Dave is a total fuckup. No matter what you hand him, he fucks it up.
And then, after he fucks up, he finds ways to make other people deal with it.
Sometimes, he leaves his fuckups on the doorstep. Then he rings the doorbell and runs like hell.
Other times, he dumps his fuckups in a neighbor’s trashcan. That way, he won’t be fined if the fuckup has a car battery or some other hazardous material in it.
He’s so good at getting rid of fuckups, we tried to put him in charge of it.
Yup. He fucked that up.
Category: My stories
Starring: You
If you like offbeat theater, then Ambrose Phillip Glossky’s “The Funeral” at The Don Travis Orpheum on Main Street is the show for you.
It’s a one man show, starring you. In a casket. The audience is the cast, coming to your funeral.
Don’t get up for a bathroom break, though. The cast might shout ZOMBIE! and shoot you in the face with a shotgun.
It’s the hottest ticket in town. Literally. The ticket is made of Tungsten, and the blacksmith in the box office super-heats it to a mind-boggling two thousand degrees.
On second thought, let’s go see Wicked.
The Itsy Bitsy Disaster
The itsy-bitsy spider went up the waterspout.
Down came the rain, and washed the spider out.
The rain washed out the bridge to the mainland, too.
National Guardsmen quickly evacuated residents with boats.
But the rain kept coming, and they used helicopters to pull people off of their roofs.
When the rain stopped, it took a while for the water level to drop.
A few houses had caught fire because of gas leaks.
Locals were allowed to return to salvage anything they could.
One guy clutched his chest and dropped dead.
Heart attack? No. It was a poisonous spider bite.
Cat routine
Even though I wake up early and have plenty of time to get ready in the morning, I find myself frittering and wasting time until I have to rush out the door.
So I prepared a routine and wrote it up on a dry-eraseboard tacked to the refrigerator. And every evening, I lay out everything I need tomorrow: vitamins, fiber chews, clothes, coffee pod and cup, and so on.
And it still doesn’t work. Because one of our cats usually sleeps on the clothes pile, and I end up playing with the cat instead of getting my morning routine started.
Dedication
There’s a lot of people I should thank for my stories. And there’s a lot of people who expect to be thanked for them, too.
I must admit that some of those people who expect to be thanked have been invaluable in inspiring my stories.
Especially the horror stories. Because they were total fucking assholes.
So, when I published my first book, I put a line on the dedication page with “sign your name here” under it
The good people can sign their name there. The bad people can sign their name there, too.
I’ll just write more stories, okay?
Designer
Ted wasn’t just a designer. He was a famous and successful designer.
Ted’s doorstops were the best doorstops available. They performed great and looked great.
Same with his potholders. And his toilet brushes. And countless other helpful accessories.
They were best-selling products.
When he was called the best designer in the world, his closest rival called bullshit.
And he designed the perfect door, which didn’t need a doorstop. A pot that no longer needed a potholder. Self-cleaning toilets.
Every one of Ted’s designs were now useless.
Manufacturers ignored the rival. Because they could sell the crap products AND Ted’s junk.
Harryhausen
The Find A Grave site has no information about the legendary animator Ray Harryhausen.
Why the mystery?
Well, when Ray died, his colleagues wanted to pull out his bones and replace then with a poseable metal armature. That way, they could create stop-motion puppetry animation with him.
That’s disgusting, I know. And terribly inefficient in this age of computer-generated special effects. They could just create a digital Ray Harryhausen.
But you just don’t get the same impact with CGI as you do with a practical puppet. It isn’t too real. It’s fantasy.
The cops arresting them for grave-robbing?
Too real.
Worse Than Hell
Sally and Bob had hit a rough patch.
Sally told Bob to go to Hell.
Bob told Sally that being with her was worse than Hell.
Which was true.
Sally’s parents were pitchfork-carrying demons. And instead of a lawn, the house was in the middle of a lake of fire.
You could say that the air was filled with the wails of the damned, but it was just a Justin Bieber album that got stuck in the player.
But you don’t tell a chick that being with her is worse than Hell.
She killed him.
And he went somewhere better.
Taggart’s Grill
Taggart’s Grill has the usual.
Burgers. Fries. Slaw.
Every now and then, Taggart fries up whatever he’s run over with his truck.
Sometimes, it’s possum. Other times, it’s snake.
He’s hit a deer once. That was real good.
When it flooded, Taggart ran over a school of fish that was swimming from one side of the road to the other.
I think he got a net and snagged up the fish, though.
Running over fish doesn’t leave much to fry up.
Taggart accidentally backed over his dog the other day.
I had a burger, slaw, and fries.
Just in case.
Don
As he neared the age of fifty, Don Quixote grew weary of endless adventure and battles.
“Go home to your island,” he told his companion Sancho.
Quixote rode his horse Rocinante one last time down the main road, and settled into the old Quijano Estate.
“Please, come back,” wrote his beloved Dulcinea.
But he never did.
Quixtoe hung up his lance, hammered the helmet of The Knight Of The White Moon into a shaving basin, and quietly read books.
“Fight us!” hissed the giants on the hills.
But they were long since dead, and their skeletons turned in the breeze.