My bank told me that my credit card number was compromised, so they suspended the card and told me that they were sending another.
In the meantime, I used one of my other cards for automatic billing on my phone and other services. Then, I switched back when the replacement card finally arrived.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had a credit card number stolen. But the bank has taken care of me every time.
Then, one night, I heard a voice… it was the bank, calling my credit cards.
I’ve been compromised, and they were sending a replacement me.
Category: My stories
Red Goes Green
Back in the day, Little Red Riding Hood would walk through the woods to visit her grandmother.
But now that Little Red Riding Hood is a grandmother, do her grandchildren come and visit her?
Hardly, and they don’t call, either. Or send letters.
Maybe they send a birthday card now and then. And they say they send emails, but Red doesn’t know how use email, or the Skype or any of those things.
The Big Bad Wolf was long dead, and he didn’t have any grandkids.
Same with the Woodsman.
Red sat on the porch, smoked joints, and read books.
Illegal Seafood
Back in the early Eighties, my family went to Legal Seafood to eat.
The place was noisy, and the seats couldn’t have been more uncomfortable if Torquemada had designed them.
The waiter came, and everybody ordered lobster.
Except for me. I ordered the swordfish.
“We’re at Legal Seafood,” my mother hissed. “They’re famous for lobster here.”
I was about to reply, but my grandfather was cursing out the waiter for bringing the bill before the food.
Everybody got sick on undercooked lobster.
Except for me.
“They famous for that too, Mom?” I asked her as she dry-heaved into the sink.
The Koto
Master Watanabe makes swords. He’s been making swords for forty years.
His swords are the best swords, but he has yet to recreate the Koto, the legendary samurai sword.
There are no instructions or directions remaining. So, Watanabe experiments with every sword he makes.
He is teaching his apprentices how to make swords, so they can carry on the traditions, and his quest to recreate the Koto.
But you know what? Watanabe’s a moron.
Who the fuck needs a Koto? Who’s going around with swords these days?
What people need are knives in the kitchen and for self-defense, not swords.
Ceremony of the broken
Funerary ceremonies. There are so many.
I’ve seen my share of them.
When a magician dies, a broken wand ceremony is performed to represent that the magic is gone.
When an engineer dies, a broken slide rule ceremony is performed to represent that the math is gone.
When a chef dies, a broken spatula ceremony is performed to represent that the cooking is gone.
When a painter dies, a broken palette ceremony is performed to represent that the art is gone.
But when a politician dies, what is left to break? Promises? Commitments? The System? Those are already hopelessly broken.
Harpoons
The airlines have loosened their restrictions on what you can carry onboard, but you still need to check weapons
Yes, this includes harpoons.
Not that you can do much with a harpoon. You’ll need a clear aisle for a good harpooning, but killer whales usually strike during feeding sessions. Which is when flight attendants are out with the beverage cart, blocking your throw.
Sitting next to a rampaging killer whale? You’re probably getting crushed against the window.
God forbid you’re trapped in the middle seat between two of them. Whatever happened to the airlines making oversized passengers buy two tickets?
Big Guys
Joe Washington played football. He was one of those really big guys on the offensive line.
Too big.
As the clock ticked down to zero on the final play of the game, Joe fell to his knees and dropped to the turf.
Massive heart attack.
The players… the coaches… the fans… everybody watched as the trainers shocked him a defibrillator and did CPR, but he was gone.
Some players wish to be cremated and have their ashes scattered over their home field.
But Joe wanted to be buried there.
“Hell no,” said the ground crew. “You’ll hit an sprinkler pipe.”
Pod People
Recently, I bought one of those single cup coffee makers.
Some of the pods are good. Others are not so good.
So, I bought a few sampler boxes, and I started a notebook to track which ones I like.
First, I sip the coffee when it’s black. Then, I pour in some milk. Finally, I add some sugar.
All of this is tracked in my notebook with happyfaces and frownyfaces.
After trying every kind of coffee pod available, I looked back at my notes.
Then, I threw out the coffee maker and went back to making green tea.
Goddamned ulcers.
Ex Machina
Greek Theater introduced the concept of Deus ex Machina to the world, where a seemingly impossible task would be resolved by the contrived intervention of something newly-introduced to the plot.
On the other hand, Diabolus ex Machina is when something that is absolutely certain is thwarted by the contrived intervention of something newly-introduced.
Theater-goers hate both of these concepts because they demonstrate sloppy writing and planning by the playwright.
But the Japanese love to put both of these machines in an arena full of flamethrowers and buzzsaws and make them fight.
They also like tentacle porn, those weird Japanese freaks.
Aging Badly
Time travel machines are expensive.
So, to pay for the cost of building and maintaining a time machine, I’ve bought an abandoned mine.
In the mine, I found a cache of brandy and wine that had been left to age for a hundred years.
After I auctioned them off, I was able to build the time machine.
Then I bought the brandy and wine to send back in time.
“What about going forward in time?” said an assistant.
“Sure,” I said. And I went ahead a hundred years.
The world was a burnt-out radioactive husk.
(And the wine was spoiled.)