer them!”

When I was young, my neighbor Brian was so into comic books, he stuck a battery and a magnet in his chest so he could be like Iron Man.
He spent a month in the hospital, and when he came out, they taped oven mitts on to his hands and kept him sedated.
And no comic books.
Still, he’d ask me if he could read my comic books.
“Well, I don’t think Iron Man is good for you,” I’d say. “But Superman should be fine, right?”
No, not really. He thought he could fly, and jumped off of the roof.

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.