Category: My stories

The girl in “It’s A Wonderful Life” didn’t quite get it right.
Every time a bell rings, an angel grows another pair of wings.
Nowadays, angels are covered with wings, all over their thrashing and writhing bodies.
And they’re always sprouting more wings, faster than they can rip them off.
Bloody, screaming angels, tearing wings off of their backs, their arms, their legs, their faces…
Heaven is like a David Cronenberg horror film, with bright puffy clouds.
No wonder why angels don’t interfere in human affairs anymore.
Devils just have to deal with hellfire.
They have it so much better.

Three days after the big ice storm, Old Man Thompson didn’t come in to Dot’s Diner for his usual Thursday Special.

The sheriff found him sitting on his tractor, hands frozen to the wheel. Why he was on it when it was too early to plant, nobody knows.

“Can he still be Santa for the kids?” asked Miss Blake, the kindergarten teacher. “Just dress and pose him for a little bit?”

She wasn’t very bright.

The sheriff took Old Man Thompson’s place. A kid asked to see his gun, it went off, and the town had two funerals for Christmas.

As the holidays approach, some parents use an Elf On The Shelf doll to convince their gullible, naughty kids to behave themselves.
Christmas comes and goes, the kids unwrap their presents, and the elf goes back in his box until the holidays come around again.
During this time, who watches the elf? What keeps the elf from misbehaving and causing trouble?
Chicken wire and duct tape usually do the trick.
I know one family that sticks the elf in a Tupperware, fills it with water, and freezes him. Just to be safe.
They don’t get invited to many parties.

Edna loved to bake gingerbread men every year.
But one year, she rolled out the dough, cut out the gingerbread men, and decided that she’d rather make a fancy winter scene.
So, she mashed all but one of the men back into a dough ball, rolled it out, and sliced out some walls, a roof, and a chimney.
She baked all the pieces, built a house, glues it together with frosting, decorated it with gumdrops and candy canes, and set the gingerbread man in front.
The gingerbread man trembled with fear, haunted by the tormented souls of his unborn brothers.

For Christmas, my daughter says that all she wants is justice.
The man that raped her.
The cops who didn’t believe her story.
The lab technicians who contaminated her rape kit.
Her lawyer, who botched the case. And the prosecutor who called her a whore.
The jury… the whole jury.
And the judge who let this circus happen under his watch.
The reporters, damned vultures. The silent witnesses.
“Will revenge do?” I ask her, as I press the button.
A flash of light. The searing wind. The tell-tale mushroom cloud.
Never fuck with the daughter of a nuclear weapons technician.

Every week, the church tries a different theme.
One week, it was a pirate theme. Everyone came to church on Sunday dressed as a pirate.
Or a parrot. Or a bar wench.
The church did a space theme. A medieval theme.
The sermons strayed from the religious to the secular.
And then, music. A deejay spinning tunes.
From week to week, the church turned into nothing more than a costume party.
Two drink minimum, the weddings rocked, the funerals rocked.
And then, one day, it was gone.
Vanished without a trace.
Now, on Sunday, I watch football, or sleep late.

The holiday season brings holiday parties, which brings holiday party invites.
You can’t say “bring your husband or wife” because that assumes a marital relationship.
You can’t say “bring your significant other” because who is to decide who is significant or not?
You can’t say “plus one” because you may have more than one in your life that you consider a plus, and it’s unfair to have to decide who among them is the plusiest.
After the community activist consulting fees and legal costs, all that’s left in the budget for the party is…
Fuck it. Here’s a fruit cake.