It is National Donut Day.
Even though I’m on a diet, I bought a donut.
It was only 85 cents, and I carried the bag through the park, to my office, and put it on my desk.
Then, I pinned it to the wall and left it there for the entire day.
At the end of the day, I looked at the bag and realized I hadn’t eaten the donut.
This is not a credit to my willpower, because I wasn’t able to resist 4 grab-bags of Cheet-o’s and Dorito’s.
I just forgot I pinned the fuckin thing up there.
Category: My stories
Cords
I have no sympathy for people who forget their laptop power cords.
I plan ahead, so I’ve got a spare cord at work, and one at home.
Plus, there’s one in my laptop bag, so I’m never without a power cord for my laptop.
Then, there’s the four cords I keep in this van.
Those are the ones I tied you up with after you whined about forgetting your power cord.
Scream all you want. It has soundproofed walls.
Sure, I could strangle you with the power cord in my laptop bag, but I prefer to use my bare hands.
Bloomberg
The elevator groaned under the weight of the morbidly obese passengers inside.
*BING*
The doors opened, and the mayor, pinned to the wall, squeezed his way out into the hallway.
He sighed, dashed out a quick note, and headed to the press room.
Dozens of fat reporters, tossing questions at him.
“SHUT UP!” he shouted. “SHUT THE HELL UP!”
Everyone went silent.
“AS OF NOW, NO MORE SUPER SIZED SUGAR BEVERAGES! SMALLER PORTION SIZES IN RESTAURANTS! WE’RE GONNA GET FUCKIN’ HEALTHY!”
The mayor’s decree took effect, and people just got fatter.
Because they order two of the smaller portions now.
Back in the high life
Warren was a musician. His fame had waned, but his loyal fans in every town would pack the small clubs he’d play in.
His last tour was an experimental solo project. He left his band back at home, and he went from club to club, just an amplifier and a microphone.
It was a hit with the fans, and so that’s all he did until the day he died.
Fans showed up at the club he was scheduled to play that night, his guitar and hat on a dimly-lit stage, a single spotlight.
And they still tour to this day.
The Temple
There are 100 steps up the hill to get to The Temple Of The Golden Monkey.
At each step, acolytes are challenged by the monks to tell a story 100 words long.
“You have a week to come up with one!” shouts the temple priest.
Upon hearing the acolyte’s story, the monks invite that student to take a step up.
But if an acolyte fails to tell a story, they are sent back down the hill to return to their village.
Or try again.
It takes almost two years to ascend the steps and become a monk.
Ready?
Then begin!
Parallel Universe
In the parallel universe
Everyone is evil
And Spock has a beard
If Spock were a practical joker
He’d buy a false beard
And wear it every so often
So that when Kirk saw him
He’d think he was the Evil Spock
And then Spock would pull it off
And laugh.
But Spock is a Vulcan
Vulcans have no emotions
Or sense of humor
So the odds of Spock
Actually making a joke
Are incredibly small
Spock would say they are zero
But he knows the exact odds
To the fifteenth decimal place
Because he’s a scientist
And a nerd.
The Fallen Rise Up
Veteran’s Day is for the living soldiers, and they march in parades.
Memorial Day is for the fallen ones, and we go to the cemeteries to put wreaths and flags on their graves.
This wasn’t enough for the witchdoctor, who poured a strange bubbling concoction into the fertilizer bin of the automatic sprinkler system at Arlington National Cemetery.
The timer went off at midnight, by the next morning, our nation’s finest and bravest were roaming the cemetery, shambling around and moaning “BRAAAAAAAAAAAAINS! BRAAAAAAAAAAAAINS!”
Except for Ted Kennedy’s corpse, who had commandeered a maintenance cart, and driven it into the Potomac.
There’s an app for that
I write most of my stories on my smartphone, tapping them out with an app called Draftpad.
It’s a simple notepad program that puts a wordcount on the top of the screen.
This is very handy for writing stories exactly 100 words long. The standard notes app doesn’t do wordcounts.
Even though it can back itself up to the iCloud, it also lets you email a story to yourself. And I can send it to WordPress and Google Plus for publishing.
What it doesn’t do is make my phone waterproof.
That’s the last time I write stories in the tub.
Cinderell-huh?
If Cinderella’s glass slipper fit, why did it fall off?
And when it fell off, why didn’t it turn back into her ragged ordinary slipper when the clock struck midnight?
The horses turned back into mice.
The carriage turned back into a pumpkin.
Her ball gown turned back into the clothes she was wearing the day before.
So why not that slipper?
It’s because of the Fairy Godmother.
Why she didn’t just blast the wicked stepmother and the two sisters with her magic wand and make the prince her undying love slave, well, that’s because she was a manipulative bitch.
The Cans
We started with four cats, and they’d eat whatever canned food we put out.
When there was just one of those four left, he had the can all to himself.
But then we found a kitten… and got another kitten, and they’d all eat their canned supper together.
When the last of the original four cats died, the two grown kittens got picky about canned food.
I’ve tried to chart what they like… sliced… flaked… chunks… chicken… liver… beef… fish…
Sometimes, they ate it. Sometimes, they stuck to dry food.
I leave it out on the patio for the strays.