Small. Thin.
Forget Captain of the Football Team, I was King of the Drama Club.
I had the lead in every production.
Tom Thumb.
Hamlet.
Peter Pan.
The spotlight was mine… MINE!
Until… puberty.
I got tall, clumsy, and… other things.
This year, instead of Peter, I’m “a” pirate.
Not even Captain Hook? OUTRAGEOUS!
That little shrimp, Marty Finkelstein, stole my role and my Tinkerbell, Cindy Van Hooten!
You know when Tinkerbell saves Peter by drinking poison?
Clap all you want. She’s not getting up.
And this isn’t a rubber sword.
Meet me and your doom at center stage, Peter.
Category: My stories
The Gift
Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gave it as a gift to Man.
“If that’s a gift, why isn’t it wrapped?” asked Man
“It’s fire,” said Prometheus. “It burns wrapping paper and other things.”
“Will it burn me?” asked Man.
“Yes,” said Prometheus. “I suppose I should put it on a stick.”
Prometheus quickly fashioned a torch and gave it to Man.
“That’s neat,” said Man and he ran off to play with his new fire.
The fact that Prometheus had stolen fire made it impossible for man to take it back and exchange it for a fancy-knit sweater.
Dawn
Her name is Dawn, but she rarely wakes up before noon.
She’s a bartender in the busiest club in Chicago.
When she’s not serving drinks and trying not to fall out of what passes for a blouse, she’s out cold in her bed.
Guys ask for her number, and she’s always giving it to them. Well, she gives them the number she had before it was disconnected.
She never takes a night off, so the bar doesn’t call her in.
One night, she stays up to watch the sunrise. “How beautiful,” she says, and then she goes to sleep.
Milton
The poet John Milton was married three times.
His first wife, Mary, gave birth to four children, dying while she gave birth to the fourth.
His second wife, Katherine, died while giving birth to their daughter Katherine, who died soon after.
His third wife was Elizabeth, who was much younger than him, and she lived eleven years with Milton until his death.
A plaque on the wall of her home describes her as Milton’s “Third and best wife.”
She wanted to put “Just a breeding sow” and “Second and lamest wife” plaques up.
Instead, she bought a pretty new dress.
Robbery
When people asked Willie Sutton why he robbed banks, he never said “Because that’s where the money is!” as an answer.
No, the truth is that he robbed banks because that’s where the free toasters were.
“They must be really good toasters, too,” he’d say. “Otherwise, why would they hire armed guards to watch over them?”
If you pointed out that the armed guards were there to protect the money, he’d laugh. “Sure. Right.” And then he’d go to the store to buy more Pop Tarts.
“One day I’ll find that Milton,” he’d say, and then plan the next robbery.
The Dead Writer
Mark’s parents made a shrine out of his room.
All of his writing awards and achievements were framed on the wall.
They put his favorite pen on the shelf. He stopped using it when his hands shook too much to write with it.
His last keyboard was next to it.
He switched to voice recognition, but he lost his power of speech soon after.
Next to his microphone was the NeuroCap which picked up his thoughts and translated them into his final two novels.
The last words of the novel were: I love you.
But they might not have been.
The Duke
We found bullets, knives, and poison in the old duke’s body. Each was the weapon of choice of one of his sons:
Heinrich, the eldest, was proficient with a gun.
Brutus was an expert with the blade.
And Claus, the youngest, preferred to work with toxins.
So it was a surprise to all when the judge ordered Hilda, the Duke’s daughter, to be executed.
“She shot, stabbed, and poisoned him to implicate her brothers,” said the judge. “Take her away.”
The sons laughed as they threw their sister from the tower to her death.
She landed on the corrupt judge.
The Drinker
“Why don’t you believe in me?” asked God.
I put down my drink and thought about my answer for a moment.
I mean, it’s God. And He’s drunk.
But then, I don’t believe in Him, so why worry?
So, I turned to my right…
He was gone.
I asked the bartender where God went.
He shrugged and put the tab in front of me.
Holy crap! God sure can drink, and He has good taste in what He drinks. Expensive, too.
As I pulled out my wallet, God pulled out his credit card.
“I was in the bathroom,” He said.
Tolerance
After I broke my arm and underwent surgery to rebuild it, I was given Vicodin for the pain, and it worked. It kept the pain at bay when I took it regularly.
Forty minutes after taking a pill, I felt the rush and it felt good.
But over time, as I healed, the pain subsided. I built up a tolerance to Vicodin, and the rush stopped coming.
Take more? No. That leads to addiction.
Instead, ease off the drugs, and switch to Tylenol.
And then, when I’m better, and my tolerance subsides…
I hope I didn’t sell off my stash.
Sir Hugo Daft
Sir Hugo Daft’s compositions are the product of a musical genius and a bloodthirsty sociopath.
Refusing to limit himself to traditional instruments such as the cello or the flute, he dabbles with police sirens, car screeches, women screaming for help, and other noises meant to frighten and distract listeners.
He is just as proud of his seven Grammy awards as he is of his lifetime ban from terrestrial and satellite radio.
“You’re causing dozens of accidents a day with your music!” said the FCC Commissioner.
Daft smiled, accepted the ban, and waited for the Pentagon to buy his weaponized compositions.