The man in the white wig and blue glasses was famous.
But not for being an ungrateful monster.
No, the city loved him. For all the wonderful things he did for people.
Except for his cameraman and producer, who he depended on for everything.
When the famous man died, the television station got rid of the producer, but they couldn’t shake the old cameraman.
This was all he truly cared for.
He shot whatever needed shooting. Edited anything needed editing.
They wore him out. He had one knee replaced. Then the other.
But they never brought him to his knees.
Category: My stories
Time Melts Like Ice Cream
Time melts like ice cream.
Dripping all over.
What flavor is your time?
Strawberry?
Chocolate?
Vanilla?
Is your time in a dish? A waffle-cone?
Or one of those lame, bland sugar-cones?
Do you roll your time in sprinkles?
Some call them Jimmies.
Who’s Jimmy? Did he invent these, or did he roll himself in sprinkles?
Is your time real ice cream?
Or that soft-serve crap at Dairy Queen?
Soft-serve crap they dip in the chocolate that hardens.
Or roll in nuts.
If they’re really good, they can do both.
But that’s soft-serve crap.
Not time.
That melts.
Like ice cream.
Voices in Jeopardy
When the angry voices in his head came back, Harry checked himself into the hospital.
The doctors tried a variety of medicines, but they made the voices angry.
So, the doctors took Harry to an amusement park. And the voices had a good time.
Then, they had Harry try out for Jeopardy as a contestant. The voices helped him with the answers, and he won match after match.
Harry should have become rich on the winnings, but the show found out about the voices and claimed he was cheating.
Harry checked himself into the hospital, soaked in Alex Trebek’s blood.
Play With Fire
Other kids played with action figures and board games.
I played with fire.
Fire was fun and cheap. And it was so much more fun than action figures and board games.
And it was great for ending arguments.
Paper beats rock, rock beats scissors, scissors beat paper, and fire beats them all.
Water beats fire?
No! Fire boils water and turns it to steam. Fire beats water.
I’ve heard people say that children shouldn’t play with fire, but fire has no warning labels on it.
That must mean that fire is safe for all ages, right?
Here’s some fire… enjoy!
Wallet
I remember my first wallet. It was more of a change purse with a single zippered compartment, and a velcro flap over some key hooks.
Over the years, I got real wallets of black leather, three folds, and slots for cards.
Now, I keep my phone, cash, and cards all in a phone wallet. And I choose carefully only the cards I need to keep with me. No room for them all.
The movie theater loyalty card, museum membership, and Starbucks are all apps on my phone. Dozens more in there.
God forbid I leave the stupid thing somewhere, right?
Combover
My neighbor Ed is a middle school gym teacher.
He’s got the worst comb-over of anyone I know.
And it’s not just his hair.
His lawn’s mostly brown patches, and he’s raked the few remaining green blades of grass over them.
His carpet’s stained and worn, and he’s tried to push the clean shag pile over the worst spots.
His Afghan Hound has a patchy pelt from worms and mange, but he’s pushed the fur around to cover the bare spots.
And when he has me over for dinner, it’s spaghetti.
Just a few strands draped over a huge meatball.
Musical Cats
Most people’s pets like music.
For instance, my cat loves opera music.
However, she’s no longer satisfied with opera on the radio. Or on DVD or CD.
It has to be a live performance now.
At first, I had to smuggle her into the opera house. And I had to pay for one of those private boxes, because someone might have seen her in my backpack in a floor seat.
Then, an usher caught me, but he saw how much she loves opera now.
Ballet, on the other hand, is a no-no, after she attacked The Mouse King in Nutcracker.
Peaches
Peaches. Peaches.
Fucking peaches.
Motherfucking peaches.
Mother-fucking peaches.
Goddamned motherfucking peaches.
Goddamned, piece of shit, motherfucking peaches.
Goddamned, piece of shit, mother-fucking peaches.
Fucking peaches.
Mother-fucking peaches.
Goddamned, worthless, piece of shit, motherfucking peaches.
Goddamned, worthless, piece of shit, cocksucking motherfucking peaches.
Peaches. Peaches.
Fucking peaches.
Motherfucking peaches.
Mother-fucking peaches.
Shove them up your ass.
Shove them all up your ass.
All the goddamned, worthless, piece of shit, cocksucking motherfucking peaches.
Just shut the fuck up.
And take your
Goddamned, worthless, piece of shit, cocksucking motherfucking peaches
With you
Up your ass.
Up motherfucking ass.
Shoved up your motherfucking ass.
Tires
For my wife’s birthday, we bought her a new truck.
She gave me her old truck to drive, but it needs new tires.
For the past two weeks, instead of helping me get new tires, she’s been watching football.
Fuck it. I’ll go myself.
And when I went out to the parking lot, her new truck was up on blocks.
Someone had stolen her wheels.
Instead of going to get new tires for my truck, she needs to get new tires AND wheels for her truck.
And while she waits for the insurance to process her claim… she’s watching football.
My Baby
I used to call Piper my little baby. My little burble baby, because she sang.
And when she died, I screamed that my baby was gone.
I found Bruwyn in the bushes. In the rain. In the dark.
He was solid black, so I called him a baby panther.
Myst arrived a few months later. She was Baby to me. The baby baby panther.
Bruwyn never came home, so she was the baby panther. The only one.
Tinny? Even smaller than Myst. But I call her kitten, not Baby.
I should just call them all Cat. Less confusing for all.