Category: My stories

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.

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.