Category: My stories

Why do celebrities, such as Charlie Sheen, pay for everything by check?
They’re hoping that fans won’t cash the check because they want to keep the autograph.
This trick worked back in the early days, like when Salvador Dali would create wonderful artworks on his checks to prevent the recipient from cashing it, but not anymore.
People can load a banking app on their smartphone, snap photos of the check, and deposit the funds electronically into their account. All without having to surrender the physical check.
On the other hand, Whoopi Goldberg signs 100 dollar bills. She’s such a bitch.

To make my treadmill walks interesting, I’ve created a virtual route with Google Earth.
Every mile I walk on my treadmill, I move a mile on the virtual route.
The problem is, Google Earth synced my viewer to Antarctica.
That’s why I’m on the treadmill with snowshoes and layers of fur coats.
And saying hello to the hordes of penguins I clomp past.
I know it looks absurd, walking on a treadmill with fur coats and snowshoes.
The other people at the gym call me crazy.
But at long as I’m sweating off the pounds like gangbusters, I’ll keep going.

Some companies have dog-friendly policies that allow their employees to bring their dogs into work.
I work for a dog toy manufacturer called Wondertoy.
But we have a strict NO DOGS policy.
We don’t even use dogs to playtest the toys. We just dress up employees in dog suits.
Any real dogs caught on grounds get taken to Warehouse 4.
No dog has ever returned from Warehouse 4.
Perhaps they’re having a party in there?
A party with all the toys.
Help me zip up my dog suit.
I want to find out for myself.
Woof. Woof Woof.
Let’s go.

It has been over four years since I last played the oboe in public.
This weekend, I will perform again.
I’m nervous, but my teacher tells me not to worry.
“When was the last time that an angry mob rose up and shouted LYNCH THE OBOEIST! while brandishing pitchforks and torches? They only do that angry mob thing to mad scientists and witches.”
When was the last time?
Four years ago. In a town far, far away.
I had a different name. A different face.
And a different oboe.
But just in case, I’ll keep my bags packed and ready.

The only photograph of Frederic Chopin shows him scowling.
What did his smile look like?
Did he ever cry? Or laugh?
Then, another photograph was discovered.
He was scowling in that, too.
And old. Both photographs were of him old and scowling.
Was he ever young? And happy? And hopeful?
I hunted far and wide for more photographs of Chopin.
After six years, I found a stash of them in an attic in Paris.
And they were thoroughly revolving.
Whores, donkeys, midgets, and various foodstuffs.
Surrounding an gleeful Frederic Chopin, wrapped in spiked leathers.
I burned the photos, and scowled.

Tony owns a sword.
So does his younger brother Todd.
Tony’s sword is better. It’s sharper, lighter, and stronger.
Is Tony the better swordsman because he has the better sword?
No. Because Todd made the sword for Tony.
To make up for Tony’s weaker swords skills.
Every time Todd makes a better sword, he gives it to Tony, and he takes the hand-me-down sword.
He’s also trying to teach Tony how to fight better.
But Tony’s too proud to be taught by his younger brother.
And Todd doesn’t want to teach him too much.
In case they ever must fight.

I listen to podcasts while I walk on the treadmill.
I like interviews the best, because the good interviewers ask the questions you want to ask, and the best guests open the conversation up to the audience, telling their story and leading you through their life, their thought processes.
I can lose myself for a while in the interview, and the walking becomes automatic. I don’t pay attention to my breathing, my sweating, my pain.
When the interview is done, I look down at the display panel.
One hour. Two miles. Two hundred calories burned.
I press STOP, and relax.

Olive Oyl watched Popeye and Bluto fight all the time, and she was sick of it.
Over and over, she was tossed and thrown around like a piece of meat.
“Whoever brings me the corpse of the other wins,” she said.
Bluto took no time in picking up a bar stool and slamming Popeye in the head.
Popeye reached for his can of spinach, but Bluto knocked it away.
Then Popeye realized… if he could crush cans open, he could crush Bluto’s nutsack.
Bluto screamed in agony.
Popeye punched out Bluto’s heart, and showed it to him before he died.

Aunt Weirdie is coming.
If it is sunny, we will look for grasshoppers, filling the grasshopper bottle.
If it is rainy, we will gather worms into a dirt bucket.
If it is windy, we will fly kites with beautiful tails.
If it is cold, we will wrap in a blanket to stay warm.
If it is hot, we will jump naked in the lake.
And if it is cloudy, Aunt Weirdie will drink, because the clouds remind her of her late husband Sherman.
“Oh Sherman!” she will moan, over and over.
And then she beats me.
I hate cloudy days.