Bob Dylan is an asshole.
Heaven doesn’t have a door to knock on.
It has gates. St. Peter stands at the Gates Of Heaven with a book, and the dead line up to find out if they get in.
You don’t have to bang on the gates, because St. Peter is always out there, waiting for the recently-deceased.
Well, not really waiting, since people are constantly dying and joining the line.
Does he ever get a break? And how does he get updates in that book?
After lying to us for decades, Bob Dylan sure as hell isn’t in it.
Category: My stories
Shod And Dangerous
I bought a pair of running shoes with built-in computer chips that track how far and fast you run.
Just wave the shoes over your laptop, and it uploads all the information to a website, complete with maps and calories.
One morning, I looked at the chart, and it said I had run all the way to bank and back overnight.
I don’t remember doing that.
Had I been sleepwalking? Or sleepjogging?
I got my shoes out of the closet, and a bag of money fell off a shelf.
Apparently, I’d been sleepbankrobbing.
At least the shoes paid for themselves.
Masterpieces
Miyuki paints masterpieces.
She’s an art restorer. She touches up and fixes damaged paintings
She’s the best art restorer in the world, fixing everything: vandalism, neglect, smoke damage.
But it brings her no joy.
She wants to paint her own works. Instead of little bits of Renoir or Matisse, she wants to see a Miyuki in the gallery. A Miyuki exhibition.
Years of restoring others wore her down, and then… snap.
She painted over a Picasso, and…
It was beautiful. Magnificent. Her masterpiece.
And sent to another restorer to remove.
Someone stole a Rembrandt?
It’s Miyuki.
She needs more canvases.
Melt Away
The moment Joe stepped into the shower, he felt like all his troubles were melting away.
And from the puddle of bloody goo the police found clogging the drain of Joe’s tub, it appeared that Joe melted along with them.
How this happened, the coroner never quite figured out.
They looked over everything… the half-empty bottle of tequila, his prescriptions…
“It says DO NOT TAKE WITH ALCOHOL,” said the coroner. “But that just causes liver damage, not this.”
The Army was interested for a while and did some experiments on prisoners, but all it did was get them really drunk.
The Ball
It’s quiet out on the ranch.
I bounce an old, ragged tennis ball on the porch.
Thump.
Thump.
It’s Jake’s ball. For seventeen years, since he was a puppy.
I’d throw it.
He’d chase it and bring it back.
He never chased sticks or other things.
Just this ball.
Thump.
Thump.
Maybe he didn’t chase it as fast as he once did. Everybody slows down.
He slept a lot.
Here on the porch.
On the driveway.
I never saw him that night.
Thump.
Buried him out back.
I should have buried this ball with him.
But it’s mine, too.
Thump.
Morning Routine
Every morning, as I gather up my stuff and get ready to head to work, my cats like to play with my shoelaces and the cord on my iPhone earbuds.
So, I dangle my shoes and the cord so they can bat them around.
They really love it.
“I gotta go to work,” I tell the cats, putting on my shoes and my headphones.
They look up at me with sad kitty eyes.
“I’ve got time saved up,” I decide, and I call in sick.
Just as I’m hanging up, I reach for the headphones and…
The cats have vanished.
Chicken Soup
My mother always said that chicken soup cures all ills.
When I got older, I had the temerity to question this.
“Yes. Every one of them,” she said.
“What about crazy people?” I asked.
“Hit them in the head with the can until they shut up,” she said.
That night on the news, the Supreme Court was debating legality of chemical castration of a rapist.
“I bet chicken soup couldn’t cure him,” I said.
“Mine would,” said my mother.
And she poured the hot soup in my lap.
She handed me the phone. “Feel like calling your shiksa girlfriend now?”
Free Sandwiches
Instead of giving us raises, the bosses bring in lunch once a week.
It’s usually pizza. Which I can’t eat because of ulcers.
“Can you order a salad for me?” I ask.
They never do. They just apologize. As usual.
One time, they brought sandwiches.
Pizza sandwiches.
“Hey, it’s free,” they say. “Quit complaining.”
And I did. I quit complaining.
I stacked up the trays of sandwiches and shouted “YOU ARE FREE!” and took them to the park to feed the homeless.
They fired me.
I lost my house. I sleep in the park.
Where’s my free fuckin’ sandwiches now?
Formation
Sitting in my living room, sipping a cup of tea, I heard the most unusual noise.
It was either a security airship passing, or three dozen lawnmowers flying overhead.
An airship was the likely source of the noise, since the most lawnmowers I’ve seen flying in formation was seven.
And it wasn’t so much as a flying formation of them, but a delivery truck striking a lamp post and its contents being strewn throughout the roadway.
So, it’s probably an airship.
Or the man next door, who makes odd noises like that.
His imitation of a cow is impressive, though.
Tilda
Bubba and Billy Bob had never been to New York.
So when they won a Broadway Weekend in the church raffle, they were in for the shock of their lives.
The buildings… traffic… lights… noise…
And…
“That’s the alien who busted up my truck and anal probed me!” hissed Bubba.
“You sure?” whispered Billy Bob.
Bubba nodded, and the men followed the pale gangly figure down the street until they managed to catch and drag it off.
They’d never been to the movies, or heard of Tilda Swinton.
And she wouldn’t anal probe Bubba, no matter how much he begged.