Ah, Veteran’s Day.
It’s important to remember and thank the people who have served.
Although, to tell you the truth, I don’t get Veteran’s Day off like I get Memorial Day off, so please forgive me if I’m not as thankful to you as your brothers-in-arms who gave their lives.
Yes, I’m still thankful, but… well… you know, right?
And as much as it bothers me to have my morning commute messed up by these parades, I’ll still wave the flag and salute you guys, and I won’t bitch about getting written up for being late.
Thank you, troops. Really.
Category: My stories
Dirty Laundry
Marie Antoinette was known for her extravagance, insisting on the finest things and only using them once before tossing them aside.
She also insisted that nobody else be permitted to use them, so the cellars filled quickly with silverware, porcelain plates, crystal glasses, silk handkerchiefs, and even her linen undergarments.
Standing before the angry crowd, she saw that they’d raised the palace’s storerooms, and were waving forks and knives and plates and handkerchiefs and…
Her underwear.
All of her dirty laundry, out there for everyone to see.
She looked at the blade and winced.
“Mind cleaning it first?” she asked.
Iron Fist
We live in a dictatorship.
The Great Leader rules the land with an iron fist.
Well, it’s actually a rather nice-looking prosthetic. Rather functional, too. He used to be medical technology engineer who worked with advanced robotics before he went into politics, but he still dabbles in the field now and then when the country’s running smoothly.
Which is rather often, even during disasters. We’re all quite well prepared for most circumstances, and don’t panic in a crisis.
Neighboring countries regularly beg for us to invade them and take them over, but we’re quite content to manage our own affairs.
Martian canals
Astronomers in the 19th Century said there were canals on Mars.
Whether this was because of the poor optics available or the construction of several major canal projects here on Earth, I’m not sure. But over time, better telescopes demonstrated that there were definitely no canals on Mars.
Still, I like to imagine ancient Martians, punting gondolas from domed city to domed city, chanting Martian chants as young Martian lovers watched the clouds, hand in hand, talon in talon, tails entwined.
Ah, Science! You foul destroyer of Romance!
I push the astronomer’s head back into the toilet and flush again.
Drill
Due to an error in Shipping, my dentist received a deep-ocean oil drill instead of the replacement enamel drill he’d ordered.
My tooth was killing me, though, and the referral was across town, so we went through with the appointment anyway.
I swear, I went through three tanks of nitrous, and damn if that thing was uncomfortable, but seven thousand feet down, he struck oil.
After venting off the natural gas, he capped the well, put in a temporary, and made an appointment for next Tuesday to fix a permanent crown.
Sadly, my insurance plan doesn’t cover pumping or tankers.
Loose change
Why did I just toss that dime on the sidewalk?
Well, everybody likes to find a dime or a quarter in the street, right?
I’m just trying to spread a little random joy.
It started back when I reached in my pocket and some change spilled out.
I picked up most of it, but decided to leave the rest.
Now, I just toss a dime or a quarter out every now and then.
What I don’t like is when bums ask me for a buck or two.
Then, I toss the money into a busy street.
“Go get it, jackass.”
College Ball
We watch college ball on Saturday, pro on Sunday.
Been doing that for a long time.
Both games have changed over the years, with kickoffs, protecting the quarterback, and all the damn graphics on the screen.
Biggest change of all is instant replay.
The coach tosses a flag, the officials head to the sideline, and they review the play.
Yeah, for years, we’ve seen that stuff at home, or in the stadium, but now it’s official.
So when the referee ran out of the replay booth flailing his hands and screaming “THE ALIENS ARE COMING!”
Yeah, better close the roof.
nanowrimo
Every year, I sign up for National Novel Writing Month.
One year, I wrote eighty-seven words on the side of a church and spent the month in jail.
The next year, I got drunk and had the word “Bilious” tattooed across my ass. Oh, and a pelican in a top hat holding a shotgun.
Then, there was the year I used Dragon Dictation, a speech-to-Text program. Thought I could just talk and talk and talk up the novel.
Yeah, I lost my voice.
This year, I’m going to write.
I’m going to write this all off as a bad idea.
The Rutabaga Of All Evil
Growing up, I heard a lot of advertising pitches for foods.
Pork was the other white meat.
Beef was what was for dinner.
And it wasn’t any ordinary egg, but the incredible edible egg.
Sadly, the rutabaga growers collective didn’t have much of an advertising budget, so my grandfather made us run up and down the aisles of the grocery store shouting EAT SOME GOD DAMN RUTABAGAS!
What? Was he a rutabaga farmer?
No. And he didn’t work for the collective, either.
He was just a sick old man who hated kids.
And rutabagas, now that I think of it.
The Price Of Admission
I wake up.
Everything hurts.
I check to see if I’m bleeding.
Just bruised, scratched and sore.
This time.
Checking my nose to see if it’s broken, I smell the most wonderful aroma.
I wobble out of bed, stagger to the kitchen, and Tiffany’s there making the most incredible breakfast.
As she always does.
But the price of admission is steep, I think, rubbing my wrist.
I gotta break it off… before she breaks it off.
And then the first bite.
Another. And another.
She reels me back in.
I finish. She smiles.
Tomorrow. We’ll break up tomorrow.
After breakfast.