Category: My stories

The dreamer dreams.
The inventor invents.
The designer designs.
The developer develops.
The modeler models.
The maker makes.
The builder builds.
The tester tests.
The fixer fixes.
The planner plans.
The investor invests.
The producer produces.
The manufacturer manufactures.
The marketer markets.
The advertiser advertises.
The publisher publishes.
The packer packs.
The shipper ships.
The driver drives.
The trucker trucks.
The stocker stocks.
The pricer prices.
The seller sells.
The shopper shops.
The buyer buys.
The consumer consumes.
The user uses.
The sleeper sleeps.
The dancer dances.
The writer writes.
The painter paints.
The wisher wishes.
And the dreamer dreams.

I like to argue. I argue constantly.
I argue so much, people call me The Devil’s Advocate.
So much so, that The Devil himself hired me as his advocate.
The job pays well, since he’s always got an opinion on things, and people are constantly asking for it.
It could be worse. I could be The Devil’s Barber. That guy has to cut around the horns, but still make The Devil look stylish.
And The Devil’s Tailor need to design pants that take into account the barbed tail and the cloven hooves.
Let’s not talk about The Devil’s Proctologist, okay?

Fred’s word isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.
Even when it’s really expensive paper. You know, that high-falootin fancy stuff with weights and bonds and low-acid that they sell at the shop in the mall.
What if he uses really expensive ink, too? Because that shop down at the mall sells all kinds of fancy inks to go along with the fancy paper.
Same thing. Fred’s word ain’t worth that, either.
So, what is Fred’s word worth?
Well, let me check… it’s on a double word score, and the X is worth eight points…
Okay, it’s worth thirty points.

If you think you’re a psychic, here’s a simple test:
Get a hundred boxes, and have someone put a loaded gun in 99 of them.
In the hundredth box, have them put an unloaded gun.
Then, use your psychic powers to find the box with the unloaded gun.
After you select that box, take out the gun, put it to your head, and pull the trigger.
If the gun doesn’t go off, you’re psychic.
If the gun goes off, you might still be psychic.
You can still prove that you are telekinetic. Bend the bullet’s trajectory away from your brain.

When I do my treadmill walks, I don’t start at full speed. I start slowly, but hit the Faster button over the course of the walk.
You know, like that frog in a pan of water on the stove. Drop the frog in boiling water, and it jumps out. But if you turn the heat on slowly, the frog gets boiled alive.
So, I hit the Faster button. Over and over.
I’m going faster than I would if I had started out going fast.
So fast, time and space begin to melt.
I hope this is covered by the warranty.

Why are you using a calculator for your Math homework?
Don’t you know that doesn’t exercise your brain at all?
Back in my day, we didn’t use calculators for Math problems.
We used sticks. To shake at things we counted.
Counting the first few things was easy.
But after a while your arm would get tired.
That’s when you knew when you had too many things to shake a stick at.
I knew a kid who could hold a stick in either hand for shaking at things.
He got sent to reform school for clubbing the Math teacher to death.

Some people like the jet-set crowd, and others want to be among the movers-and-shakers.
Not me.
Keep me away from the jet-set. I get airsick easily.
And those movers-and-shakers are real jerks.
Sure, they give you FRAGILE and GLASS stickers to put on the boxes, but do they read them?
No. They pick up the boxes, shake ’em really hard, and then put them on the truck.
Or, if they’re in a hurry, they’ll put them on the truck, and when they get to your new place, they’ll shake the boxes.
I’ll just rent a U-Haul and do it myself.

If I could throw a dinner party for ten, anyone in history, alive or dead, who would they be?
My cat Nardo. I loved to lay on the kitchen floor and watch him eat. I think I have a Youtube movie or two of him eating.
Oh, and my cat Piper. Sometimes, they’d eat off of the same plate, and she’d swat him.
And Bruwyn, the baby panther. I miss him so much.
And then there’s my grandmother.
Oh, she’s still alive.
But considering how all she eats these days is cat food, I wouldn’t have to change the menu.

Some people need creative latitude, but I find that terribly confining.
Especially when that latitude is 90 degrees North or South.
There you are, standing at the North Pole, freezing your ass off with a bunch of goddamned polar bears and Russian submarines.
Or at the South Pole, freezing your ass off with a pack of penguins.
Give me zero creative latitude. Let me the entire equator of creative latitude, and I can dance around the circumference of my imagination.
Well, maybe not the parts over the water. I can’t swim.
And some parts of Africa are seriously fucked-up hellholes.