Category: My stories

They say that Mussolini made the trains run on time.
Yes, it’s true. But not in the way you think.
Because coal, diesel, and wood were needed for the war effort, Mussolini hired physicist Enrico Fermi to build a train with an engine fueled by time.
Fermi worked day and night on the project until it was ready.
Mussolini was delighted… until he learned that Fermi’s wife was a Jew.
The Fermis fled Rome on the train, arriving in America.
Enrico worked on the Manhattan Project, thinking he was building another train.
He was just as surprised as the Japanese.

An earthquake hit Nepal.
Over two thousand people died.
Two dozen of them were Israeli tourists.
Muslim preachers celebrated their deaths, calling it a sign of Allah’s will.
Nobody condemned them for it. Or asked them if Allah wanted dead Jews, he would have sent the earthquake to Israel.
Or, for that matter, just caused each and every Jew to drop dead where they stood.
While Israelis sent aid to the victims of the earthquake.
The preachers collected money for weapons to fight “The resistance.”
When your religion promotes death, it ceases to be a religion.
It becomes a disease.

Ned was obsessive with round numbers. He hated anything that didn’t end in a zero.
So, his wife Molly set up ten savings accounts.
Each earned a pittance in interest, but the balances weren’t round. That drove Ned bonkers.
So, he added money to each until they had nice round numbers again.
Every month, the interest messed up the balances, and Ned kept adding more.
For years, he did this, until the day he died.
Ned’s funeral ate up all of the savings.
Which left Molly with the life insurance.
She ran off with a young stud.
Who hated math.

Nothing we write will last.
Even if we etch our words in stone, stone wears down in time.
We may as well scratch our words into our skin.
And show off scars.
Language changes over the centuries.
Sometimes, overnight.
New words appear, and others fade from use.
Stars themselves burn out.
And nothing remains in the ever-expanding universe but heat.
With nothing to experience the words, and nothing to remember them, why worry at all?
Let your words be like the candle’s flame.
Rising up into the air, a trail of smoke, and then it vanishes.
Briefly illuminating the darkness.

The Magen David Adom, which translates to The Red Star of David, is the Israeli equivalent of the American Red Cross.
After years of dealing with helping survivors of terrorist attacks, they have expertise in disaster recovery and locating survivors.
They also rush lightweight and sustainable relief supplies to the victims.
Whenever there is a disaster in the world, I give my money to them.
That way, if the host country is anti-Semitic and refuses help from them because they’re Jews, I don’t want my money going there.
Let the unlucky hateful assholes suffer and die, for all I care.

The day that the governor of Indiana signed their religious freedom act, Fred rejoiced.
He commissioned a gigantic statue of Horus, Egyptian God of the Sky.
And he had it delivered to the main runway of the Indianapolis airport.
The FAA didn’t like it.
Neither did Osiris, the Egyptian God of the Dead.
“Where’s my statue?” he shouted. “And where’s my penis?”
Pretty soon, every minor and major deity of civilizations past demanded attention.
And when they didn’t get it, they fought.
After several weeks, Indiana was left a desolate hellhole.
Which, in the city of Gary, improved things somewhat.

Ted was born in Mandeville.
Ted was raised in Mandeville.
Ted went to school in Mandeville.
Ted graduated from school in Mandeville.
Ted went to college in Mandeville.
Ted worked summers in Mandeville.
Ted got his degree in Mandeville.
Ted got a job in Mandeville.
Ted married his high school sweetheart in Mandeville.
Ted honeymooned in Mandeville.
Ted had a son in Mandeville.
Ted had a daughter in Mandeville.
Ted looted the gun shops in Mandeville.
Ted survived the zombie apocalypse in Mandeville.
Ted buried his wife, son, and daughter in Mandeville.
Ted wants to eat your brains in Mandeville.

Ed is a traveling salesman.
But he doesn’t go anywhere.
He goes anywhen.
Because he’s a time-traveling salesman.
He shares technology with the past.
And memories with the future.
Is it legal?
Is it ethical?
Scientists say no, and warn of paradoxes and temporal rifts.
Courts ruled that the present has no jurisdiction over the past or the future.
He’s flown kites with Benjamin Franklin.
And had tea with the Caliph of New Paris.
And after The Fall, The Visitors paid him for everything he knew about humanity.
He’s retired now. Sits on his front porch, watching the timestorms grow.

How many servings is a can of Coke?
One?
No, according to their Corporate Nutritionist. It’s two.
As if someone drinks half a can, and puts the other half away.
“Or they share it with someone,” they said to me, opening a can of Coke, and offering it to me.
I took the can, filled my glass, and handed it back.
They filled their glass.
“See?” they said. “Two servings.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I said, and offered a toast.
I suppose people should read labels carefully.
Even if the poison I put in their glass wasn’t on the list.

There’s an old joke that a priest or a nun on roller skates is a holy roller.
You’d think they’d update the joke to a priest or a nun on roller blades, but roller blades aren’t funny.
Not that most priests or nuns are very funny either, but that’s what makes the joke funny.
Except for Sister Mary St. Peachpit, who was an extremely funny nun.
She wore roller skates, a rainbow wig, and a pair of those Groucho nose glasses.
People found her extremely amusing. Especially when she’d fall down.
Until they realized she’d broken her neck and died.