Whenever I see that a restaurant sells potato skins as an appetizer, I look for mashed potatoes on the menu.
Because there is nothing more cruel than to flay the skin off of a potato and then cast the naked potato out into the cold, shivering and frightened.
At least they are not alone in their suffering, since one cannot just have a single potato’s skin.
Huddled together in the alley behind the restaurant… how cruel!
Better to throw them into a bowl and mash them up to end their suffering. The poor potatoes in the alley envy the mashed.
Category: My stories
Thanklessgiving
When I hear the phrase “heavy with child” I imagine a large burlap sack stuffed full of babies.
Juicy, delicious fat babies.
So… so tasty!
Sadly, Old Doctor Parker doesn’t go door to door anymore with his burlap sack. His heavy, squirming burlap sack.
For a while, though, you could call his office, and he’d let you in the back door, and you could pick out the one you wanted.
But the angry mob, waving their torches and pitchforks, made quick work of Old Doctor Parker and his shady “day care center.”
We’ll settle for turkey this Thanksgiving, I guess.
Fail
Every time I watch baseball games, I like to see the look of joy on the faces of kids who catch foul balls.
Or some adult catches the ball, but they hand it to a kid.
A foul ball. A ball hit out of play.
A failure.
And yet, a kid out in the stand gets so such joy out of it.
That’s way, way different from you laughing at my latest fuckup at work, kid.
That’s a mistake.
Me, I don’t laugh at others mistakes.
I learn from them.
Like, who to fire next.
Pack up your shit and go.
Message
Staples in my skin.
All over my body.
I am on a towel, on a table.
You pull them out.
Slowly, with pliers.
Dipped in the alcohol.
Slowly, you pull them out.
My eyes, closed.
They’re everywhere
How did this happen, you ask.
When did this happen?
You pull them out.
Hold the cloth to the spot.
Stop the bead of blood.
They’re scabbed over, grown over
Dig gently. Pull them out.
Slowly.
You hum a soft tune.
I feel nothing.
Did you drug me?
Or is it just the tune?
Staples.
They spelled a message.
That I cannot read.
Ring
“No,” she said.
He reached across the table for her hand and tried to slide the ring on.
She pulled her hand out of his.
“No,” she said again.
They sat for a while. Neither touched their wine or spaghetti.
People at other tables tried not to stare, but they did.
She was the first to leave.
He waited a bit before he got up and left.
“No charge,” whispered the maitre’d.
He nodded, and got into his car.
“They bought it?” she asked.
He nodded, grinning.
“Good. Now give me my ring back. And don’t forget your wallet again.”
State Fair
I’ve been to the State Fair here in my state a dozen times, but I’ve never been to any other state fair.
So, I went to every state fair in the country.
If you ignore the signs with the state’s name on them, it’s all the same crap:
Carnival rides.
Clowns and midway games.
Music and dancing.
Farmers and the stuff they grow.
Oh, there’s a few exceptions. Alaska is kinda cold, Texas was huge and loud and obnoxious, and in Hawaii they have a volcano sacrifice.
Or is that the penalty for me trying to rob the ticket office?
Alternate dimension
After feeling alienated and out of place for several years, I realized that I must have ended up in an alternate dimension.
The most important thing to do in an alternate dimension is try to avoid meeting yourself.
No good can come from that.
Or, if you do meet yourself, meet them for lunch somewhere and have them pick up the tab.
You’re the guest to their dimension, after all.
Unless, of course, you have a habit of leaving your guest with the check.
Then, be sure to excuse yourself and escape out the bathroom window.
Before they do it.
Paleface
Tonto sick of getting shot at.
This time, Tonto hire crazy paleface to put on white hat and ride white horse to draw fire from Tonto.
Hiring Mexican to wear black and ride black horse was mistake, even if Mexican work cheap and use sword.
He go back to Mexico, call himself Zorro now.
Do he once thank Tonto? Hell no.
Tonto sick of getting shot at.
Tonto just want to make enough to go East and write poetry. Maybe wear black beret instead of dead animal on head.
For now, just follow crazy paleface.
From behind. Far, far behind.
Nothing personal
When the villagers put me in a cage and told me that they were going to shoot me in the heart with a silver bullet, they told me that it’s nothing personal.
But that’s because they don’t consider me a person anymore.
Gone is Moishe the Blacksmith.
Now, I’m just a snarling, throat-ripping monster to them.
Did I not keep my hunting to vermin and thieves?
Not once did I touch a honest villager!
When the Tsar sent his Cossacks, did I not kill all the soldiers barehanded?
Besides, I made this cage. And the lock.
And the spare key.
My only sunshine
“You are my sunshine,” sang Carlos to The Sun. “My only sunshine.”
But The Sun knew better.
This morning, as she rose with the dawn, she saw how sad Carlos was after the stars had all vanished one by one when the night was over.
This time, she’d caught him whispering: “Goodbye, my loves!”
Stars are nothing more than far-distant suns.
Suns. Just like her.
Carlos’ only sunshine?
Bullshit.
The Sun vomited with molten fury, spitting a massive flare at Carlos.
It incinerated him and the entire planet he’d been standing on.
“Who’s your sunshine now, bitch?” thought The Sun.