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.
Category: My stories
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?
Pool Shark
My grandfather was a pool shark, and he tried to teach me and my brother how to play pool.
My brother listened, but he didn’t have the talent.
I had the talent, but I was too young to listen.
Only after he died did I listen, his voice in my ear, telling me to think through each shot and breathe.
I got good. Really good.
Tournament-winning good.
Then, I broke my elbow.
It just doesn’t extend correctly anymore.
My wrist and fingers won’t bridge properly either
I’ll send my cue to my niece. Hopefully, she’ll hear his voice whispering “Breathe.”
Size Matters
Every so often, I hold out my arms, turn them over, and compare them.
It’s been over six weeks since the surgery, but I haven’t yet regrown all the hair back on my left arm. There’s patches of stubble all over it, unlike the pelt on the right one.
Also, the left one has atrophied significantly, allowing the pins and plate to poke against the tight skin.
I bang my left elbow against a countertop.
Nothing. No more funnybone, anymore.
A canned laugh track, perhaps?
Then, I bang the right elbow and CRAP! THAT HURTS!
But it feels so natural.
ACHOO
ACHOO!
Thanks for thehandkerchief, man.
ACHOO!
Yeah, I’ve got allergies. Really bad allergies.
ACHOO!
No, it’s not seasonal. It’s year-round.
ACHOO!
Usually, I have Kleenex handy, but I totally forgot it.
ACHOO!
I must have left my packet in my other coat.
ACHOO!
What am I allergic to?
ACHOO!
You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
ACHOO!
Okay, you asked.
ACHOO!
I’m allergic to bullshit.
ACHOO!
Seriously, I’m allergic to bullshit.
ACHOO!
Worst thing about it is that it’s EVERYWHERE!
ACHOO!
Can’t get away from it.
ACHOO!
Oh, you don’t mind if I keep this handkerchief?
ACHOO!
Uh-huh. Right.