Back when I was in high school, there was a Klingon Language Club where they spoke that language from the Star Trek show and movies.
They wanted me to join, but I didn’t see any use for it.
A few years later, when we were at the graduation barn dance, a strange light appeared in the sky, and a Klingon warship landed in the parking lot.
The Klingon Language Club, dressed in full Klingon battle armor, greeted the ship.
Its cannons blasted them into atoms.
You know, because it was Kirk at the helm, slingshotted back in time.
Stupid geeks.
Category: My stories
The Sore
I don’t talk to you. You don’t talk to me.
What happened to us? We used to be so close.
Too close. All we did was annoy each other.
Forget the good times. Forget the laughs.
That was all bullshit, and we both know it.
You’re like an unexplained foul odor, left behind in a room.
A festering sore that I keep picking at?
Is that obsession? Or how deeply you annoyed me?
How long will this last?
Until the next one. The next person to get close.
Too close, and they leave without leaving.
Like an open, bleeding sore.
The Can
Preacher say you can’t put God in a bottle or a box.
Or packed inside a wrapper.
Bright colors, big letters.
That’s not where you’ll find God.
You have to put Him in a can.
Not a cheap Aluminum can.
Or a rusty tin can.
You have to put Him in a steel can.
A solid American steel can.
Bigger than a soup can.
But smaller than a barrel. Or a keg.
Like that tomato soup can for prisons and schools.
Or the one restaurants get olives in.
About that big.
Gimme that can opener.
Let’s get us some God.
Otis
There are two Saint Otises of Prague.
The first Otis is the Patron Saint of Elevators Going Up.
The other Otis is the Patron Saint of Elevators Going Down.
They were martyred when their elevators collided.
How elevators in separate shafts collide was a total mystery, and the priest who was called to deliver last rites to the two Otises declared it a miracle.
The Vatican handled the rest.
And this is why you see OTIS on every elevator.
Well, the ones that the Saint Otises watch over.
There’s no Otis on this one?
Um, I’ll take the stairs then.
No Idea
I woke up with a splitting headache.
Checked my head, my hands.
No blood.
I looked around.
Hotel room. Clean, but nothing fancy.
Phone book says Dallas.
I’m in Dallas.
Where was I before Dallas?
I don’t know.
I check my wallet.
Cards. Driver’s license.
That’s me, Ted Martin.
I look through my receipts, trying to piece together how I got here.
Restaurants.
Hotels.
Rental cars.
I lay it all out on the bed.
I check my pockets for a cell phone.
None.
The nightstand. An envelope.
Full of white powder.
“Breathe” it says.
So I breathe.
And sleep.
Sleep.
Revolution!
The revolution is a terrible disappointment.
We should have overthrown the government by now.
But we haven’t.
We go back and read our revolutionary notes.
Che Guevara said that the duty of every revolutionary is to make the revolution.
So sweep the revolutionary streets with revolutionary brooms!
So scrub the revolutionary toilets with revolutionary brushes!
So make the revolutionary donuts with revolutionary dough!
So make the revolutionary coffee with revolutionary coffee machines!
Revolutionary cream? Revolutionary sugar?
You like it black?
Viva la revolution!
And dunk the revolutionary donuts into revolutionary coffee!
Too much coffee.
Too jittery to revolt.
Let’s nap.
Butter and Ice
Luigi made magnificent sculptures in butter.
Alfonse specialized in sculptures in ice.
For the longest time, they’d work together on projects.
Amazing wondrous collaborations, ice sculptures locked in embrace with butter sculptures.
But Luigi was tired of Alfonse’s sculptures melting and dissolving his work.
They became bitter rivals, undercutting each other constantly.
Alfonse came after Luigi with a knife made of ice.
Mortally wounded, Luigi dropped a block of butter on Alfonse.
The hotel manager found them both in the kitchen, dead.
And that’s where I come in.
I work with Spam.
(Or would you rather have more flower arrangements?)
Soup
I never make my grandmother’s soup recipe for anyone anymore.
I used to make it all the time.
And every time I made it, people said they love it.
Really loved it.
But they carry their love too far.
When asked “If you love it so much, why don’t you marry it?” they often say “YES, I WILL!”
Every time, it’s the same thing:
Whirlwind romance, big wedding, crazy honeymoon, and then a nasty bitter divorce.
If there’s any bright side to all this, it’s that I’ve ended up with all the soup spoons, bowls, and stockpots I’ll ever need.
The Robe and The Mask
Carlton has worn a mask and robes since the age of seven.
Some say he was burned badly in a fire, but that’s not the kind of thing you ask a kid. Or his parents.
It wasn’t in the papers, and I don’t see any mention of it in the news archives.
And he moves around pretty good.
Like a kid, and not like someone with skin grafts and other debilitating injuries.
He sounds pretty normal, too. Not like his body’s rotting out from under him.
Maybe he just likes the robes and the mask?
Maybe he’s just kinda weird?
Cart Racers
After watching the bobsledders racing down the track at the Olympics, I got my friends together and we came up with The Shopping Cart Races.
Late last night, we got really drunk and stormed a grocery store parking lot, setting up carts in the parking lot to mark out a course.
Then, we formed teams of four, three people in a cart, and the fourth pushing as hard as they could before jumping in and riding along.
The first team discovered they couldn’t steer.
Instead, they tipped over and crashed.
Just a few scrapes and bruises. And no gold medals.