Sure, Maria sings that bright copper kettles are one of her favorite things, but she’s not the one who has to clean them.
I do. I’m the chef who works for the Von Trapp family.
I hate this job, but I’m a Jew. Captain Von Trapp says that if I don’t want to work for him, then I’m welcome to board the next train for the camps.
So, I stay. And cook. And clean those damn kettles until they’re bright and shiny.
If she and those kids don’t shut the hell up, I’m going to poison the next apple strudel.
Category: My stories
Pray For Them
Sometimes, people ask for me to pray for them.
I don’t pray.
If the invisible man in the sky needs for me to put my hands together to tell him what shit in the world needs fixing, fuck him.
He’s an idiot for not knowing, a pathetic sack of shit for not being able to do anything about it, or an asshole for not wanting to do anything about it.
And I’m certainly not going to thank him for all the blessings, either. Because whatever he doesn’t take away through death or entropy, the government takes away through taxes.
Amen.
Captain Proton
I’m sorry, but there is no Captain Proton. I just made him up.
So, you can stop shouting for help. Oh, and please turn off the Proton Signal. You’re just wasting electricity.
I mean, it’s not that we don’t need a hero to save us every now and then, but for a while, we were doing okay when there was just the idea of one, right?
People treated each other nicer. Arch-criminals laid off the worst capers.
Things were going good.
Until people actually wanted Captain Proton to show up.
Now, things are worse than before.
Try to explain that.
Ted’s Toilet
My Uncle Ted invented a time-traveling toilet.
Shit makes it go forward in time, and piss makes it go back.
“Just sit down, do your business, and flush,” said Uncle Ted. “The plumbing takes care of the rest.”
“What if you do both?” I asked.
Uncle Ted smirked. “I’m not sure. Either the toilet will work out the math, or you’ll be ripped apart by a paradox wave.”
The next weekend, my girlfriend got sick on Jager-bombs and threw up in the toilet.
I haven’t seen her since.
Which really sucks, because it was her month to pay the rent.
The Lights
Jack told Jill about the strange lights in the sky.
“They were just beyond that hill,” he said, pointing West. “I think they were flying saucers. Want to go with me and find out?”
Jill got a flashlight. “Hell yeah!”
Two days later, Jack and Jill were found along Highway 12 by a retired carpenter. They were both sunburned and babbling nonsense.
Jill held a pail of water. “These are the tears of the Star Master!” she shrieked.
Government agents sealed off the area.
Jack eventually recovered, but nobody’s seen Jill since the incident.
If you see lights, ignore them.
The Shinbone
I know a man who had his leg amputated because of bone cancer.
The shinbone was a wreck from all the awful chemotherapy, but the other bone… the fibia? Fibula?
Whatever you call it, it was just fine.
So he had it hollowed out and he made it into a flute.
On the Fourth Of July, he’d be at the head of the parade, hopping down the street and playing his bone-flute for the whole town to hear.
The town couldn’t help but stare at the guy.
And they booed. A lot.
Because he was a really lousy flute player.
Rainstorm Roulette
I pull out my phone, check the weather map, and hit the Play button.
A band of green, orange, and yellow sneaks in from a corner of the screen, moving rapidly towards the center.
Checking the time, I do make a rough guess as to when the rainstorm will pass through.
Twenty or thirty minutes.
It will take me thirty minutes to get home from here.
Perfect.
I pay for my coffee, grab my backpack, and head for the sidewalk.
Will I make it home before the rain hits?
I don’t know.
But then, that’s what makes Rainstorm Roulette fun.
Companion
Myst has lost a lot in her little life.
She lost her cat family when we took her away from them.
She lost Nardo when he died.
And Bruwyn when he never came home again.
Our hope was to get her a kitten that she’d bond with and make a companion.
That way, she’d have a cat to clean her ears, chase around to play with, and not be alone while my wife and I are at work.
Tinnie the kitten is supposed to be that companion.
Oh, she loves us. But she and Myst hiss at each other.
Shit.
The Actor
A famous actor died last night.
I said famous, not good. He really wasn’t that good, but nobody’s saying that.
Out of respect for the dead, they say.
Because the dead deserve more respect that the truth.
Okay, I will admit that it’s a tragedy, because he left some big shoes to fill.
Oh, they’ll get filled. Certainly by a better actor. It won’t be hard at all, really.
A better actor will move up the ladder, on and on, until some Hollywood waiter gets an opportunity to follow his dream.
There’s the tragedy: service here is slow enough already.
The Orphan
My father died two years before I was born. And my mother died soon after.
So, how was I born?
My mother’s sister got everything in the house, the cars, and the embryos in the fertility center’s cryogenic vault.
At first, she wanted to get rid of the embryos. But she had a dream in which her sister told her to carry one to term.
And that’s how I was born an orphan.
I turned out alright, but I don’t recommend it.
Still, I’d like to see my brothers and sisters.
I’ll pay you fifty thousand for each one.
Deal?