Every now and then, I have a drink, but not as much as I once did.
Yeah, in my prime, I was a drunk.
My college transcript was done with a breathalyzer.
Used to drink four margaritas at Cabo’s, or nine Red Bull and Jagermeisters somewhere else.
Said “Never again” enough to make Elie Wiesel demand royalties.
And my old pal Jack Daniels, well, he’s been married three times: Coke, diet Coke, and Coke Zero.
Ain’t alimony a zero-calorie bitch?
Nowadays, maybe some wine, or coffee needs a dash of Bailey’s, but just for flavor, mind you.
Drunk?
Never again.
Category: My stories
Babysitting Exchange
Babysitters are so expensive. And you have no idea who the agency will send.
So, we started a neighborhood babysitter exchange. It’s the neighborhood, so you know who your children are with.
How does it work? Well, everybody gets a number of credits, and people exchange them for babysitting services.
When you run out of credits, you babysit to earn more.
We started with popsicle sticks to represent the credits, but people started to buy those at arts and crafts stores, and hyperinflation kicked in.
It broke down with people faking babysitting jobs, using dolls or watermelons dressed in diapers.
Musicals
Before I ever read Dickens’ Oliver Twist, I saw a tape of the 1969 musical.
I find musicals stupid. People burst into song over the strangest shit. Everybody dances and spins and laughs and leaps.
Did something get in the water supply? A gas leak making everybody loony?
A little chasing, a little murder, and we find Fagin fumbling his wealth into the muck.
Poor guy. Oh well.
Later on, I read the book.
They hanged him?
Dude. Harsh.
I put the book back on the shelf, sigh, and load up the DVD.
Perhaps musicals aren’t so stupid after all.
A Twist On Oliver
Oliver walked up to the Beadle, empty bowl held high.
“I’d like some less, please,” he said.
The Beadle looked down, confused.
“Less?” he asked. “But… the bowl’s empty.”
“Yes, I know,” said Oliver. “And I regret eating it all. Far, far too much. So, if you can’t spoon out less into these bowls, maybe smaller bowls?”
The Beadle nodded. “That we can do.”
So, the next day, smaller bowls of gruel were dished out for all the kids.
Oliver, being the smallest, could subside on little, so the bigger kids starved quicker and all died.
Alone, Oliver laughed heartily.
The Black Sheep
I don’t talk to my family much.
I figure there’s seven billion people in the world, right?
So after spending years with them, day in and day out, isn’t that enough?
Compared to the billions of people I will never meet, it’s practically obsessive.
If we are all equal, why are they any different?
I mean, when you walk into a library or a bookstore, do you get the same book over and over?
Or do you wander the isles and reach for new adventures… new worlds to explore?
You can only say Goodnight to the moon so many times.
The Girl With A Good Name
There once was a girl who had a good name.
Her mother and father thought long and hard to come up with it, and it was a very good name.
But it didn’t take long for her to wear that good name out.
So, she gave herself another name.
It wasn’t as good of a name, but it served her well.
Until she wore it out, too.
Name after name she took and wore out, until the pile of names grew so large, it’s shadow covered her in darkness.
Rotting underneath, her once-good name, completely buried, out of reach forever.
Evil Cloud
A hum, an evil cloud of acrid temptation spreads across the office floor, from desk to desk it is sucked in by its unwitting victims, smothering them with the irresistible hungry urge… hunger… want…
“Who the fuck made microwave popcorn, dammit?” growls my scruffy hipster cube-mate Sherman. “That shit’s worse than Tina’s perfume.”
Or Sherman’s aftershave, I don’t say. Smells like a sweaty gun range.
DING! The microwave is done. The sound of the door opening, a rip.
The air handlers will kick in and dissipate this horrid clou-
The microwave door closes. The hum returns.
Damn it! Another bag!
Myth or Legend
A myth gives a religious explanation for something, while a legend is a story told as if it were a historical event.
This is just one of a thousand rules every member of The Storymerchants Guild must learn and follow when conducting business.
There are laws about proper labeling of products and services, and stories are no different.
One must be precise, otherwise proper tariffs, taxes, and fees won’t be collected.
And The Royal Auditors are quite diligent about checking the details.
In fact, I remember one time when two goblin bards…
Wait… hold on…
(Is this Myth or Legend?)
Seven of Swords
I knew a warrior who carried seven swords.
They were the finest blades I had ever seen, each more magnificent than the last, and each had its purpose.
One to thrust.
One to swing.
One to parry.
One to stab.
One to riposte.
One to chop.
And with that, he lumbered off into battle.
“What is the seventh sword for?” I shouted after him.
But it’s too late. The weight of the heavy swords left him defenseless, and he’s killed before he can answer.
We buried him, and stuck the most magnificent seventh sword at the head of his grave.
Gift Giving
Back in the Seventies and Eighties, the Russians were known to put explosives in toys, scatter them over Afghanistan hotspots, and let kids bring those toys back to their homes where they’d blow up.
Sometimes, their mujahedeen fathers and brothers would be at home, and the explosion would take them out.
Other times, it would just kill the kid out there in the field of rocks.
So when NATO troops thought to dress up as Santa and hand out gifts to the locals, yeah, that explains why they opened fire on them.
Thank goodness the Santa costume belly-padding was Kevlar.