I challenged art students to paint the ceiling of the college’s fieldhouse.
“Carefully, please!”
They replicated Michelangelo’s fresco in the Sistine Chapel, but substituted famous basketball players for the Biblical figures.
In the center was The Creation Of Adam, where Charles Barkley reached to touch the finger of Kenny Smith.
“Instead of a brain-like cloud, he’s perched on a giant meatloaf,” said the lead artist.
We laughed. Until a drip came down from the ceiling.
“It’s coming out of Kenny’s eye,” I said. “He’s… crying?”
Some of them called it a miracle.
I called it an expensive leak to repair.
Category: My stories
Creepy Crawlers
When I was growing up, I remember having one of those creepy crawlers bug-making factories.
You poured a resin called Plastigoop into molds, put it in a hot plate to cook, then let it cool and set.
It was really fun trying to make the creatures look realistic with different colors of the Plastigoop.
They changed the formula around so that instead of heating the resin with the hot plate oven, you’d heat the resin, then pour it into the molds to cool and set.
These days, if I want creepy crawlers, I just leave the dishes out for weeks.
Lover Fighter
Hey, man. I’m a lover, not a fighter.
I don’t want to fight.
Unless you’re smaller and weaker than me. Then I’ll beat the crap out of you.
But if you’re bigger than me, yeah, I’m a lover. I’ll love you to keep from beating the crap out of me.
Until I can catch you off guard, that is. Then I’ll stop loving you, and stab you in the back or run you over with a car.
Of course, then I’ll go to prison, and knowing my luck, I’ll be stuck as a lover.
No matter how much I fight.
The Gift Bear
I went to the Build-a-Bear store in the mall.
Where you pick out an empty teddy bear
Or panda
Or kitty
Then you pick out clothes for it:
A baseball uniform
Ballet slippers. And a tutu
A wedding dress
You can record a message, too.
I like crazy messages:
“Help, I’m trapped in a bear factory!”
“I’m filled with heroin.”
At a red light, I squeeze it’s paw.
“I love you,” it says.
I feel the bruise on my face.
I remember you hitting me.
Again. And again.
Love you? The craziest message of all.
I throw the bear away.
I don’t have a cat!
“I don’t have a cat!” I said to the cat on my lawn.
“I don’t have a cat!” I said to the cat on my porch.
“I don’t have a cat!” I said to the cat on my chair.
“I don’t have a cat!” I said to the cat on my kitchen floor.
“I don’t have a cat!” I said to the cat on my bed.
“I don’t have a cat!” I said to the cat on my lap.
The cat didn’t say anything back.
Except for a gentle, dismissive purr.
Then she closed her eyes and went to sleep.
My Mother
My mom is not my mother.
My real mother died young.
I have no memory of her.
I only remember my stepmother.
Who I called mom.
Because I knew no other.
They hid her from me.
My real mother.
So when I learned the truth.
The new truth.
That my mom.
Was not my real mother.
I have no memory of her.
Just the memories.
That my imagination makes.
When I see photographs.
Newspaper clippings.
Kidnapped. And never found.
Kidnapped by my father.
Like every other mother I’ve had.
Well, the ones I remember.
I loved them all.
My mother.
Bashed Brains
Pro Football player Junior Seau killed himself today. He’d been having awful problems as a result of all the concussions he’d suffered by playing football for so many years.
Last year, Dave Duerson from the Superbowl-winning Chicago Bears put a bullet in his gut.
It’s a problem many players have been experiencing, and they want to raise awareness of the dangers of concussions, but some just can’t take the pain and the suffering, so they kill themselves.
It’s sad, but then when you bash yourself against other huge guys for twenty to thirty years, what the fuck do you expect?
Vault
The reporter asked the billionaire if he could see his collection of rare musical instruments.
The old man walked over to a map, and waved at all the pins on it.
“A violin in a vault serves no purpose. It is meant to be played.”
The reporter smiled. “So, you’ve given them to musicians around the world?”
“Not really. I’m just messing with you. They’re in the basement.”
“May I see them?”
“If there’s any left. We’re feeding them into the furnace.”
The reporter fainted.
“I hate the press,” said the billionaire, and he picked up a violin and played.
Baptists
My grandmother always said that the problem with Baptists is that they don’t hold them under long enough.
So, I put my scuba gear in the trunk, headed over to First Baptist, and struck a deal to assist with baptisms at the local Y.
Now, instead of just tilting a person back in the water for a second, we keep them under for 20-30 minutes.
Switching tanks underwater takes some skill, but when we picked up an old-fashioned diving suit, air pump and a hose, we were able to keep people under for hours.
My grandmother still thinks they’re assholes.
Inside Information
Ted’s an Afterlife Coach, helping the recently departed deal with post traumatic death syndrome and other issues.
He likes to say he gets ghosts to believe in themselves.
You’d think it’s hard for him to get paid. Dead people don’t carry cash. Their assets are usually frozen or bequeathed to family or given to charity.
And so few people actually have wall safes full of cash or buried gold coins in the back yard.
But when you can talk to spirits, the dead have plenty of dirt on the living.
Blackmail’s such a dirty word.
Let’s call it “Inside information.”