Most school kids participate in spelling bees.
My school? It had a spelling hornet. It was much nastier than a spelling bee.
But the private school in the area was even worse. They had a spelling wasp. Some kids ended up in the hospital after that.
All throughout the county, kids had angry red welts on their skin. Allergy medication was scarce, and the schoolyard drug dealers pushed epipens instead of ex or weed.
The state board of education intervened, and standardized all schools on spelling spiders.
Why spiders? Well, why bees? Charlotte was a spider, not a bee, right?
Category: My stories
Time Away
I prefer not to think of physical therapy as taking time away from being able to meet my deadlines at work.
Instead, I consider appointments at the rehabilitation center to be an opportunity not to worry about deadlines.
The problem with thinking this way is that it’s the pain of the stretching and pulling by the therapist which distracts me from the work deadlines.
In a perfect world, I’d be healthy and have all my time available to get my work done.
I close my eyes, forget about the project due Friday, and let the therapist twist my shoulder again.
The Bank Of Love
Let’s go to the Bank Of Love and open an account together.
Yes, there’s a penalty for early withdrawal. Over time, most people lose interest.
There are no truly safe deposit boxes. Every love is a risk. Take your chances.
I know a guy who tried to rob the Bank Of Love.
“Put all the love in the bag,” he commanded, pointing a gun at the teller.
The teller filled the bag with love, handed it to the guy, and he peeked inside of it…
Empty.
“Fill it again,” he said.
She did.
Empty again.
You just can’t steal love.
Tink
Tinkerbell flew around the dinner table of the Lost Boys, trailing her pixie dust and laughing.
But none of the boys raised their heads to laugh along. All just moaned and held their aching bellies.
Tinkerbell landed on the table and walked from boy to boy.
Red flushed faces.
Never-food vomiting.
Sunken eyes.
Bleeding sores.
Thinning hair.
Even her beloved Peter was looking haggard, unable to raise himself to crow.
One by one, the Lost Boys died of radiation sickness, not that Tinkerbell ever figured that out.
She flew away, trailing her sparkling deadly Radium trail… I mean pixie dust.
The Case of the Amber Rose of the Amazon – Part 33
Holmes had gambled that one of these women if spooked would fire their gun. It was up to Watson to remove the one who flinched. So it was both women now lay on the floor.
“To your earlier question Mrs. Brown dispatch the Turk.”
“Devil take that woman.”
“I’m sure he has.”
“How can I repay you?”
“Your connections on the continent will aid us in the next episode of this adventure. Come with us to Paris.”
“I am your man.”
“Watson the letters and garment kindly.”
The doctor noted it was he who picked the pockets of the dead
Here
Tracey isn’t here.
She’s never here.
If you’re anywhere that anybody thinks of as “here” then Tracey’s not there.
I mean here.
Where is she?
Oh, here and there… I mean there… just there.
Sorry. If you’re confused, well, I am too. If Tracey were here, she’d explain it better than I can. But then, Tracey is never here.
So, where is she?
I have no idea.
Last time I talked to her, she was on a bus. I asked her where she was, and she said I’m right here at-“
And the phone call dropped.
Yeah, I’m worried too.
Tickler
Julius Caesar had an assistant who’s job was to whisper “Caesar, thou art mortal” into his ear every so often to remind him to remain humble.
He also had a man whisper “Caesar, thou art ticklish” into his ear to remind him that he was ticklish. Then, that advisor would unleash a fury of tickles that would bring the great dictator to his knees with laughter.
Once, the tickling advisor went too far, and Caesar felt humiliated and violated.
He ordered the man to be executed.
The first advisor probably should have whispered “Tickler, thou art mortal” now and then.
The Generals
General Clayton was a great soldier, and he earned many medals.
So many medals, in fact, he was unable to pin them all on to his chest.
That’s when he had himself cloned.
With all those additional chests, he could pin the medals on.
Of course, with all those additional General Claytons, they collectively earned even more medals.
More medals, more Generals.
It was an endless loop of generals and medals, until the Army ran out of medals to give to the generals.
Then, they all suddenly died of the same congenital heart defect.
Dammit. Now we need more cemeteries.
Wedding Soup
While shopping for vegetable soup, I saw cans of Italian Wedding soup on the shelf.
Wedding soup? Don’t Italians have cake at weddings like everyone else?
Do cake topper brides and grooms float? Or do you strip them out of their clothes so they can skinny-dip in the soup?
The Italian Wedding soup? I thought that Minestrone was the “Italian” soup, but it turns out they serve that at divorces.
Italian Wedding soup is nothing but noodles and meatballs. Why not just call it noodles and meatballs?
Are gays and lesbians allowed to eat it?
I’ll stick to Vegetable, okay?
Italian Food
My grandfather served in World War 2. He liberated Italy, and when he wasn’t screwing whores and stealing priceless art works, he was chowing down on the best food he could get his hands on.
He brought back crates and crates of paintings and sculptures, only to lose them all when the Army followed up on the Vatican’s complaints about looting.
He kept one treasure, though: a recipe book, collecting up amazing dishes that kept his restaurant busy every night.
One night, a burglar shot him.
The book stopped the bullet.
Don’t ever say Italian food is bad for you.