Category: My stories

You know how there’s always one pool in the neighborhood, and everybody goes swimming there?

Back in Ohio, as the subdivision boomed and built up, there was always a dug-out basement and foundation pit that would fill up with rain and drainage.

Not the smartest thing to do, to go swimming in a pool of runoff and filth and sharp-edged wood debris.

Every impromptu ghetto pool party would produce a few casualties.

News crews would swarm the neighborhood, the sobbing… the screaming.

I don’t like to swim. I just watched the forecasts for rain, and then printed the posters.

It’s another Saturday night at Spotlight Karaoke.
The owner sings “My Way’ by Frank Sinatra five times a night, just like he does every Saturday.
He doesn’t do any other song, and nobody else does that song.
It’s his song.
A few years ago, a guy tried to sing “My Way” and the deejay told him no. The guy got up on stage and started to sing it, but they cut the microphone off.
So, the guy sang it louder.
The owner offered him a drink, and took him in the back.
Nobody’s seen him since.
And nobody asks why.

We get catered lunches at work.
They’re not chafing-dish and violin concerto affairs, mind you. They’re just restaurant entrees and sides in large serving trays in a breakroom that we get served buffet-style.
Often it’s just sandwich boxes with chips, but that beats having to go out into traffic and pick something up, or having to remember to pack something every morning.
There’s also a deli order menu for folks who don’t want the buffet.
If the deli order is large, it’s a vote of no-confidence in the caterer, and they eventually vanish off of the schedule.
Isn’t democracy grand?

I haven’t gotten a haircut in over a year.
Instead, I use a trimmer at home, and I give myself a buzzcut.
Sometimes, I’ll get out a razor and shave myself down to the skin.
Still, I feel bad for the staff at Fantastic Sam’s where I used to get my hair cut.
So, I go by there and get an appointment every few months.
“Oh, just a little off of the top,” I say, and I take off my hat.
If they just say “Done” I give them a 10 dollar tip.
If they argue, I just walk out.

Two kingdoms at war.
One stole the other’s flag.
Every flag in that kingdom was blank.
So, in retaliation, the wronged kingdom stole the other’s anthem.
Musicians just stood there, holding their instruments, and looking somewhat bewildered.
Oh, there was a war. A great war.
Lots of people died. Warriors, soldiers, spies, and civilians alike.
All because of a flag and an anthem.
Oh, and mineral rights.
Not the minerals themselves, but the mineral rights.
And drilling rights.
And religions. And cultures.
Makes you wonder what anything is, anymore. What really matters.
We watch as fields burn, and we cry.

Walt had been coughing a lot recently. The doctor said “lung cancer.”
Walt didn’t have long.
He didn’t want to leave a corpse and a stack of bills to his wife and son.
He was just a teacher. Didn’t make much.
Around the same time, the gym teacher, physics teacher, math teacher, and the janitor all got lung cancer.
The school building contained asbestos. So, they sued the school district.
They got a lot of money in the settlement.
Except for Walt. He cooked meth with a former student, and got into all kinds of shit.
Man, what a jerk.

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.