Category: My stories

The dumbest question people ask me is:
“Does it have to be 100 words long?”
A good host would have a nice answer for that question, but I’m not a good host.
So, I’ll respond with:
“Are you stupid or something?”
Or:
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
Which usually drives the potential participant off.
That’s okay, because I really don’t want to deal with someone who asks how many words should be in their story for a site called “The 100 Word Stories Podcast.”
Do I count the words in every story people send in?
No. Because I’m lazy.

It’s usually too warm in Houston to wear a leather jacket.
I only get to wear my jacket in December, January, and most of February.
I try to remember to empty the pockets of that jacket.
But I’m always losing something in that jacket.
Never a phone or a wallet. I’d miss those.
But a pair of sunglasses? Or a Bluetooth earpiece?
Yeah, I found both in my jacket’s pocket this year.
I thought I’d lost them.
I’d already bought a new pair of glasses. And a new Bluetooth earpiece.
At least I don’t need a new leather jacket, right?

We know about Mother Goose and her fairy tales and nursery rhymes, but what do we know of Father Goose?
Some say that he died in the war.
Others say that he drank a lot, and he drowned in the river.
But we, her kids, know the truth.
“This is your Uncle Goose,” Mother would say, as she led yet another John to her bedroom.
Sometimes, we heard her crying at night.
We’d ask if she was okay, and she’d tell stories about magical places and amazing adventures.
Just to escape for a little while.
For us. And her, too.

One if by land.
Two if by sea.
Three if by air.
Four if by elephant.
Five if by magical passage through fire.
Six if by conga line.
Seven if by elephants in the air. (Seven is three plus four, you know.)
Eight if by post.
Nine if by whiskey barrel.
Ten if by wormhole.
Eleven if by large wooden horse.
Twelve if by angel or demon.
Thirteen if by strippers in cakes.
Fourteen if by mass hypnosis.
And one gigantic fire if by tunnel dug from England, under the Atlantic Ocean, all the way to the Old North Church.

Salinger became a recluse after he wrote Catcher In The Rye, but this didn’t stop people from seeking him out.
Salinger would tell them to go away, and he’d hole up in his house for days.
After Salinger died, the executor of his estate went into Salinger’s office, opened the safe, and discovered a treasure-trove of literature:
Pitcher In The Rye!
First Baseman In The Rye!
Right Outfielder In The Rye!
But when they read the title Designated Hitter In The Rye, they tossed it all in the fireplace and burned it.
Never designate a baseball purist as your executor.

Why did the Scooby Doo Gang name their van The Mystery Machine?
Because how it kept running was a mystery.
It didn’t need gas. Or oil changes.
And they certainly didn’t ever look under the hood.
Because if they did, they’d see nothing in there.
No engine at all. Just an empty space.
Fred knew this, because it was his van.
And when the van would stop running, he’d look under the hood and pretend to try to fix it.
Because there was nothing to fix.
Just wait for the Globetrotters or Batman to drive by and offer a lift.

I go to the dentist four times a year.
My insurance plan covers only two routine cleanings a year, but I have significant bone loss in my lower jaw, and the additional cleanings and work are the difference between keeping those teeth and losing this battle in my gum line.
The procedures are painful and messy, but the assistant has long, silky black hair, and some of it brushes against my face. I can hear the scrape scrape scrape of a metal pick on my teeth, the whine of the polisher, but all I feel is that whisp of hair.

The God of Earth does not fuck around with Hallmark Cards.
When the God of Earth is happy, he laughs and causes the earthquakes.
When the God of Earth is angry, he explodes lava from the volcanoes.
When the God of Earth is hungry, he opens up sinkholes and swallows whole villages.
When the God of Earth is confused, he rains down rocks in avalanches.
When the God of Earth wants to wish you a happy birthday, he usually plans a surprise party.
With earthquakes. And volcanoes. And sinkholes. And avalanches.
Oh, and clowns. Lots of clowns.
Poor, frightened clowns.

The key to business success is to deal with employee issues. Don’t just sweep them under the rug.
For instance, whenever there’s bad blood between two employees, we have a policy of acting quickly.
No, we don’t bring in HR or the managers.
We call in the janitor to mop up the bad blood.
Or, if it’s on carpet, we have them steam clean it out.
Because that’s what you do with blood, bad or good.
You don’t want it just pooling on the floor. That’s unsanitary.
And it bleeds up through the rug if you sweep it under there.

As fast as the last train to Clarksville left the station, the railroad company pulled up the rails, ripped up the ties, and collected the rocks from the rail bed.
The rocks from the rail bed were crushed and used in the cement that ended up being used in the highway to Clarksville.
The rails were reshaped into guard rails for the highway.
The ties were cut into planks for the buildings in the rest areas.
When the highway was finished, we drove to Clarksville to visit the train museum.
“Wouldn’t you rather drive to the moon?” asked Michael Nesmith.