Category: My stories

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.

My son doesn’t play baseball.
Or football. Or soccer.
Or any of those sports in school.
Instead, he jousts.
We got him a horse, a suit of armor, and a lance.
And he looks fine in his armor, on his horse, holding his lance.
The problem is, there’s nobody to joust with.
And you can’t joust by yourself.
Okay, you can charge at target dummies.
Or people walking around in the mall.
Maybe your kid might be interested in jousting?
We’ve got a spare horse. And armor. And a lance.
Just sign this waiver.
In case he’s maimed. Or killed.

I am a night watchman.
I watch the night.
My job begins when the day ends.
And ends when the day begins.
The hours are good.
Really good in the Summer, when the days are longer and nights shorter.
Not so good in Winter, when the days are shorter and nights longer.
But I get time off for the holidays, which takes care of the worst of the Winter nights.
The long, cold Winter nights.
Makes it hard to watch the night, with all the snow. And cold. And holiday lights.
I am a night watchman.
I watch the night.

People say that the president has his finger on the button, but there isn’t an actual button.
Or a switch. Or throw-lever. Or keypad. Or mouse to click.
Nor is there a voice-command terminal. Or fingerprint sensor.
Or gesture-based wand, like you get with the Nintendo Wii game console.
Not in your wildest dreams would the military provide such silly interfaces for a person to cause global annihilation.
It’s a pair of Marines.
You know, the guys who carry “The Football.”
It’s is really a briefcase full of nuclear launch codes.
Which the President must French-kiss the Marines to use.