Category: My stories

I’ve written my number on every bathroom stall that I’ve ever used, nobody has ever called me.
I guess nobody wants a good time anymore.
So, I started writing “For A Bad Time” next to my number.
Still no takers. I guess people already have a bad enough time as it is, so why bother calling me for one?
I stopped writing my number on bathroom stalls. Disconnected the phone line completely.
I don’t even have a cell phone. I guess I got sick of all those telemarketers calling all the time.
Peace and quiet. Now that’s a good time.

I can’t keep all the style guide rules in my head.
I fuck something up in every doc.
More than once.
When I get it to the front of my mental stack.
Something else slides back out.
I feel stupid. And weak. And old. And tired.
It’s time to put the training wheels back on.
It’s time to write up a checklist with everything I fuck up.
And then work through the checklist with every sentence.
Like a goddamned child. Like a goddamned retard.
And when I can write without the checklist.
I can take the training wheels off again.

The sooner that the United States is out of the World Cup, the better.
Because anybody who gives a rat’s ass about the World Cup after the United States is out isn’t an American.
They may have been born here or have citizenship papers, but the odds are that they’re some dirty foreigner because no true American gives a fuck about the World Cup.
Football is football, dammit, not soccer.
See that McDonalds over there? The one that has those World Cup tear-off game pieces?
They might as well be a dirty run-down bogeda.
I’ll be at the Taco Bell.

Two gigantic ribeye steaks.
Half price.
I bought them and brought them home.
But every evening, it rained.
Couldn’t grill them.
Until tonight.
Perfect low sun evening.
Not a cloud in the sky.
Rubbed the steaks with seasoning.
Smeared on the olive oil.
Scraped off the grill.
Loaded up the coals.
Sprayed on the lighter fluid.
And tossed on a match.
The coals went white in ten minutes.
That’s when I felt the droplets.
Shit.
It was a sunshower.
I got the steaks on.
Put on the lid.
Hissing droplets hit the top of the grill.
I won’t be denied.

One of the fondest memories I have of Marvin Zindler was when he was in the newsroom and his cell phone rang.
He couldn’t hear the ringer, but everybody else could.
“Answer your phone, Marvin,” said a coworker.
“What?” asked Marvin.
“ANSWER YOUR PHONE, MARVIN!” yelled the coworker.
Marvin checked every one of his white suit’s pockets, found the phone, and answered it. “HELLO?”
Here’s what I never understood: How the shit he could hear the person talking on the phone, and not the ringer?
I think he was fucking with us. Which was very Marvin. He was an asshole.

Why is it so hard to get all of your ducks in a row?
Because ducks naturally prefer columns. When ducks line up to cross the road, it’s in a column, not a row.
Problem is, a column takes longer to cross the road. Ducks crossing as a row all reach the other side at the same time.
But then, a column of ducks offers a lesser profile, and are harder for you or your car’s radar system to see. So, if one gets hit, they all get hit.
When it comes to rows and columns, I don’t get ducks.

Jimmy cracked corn, but I didn’t care.
Jimmy cracked corn, but I didn’t care.
Then Jimmy cracked a nasty joke at the mayor’s wife. I didn’t vote for the guy. So, I didn’t care.
Then Jimmy cracked the bank’s safe, but it wasn’t my bank, so I didn’t care.
Then Jimmy cracked a tooth while chewing ice. I’m not his dentist, so I didn’t care.
Then Jimmy cracked the nuclear launch codes. Almost started World War Three.
So, I cracked Jimmy over the head with a shovel.
His body’s in the crawlspace.
Now, I care. Because he’s beginning to stink.

I don’t travel much, but I do have to travel occasionally for my job.
So, I use the opportunity to get rid of anything that’s worn out or needs replacing.
I buy new shoes, or a new toothbrush. That kind of thing.
And if something worn out and needs to be pitched at the end of the trip, I just leave it in the trash bin in the hotel room or in the trash at the airport.
Well, not everything. Guns and knives, for instance.
But when I get out of jail, I’ll get a new toothbrush and new shoes.

The Waltons always ended with the family wishing each other good night.
But you never saw them waking up after partying hard the night before with a bad batch of moonshine.
“Who the fuck broke the coffee pot?”
“The goddamned toilet’s backed up!”
“What the hell are you doing in bed with your sister?”
You’d think they’d explore the dark side of country living to scare people out of moving out of television reception range, but back then the networks had standards.
These days, they’d never say goodnight. It would end with a shooting or an orgy.
Good night, standards!