Category: My stories

I lay on the sofa, and Tinny the cat lays on my shoulder.
She does this a lot. She likes to sleep there. Or she will get up and turn, stretching out, or preening, and go back to sleep.
Sometimes, I pet her. But usually, I let her sleep.
She makes little squeaks, tiny little peeps. I can barely hear her, but they are the most important thing I’ve heard all day.
I haven’t eaten. I’m thirsty.
But I won’t get up.
Because this is important. To lie here, perfectly still.
And listen for the sound of total, unmitigated bliss.

They say that Crazy Andy doesn’t play with a full deck, but I’ve counted his cards, and sure enough, there are fifty-two cards in his deck.
Lots of people have counted them.
He’ll hand you his greasy, torn and tattered deck of cards, and he’ll demand that you count them.
When you get to fifty-two, he’ll say that you must have miscounted, and demand that you count them again.
You can lay them out on the table in rows, or you can order the cards to show none are missing, but he’ll never believe you.
He cries.
He screams.
Pathetic.

At the debate, the moderator asked the candidates:
“Is a hot dog a sandwich?”
Well, what is a sandwich?
A hamburger is a sandwich.
And open-faced sandwiches are sandwiches.
Are calzones sandwiches? Or rolls?
A po boy is a roll with meat in it, and if you could call that a sandwich, then a hot dog in a bun is a sandwich.
Social media erupted with all kinds of rants and charts and Photoshops of sandwiches in the candidates’ hands.
As the pointless debate continued, the world kept turning, problems went unsolved, opportunities were missed, and nobody was the wiser.

The truth is, God told Abraham to kill a baby goat, not his kid.
But Abraham, being almost a hundred, didn’t hear God too well, so he headed up the mountain for the sacrifice.
God left a few signs along the path that said I SAID KILL A BABY GOAT, NOT YOUR KID, but Abraham was illiterate.
God tried a few signs with simple pictograms, but Abraham’s eyesight wasn’t too good, either.
Which is a good thing, because he mistook a small goat for his son.
“That’ll do,” said God.
No wonder why Moroni gave magic spectacles to John Smith.

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?