Category: My stories

They say that good ideas are a dime a dozen.
From the looks of what’s showing at the movie theaters, playing on TV, filling the bookstores, and streaming on the Internet, everybody’s given up on the good ideas and gone where the money is:
Bad ideas.
And the worst thing about bad ideas is that they inspire people to come up with even worse ideas, which them inspires ideas even worse than those.
In the end, we are surrounded, and we drown in a sea of bad ideas.
But I keep my pockets full of shiny dimes, just in case.

When you think about it, the presidency is a temporary job.
Although you could say that it’s more like a contract job.
It lasts 4 years, but can be extended to 8 years if you get decent reviews, and enough people think there’s nobody else that can do it better.
Well, there’s the whole dying in office thing. Or if you quit for whatever reason. But they keep a temporary around to cover for that.
There’s a hell of a lot of perks to go with it, for certain.
But let’s start you off with this office assistant opening, okay?

Every can of chicken noodle soup is a balance between chicken, noodles, and soup.
Too much chicken, and it’s just a can of meat.
Too many noodles, and it’s just a can of wet noodles.
Too much soup, and it’s just a can of broth.
For years, the scientists at the Campbell’s Soup Company experimented with the amount of chicken, noodles, and soup in their cans.
Until one day, they had the perfect balance.
“SUCCESS!” shouted the Chief Soupologist.
To celebrate, he had a bowl of soup.
Tomato soup. With grilled cheese sandwiches.
Because he couldn’t stand chicken noodle soup.

There were celebrations in Teheran, Riyadh, Cairo, Beirut, Damascus, and mosques throughout the world.
The “Zionist occupier”, as they called it, had fallen.
In public, Western countries condemned the action, but privately, they sighed relief.
They didn’t want any incidents in their own countries.
Synagogues were burned, community centers attacked, and Jewish blood spilled.
Millions of miles away, out in the asteroid belt, The Samson Project woke up.
It sent out signals, received no responses, and activated its rockets.
Twenty massive rocks dropped out of orbit and steered for earth.
There would be no last laugh.
Just dust and death.

Baseball started with pink ribbons for breast cancer awareness.
Then pink bats, And pink gloves.
Pretty soon everything was pink.
Their uniforms, the bases, the balls, and eventually the grass and dirt.
Even the hot dogs and beer were pink.
“A portion of proceeds will go to cancer awareness,” said a spokeman.
After two seasons of the pink, scientists noticed an upsurge in cancer rates.
The pink dye was a carcinogen.
Thousands more died, and millions suffered.
Except for the spokeman, who had taken the money and retired to Bermuda.
Keenly aware of skin cancer, he used plenty of sunblock.

In order to appear sophisticated and savvy, whenever there’s a company dinner at a restaurant, I go to the restaurant’s menu online and decide what I want to have before I get there.
Then, I memorize the items.
Instead of accepting a menu from the waiter, I say “I already know what I want.”
And I order from memory.
“Have you been here before?” people ask.
Yeah, I come off looking so damn sophisticated. Except when I get food poisoning.
Then, I go online to the hospital’s website, and decide which doctor I want to have before I get there.

Piper was my baby.
Edloe was my Grumpus.
Frisky was my fluffball.
Bruwyn was my Boo.
Myst is my Missy.
Tinny is my squeaky.
And Nardo was my buddy.
Every cat gets their name, and their own special name.
When I give them their special name, it’s for them to keep.
Okay, so I wanted to name Myst “Baby” when we got her.
And both Bruwyn and Myst were the baby panthers.
But nobody ever again will ever be my buddy.
As much as Tinny asks for hugs, and Myst lays in my lap and purrs.
Some things are forever.

For the first few years, things were pretty rough for the orbital colony.
We worked out the pumps and hydroponics working, and achieved near-sustainable levels of efficiency.
There were still some issues with trace elements, nutrient loss, and other problems inherent in a closed entropic environment.
So, we started a marketing plan for the elderly. Invited them to spend their golden years in orbit with reduced gravity.
And they came.
Most didn’t survive the boost to orbit. We fed them to the composter.
The crops come in great now.
But just in case, let’s order up another shipload of geezers.

Jackie Collins the writer died recently.
She made a fortune off of writing tell-all novels about her friends and the gossip they spread about their friends.
If any of her friends pissed her off, their shit appeared in her novels.
Especially if they dished shit on her. Including her skank of a sister.
I know that it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, but in her case, what’s wrong with dishing shit on her now? What a bitch!
Now her shit is appearing in the tell-all gossip rags.
Because nobody had the guts to say it at her funeral.

Jack. He was my grandmother’s second husband. He had a little dog from his first marriage named Whiskers. It was a Schnauzer, or was it a Terrier? The dog was really old and slow, and it wasn’t aware of us or anything.
The first night we were there, the dog let out a huge groan and laid down, and it released a puddle of shit. No, a lake of shit. Jack walked through that lake of shit, got down on his knees, and hugged his dead dog. “Good Whiskers,” he said.
If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.