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.
Category: My stories
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.)
Kill Hitler
Let’s go back in time and kill Hitler.
I have a gun.
You have a time machine.
There’s nothing on TV.
And it’s raining. We can’t go out and play.
Unless.
Is the time machine fully charged?
Good. I’ve got bullets for the gun.
Dad left them in the drawer with the gun.
So, we can go back to Germany and kill Hitler.
What?
It’s just a time machine?
It doesn’t travel?
Then we can’t get to Germany to kill Hitler.
Besides, the rain’s stopping. And the worms are coming out of the grass.
We’ll kill them instead.
Stomp! Stomp!
Germophobe
Every flight’s got some kooky, obsessive germophobe who wipes their seat down with antiseptic spray, and then lays a towel on the seat before they sit down.
They usually wear masks and gloves, and they like to bring their own beverages and snacks.
Man, they bother me.
I like to fake a sneeze or a cough in their direction, just to get them all freaked out.
However, one time, a sneeze got out of control, and I ended up vomiting on the guy.
The airline suspended me for two weeks. Pilots are supposed to say hello, not barf on passengers.
A tale of two guys
It was the best of tricks, it was the worst of tricks.
Sidney Carton could pass for Charles Darnay, and the others thought he was going to trade places with the doomed Frenchman.
Lucie would get her husband back, while Sidney would lose his head.
“Am I really going to do this?” he asked himself, facing the moment of truth.
“Hell no,” was his answer, but he said it in French with his impression of Darnay’s voice.
Then he had himself smuggled out of the prison as Darnay.
Lucie wasn’t fooled one bit. But she grew to love him anyway.