A woman filed a complaint against the restaurant because we asked her not to breast-feed her baby outside of the bathroom.
After doing a little research, we found out that she was a woman’s rights activist who had a history of filing complaints like these.
A while back, she’d had breast cancer and a double radical mastectomy, and after the reconstructive surgery her nipples were well-made but completely nonfunctional tattoos.
But even odder was that she didn’t actually have a baby. She used a lifelike doll that she carried around.
We set up a quiet table in the back anyway.
Category: My stories
The Auctioneer
The man
With the sexiest voice
In the world
Was as an auctioneer
And he’d auction horses
And houses
And cars
And other things people didn’t want
Or need anymore
But his commissions weren’t
All that good
Because his voice was so sexy
Instead of raising their hands
To place their bids
People had their hands
Elsewhere
(He didn’t want to think what they’d do
With auction paddles)
So instead of watching
For people to
Raise their hands
He’d listen for them to raise their voices
In climax
He’d count that as a bid
Coming once
Coming twice
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh… sold!
Cans
I never go outside. It’s not safe out there anymore.
I get everything delivered.
I know what time of year it is by the designs on the Coke cans.
They do those polar bears in winter, fireworks in summer, and scary stuff in Halloween time.
And Santa for Christmas.
A kid comes to deliver the Coke and groceries, and he takes the empties out to the corner for pickup.
“You drink so much of that stuff, why don’t you get the two-liter bottles?” says the kid.
I like it in cans.
And I told the store to send another kid.
Seen Or Spoken
Today is my brother’s birthday.
I have not seen or spoken to him in years.
We fought a lot when we were growing up, and it never stopped.
Mom kept trying to get us not to fight and to bury the hatchet, but Dad never got along with his brother, so he totally understood and respected our decision to stay the hell away from each other.
So, when one day my brother shows up, yeah, I buried the hatchet.
Into his chest.
I buried the body in the back yard.
So, yeah, I haven’t seen or spoken to him.
Satisfied?
Where’s The Candlestick Maker?
Theodore Baker didn’t like being called Theodore or Theo.
So, he called himself “The.” As in “The Baker.”
He hung out with his friend Theodore Butcher after school.
He also started calling himself “The.” As in “The Butcher.”
They thought it was cool.
Others didn’t. Kids made fun of them, asking where “The Candlestick Maker” was, and shouting “Rub A Dub Dub!” at them.
They were pushed around, picked on, and bullied constantly.
So, when they were cornered, The Butcher got out a butcher’s knife and The Baker pulled out a rolling pin.
The bullies ran.
But they couldn’t hide.
Elephant In The Newsroom
New York Times editor Abe Rosenthal said that he didn’t care if his reporters were fucking elephants, as long as they weren’t covering the circus.
However, Rosenthal changed his mind after paying a rash of elevator repair bills when reporters brought their dates to the office.
Then there was the stampede at the paper’s Christmas Party. I guess the peanut martinis were too strong, and there was an argument between two elephants wearing the same dress.
Abe put out a memo the next day: no dating elephants.
But clowns? Totally okay with him.
Care to sniff my flower, Mr. Friedman?
Pulling Out The Stops
Second Evangelical’s roof collapsed in a heavy thunderstorm. They used the insurance money to get as much as they could repaired, but the policy didn’t cover their massive pipe organ, once an array of gleaming copper tubes and an magnificent console of keys, switches and stops, now a dripping, bent pile of ruin.
After several bake sales and poker nights, the funds were raised, and the church director found a match: a bankrupt church in Bulgaria.
They signed the contract, had the organ dismantled, shipped, and transplanted it into Second Evangelical.
Engage the pumps, and pull out all the stops!
Murders, She Got Away With
The thing I never figured out about the Murder, She Wrote television series was how a town like Cabot Cove, Maine could have so many murders.
Despite having less than 4000 people, every week someone in Cabot Cove would get killed.
Oh, sure, some were tourists, but after a few seasons, you’d think the sheriff would notice something. Or demand a raise.
This got me to wondering if Jessica Fletcher, the mystery writer, was also a murderer.
I mean, she figured out every murder, and the alleged murderer denied it… maybe she’d set them up?
Murders, she got away with!
Felt
Have you ever felt a felt-tipped marker?
Truly felt it?
Close your eyes…
Twist off the cap slowly…
Feel the tip on your fingertips.
Feel the wetness.
Your fingers drink it in… drink in the color…
The felt tip against your skin.
Draw… draw on your skin…
Lines. Curves. Angles.
Then… stop!
Put down the marker, pick it up again, twist on the cap so it doesn’t dry out.
At the sink, scrubbing scrubbing scrubbing!
Stop!
It is a part of you now.
It’ll have to wear off.
Staring back, your reflection.
Your face. Your forehead, marked:
I’M WITH STUPID.
Delivery
I’m waiting for a delivery.
It’s supposed to be delivered today.
It’s something I don’t want delivered to me while I’m at work, and I couldn’t let them leave it on back patio either, so I took the day off of work.
While waiting, I’ve cleaned the kitchen, bathrooms, vacuumed all the carpets twice, and even scrubbed out a stain in the hallway that I’ve never had the time to get to.
Then, the doorbell rings.
And… it’s…
The exterminator?
Not the delivery I’m expecting, but at least he’s delivering a toxic cloud of death to my insect roommates, yes?