I wanted to be a dancer, but I couldn’t dance.
Instead, I was a choreographer. I made the dances that the dancers danced.
Then, I was a costumer. I made the costumes that costumed the dancers as they danced my dances.
For a while, I was a producer, producing the productions in which the dancers danced my dances while costumed in my costumes.
Was this enough?
No.
I directed.
I composed.
I designed.
I even catered the opening nights.
But all the while, I wanted to be a dancer.
Oh well. At least I got to fuck them all, right?
Category: My stories
Seasons
We named our four daughters Summer, Fall, Winter, and Spring.
Winter was born with a heart problem. She didn’t make it.
Fall was allergic to a lot of things. We were really careful. But one day, Summer put peanut butter in her hair, and she died from shock.
We didn’t know how to punish Summer for that. Summer tried to run away. She was hit by a car.
Despite all the tragedy she had growing up, Spring turned out fine.
But every so often, on rainy days, I see her staring out the window, and I wonder what she’s thinking.
Nathan
When it comes to hot dogs, I’m a Chicago-style hot dog kind of guy.
New York-style is vile. Ketchup has no business being on a hot dog.
Furthermore, when you look past the toppings, New York hot dogs themselves are vastly inferior to the Chicago dogs.
Just look at Nathan’s Famous.
Their Coney Island location has held their hot dog eating contest every July Fourth, and contestants gobble up their bland hot dogs by the ton.
Flavorless mush in cheap casings and buns… just like the crap they serve every other day.
Not worth slowing down to taste the things.
Won’t Get Fooled Again
Pete Townsend may have written Won’t Get Fooled Again, but for all his bluster, Pete was really easy to fool.
The rest of the band was always fooling Pete, smashing up their hotel rooms and then switching the numbers around when Pete went to get more ice. Then they’d smash up his room too.
Keith Moon managed to stick Pete with his bar tabs, and then he bought a car with the money he saved.
The one that he ran himself over with.
The bass player? What’s his name?
Exactly.
When Roger Daltrey dies, Pete will get the last laugh.
Braintree
The origin of the name of the city of Braintree is lost in time, but historians believe that it comes from “Branoc’s Tree.”
Branoc was a farmer who lived in a massive treehouse, so massive that his whole family and all of his cousins and neighbors lived in it, too.
In the center of this massive tree was a glowing, pulsating brain, which acted as mayor, judge, and object of worship.
Wait… did you mean Braintree in England or in Massachusetts?
Massachusetts? Shit.
Those jerks just stole the name from those freaks up in the tree.
Stupid thieving colonist bastards.
Hobson
Long ago, a stable owner named Hobson insisted that customers take the horse closest to the stable door so his best horses wouldn’t get worn out.
Some customers protested, but in the end, horses are horses, right?
If a horse caused problems, he sold it or slaughtered it for meat.
Things went well for many years, until he decided to sell the stable and retire.
For the rest of his life, Hobson spent his time whoring it up at the local brothel.
Whenever Hobson came by, they lined up by the door.
And he fucked whatever whore he wanted to.
Foster’s Nurse
“Foster isn’t feeling very well” is one of the phrases that the Nursebot is programmed to use.
“Foster is unavailable at the moment” is another.
The Nursebot uses those a lot when people call to check on Foster.
One phrase that the Nursebot does not have available is “Foster doesn’t want to talk to you, so he bought a Nursebot to make people like you think that he’s sick.”
Or “Foster slipped and broke his neck in the shower this morning.”
Foster’s body is covering the drain in the shower. The water is overflowing.
And the Nursebot just watches… waiting…
Smuggle
I like to shoplift.
No, I’m not poor. I can afford this stuff easily.
I shoplift for sport. For the thrill. For the challenge.
The problem is, it takes bigger and tougher challenges to get that same thrill.
Once, I’d be on cloud nine after smuggling a candy bar or a nudie magazine out of a convenience store.
Now, I’ve got that shoplifting jones on my back five seconds after I pull the three Weber charcoal grills out of my pants.
It’s not grand theft auto if I smuggle a car out of the dealership in my pants, is it?
Shoulder Kitten
I have a kitten lying on my shoulder.
She is purring and happy, a tangle of fur and paws.
I can kiss her on the ears and nose.
She stretches and yawns, and then sprawls and rolls into a new position.
She’s asleep again, snug and safe against my shoulder.
I hope she does this every day, but one day she’s going to be a full-sized cat.
Will I want her on my shoulder then?
She wakes up and grooms.
Her tongue rasps against my arm hair.
Then, I sneeze.
The kitten is spooked, and she leaps away.
Sorry, Kitty.
Billy Billy
Billy’s last name is Billy.
Call him Billy Billy.
But don’t be surprised if he tells you that you have his name backwards.
“Yllib Yllib?” you ask.
He likes that joke. But don’t push it.
We don’t want to freak Billy out, because he knows where his father buried all the money.
We tried to beat the answer out of his father. Didn’t work.
Then we threatened to beat Billy with him watching.
That almost worked. Except that when we asked Billy where the money was, he knew.
We’ll dig up the money.
And bury Billy with his daddy there.