Some kids go to college and never come back.
Other kids never leave.
Me, I was emancipated at the age of 3.
But we agreed not to make a big deal of it.
So, I went to a boarding pre-school and kept up the act from year to year.
Sure, it wasn’t easy, paying for it all, but my parents lent me the cash now and then.
Maybe they charged a little too much interest, but the banks kept saying no.
Now, after years of hard work, I’m on Easy Street.
Well, the alley behind it.
Spare some change, mister?
Category: My stories
Mount Laundry
I don’t like doing laundry.
And I don’t like it when other people do my laundry.
They might find something in one of my pockets that I don’t want them finding.
I’d rather it never be found than someone finding it.
So, one day, I tried to open the front door.
The laundry pile was jammed against the door.
That’s when I decided to tackle the laundry pile.
It was a mountain. Mount Laundry.
I lost three toes and a Sherpa climbing it.
But it got done.
Just in time to take out the trash.
Mount Trash.
(Where’s that Sherpa?)
Mousetrapped
Long ago, I was poor.
Really poor.
Lived in a total rat-hole, infested with mice.
I guess that made it a mouse-hole instead of a rat-hole.
Anyway, because of the mice, I had to put mousetraps everywhere.
Except that I was so poor, I couldn’t afford cheese for my mousetraps.
I tore out pictures of cheese from the newspaper and put it in the traps.
The next day, I checked the trap.
There was a picture of a mouse from a newspaper in it.
I gave it to the picture of a cat I had as a pet back then.
Dog Brain
Ruth and Paul were enjoying a quiet evening at home when their son Timmy crawled in the door on all fours, barking madly.
“Lassie, what is it?” said Paul. “Did the mad scientist next door switch your brain with Timmy again?”
Timmy barked.
“And he fell down the well?” said Ruth.
Timmy barked again, then looked back at the door, whining.
Ruth and Paul looked at each other and shrugged.
Paul got up, and closed the door.
“Boy was a pain in the ass,” he said.
The new Lassie shed a lot less.
And shat on the carpet less, too.
Milk Street
At the corner of Milk Street and Cookie Avenue, I’d like to build an old-fashioned shop selling cookies.
Kids could come there after school, buy cookies, and dip them in milk while doing homework.
Parents from the community could act as tutors or babysitters.
Instead, there’s a crackhouse.
Sure, there’s kids there, but they’re not doing their homework. They’re acting as lookouts for cops or rival gangs.
I pull up with my milk truck, get out, and walk up to the door.
I pick up the empty milk bottles, put down fresh, and knock.
At least they pay in cash.
Healthy Eating
I was sent to a mission on some remote Pacific Island to teach the natives about our Church, culture, and all sorts of modern things like nutrition.
Fruits and vegetables are good for you, nice and healthy, while too much meat and fat is bad for you.
“You are what you eat,” I say.
They hit me on the head, tied me up, and stuck me in a stewpot.
Nobody told me these savages were cannibals.
The hot water woke me up, and I shouted “Don’t eat me!”
The chief laughed. “We’re giving you a bath. Man, your cologne stinks.”
Spectactle
The town hung criminals from a tree outside the courthouse.
People came from miles to watch.
Over time, it became an event.
Hawkers shouted LEMONADE and PRETZELS as they pushed their carts through the jubilant crowd.
The town decided this was in bad taste and ended the public hangings.
Instead, they made the hangings private.
The new county arboretum is a beautiful building, built around the old hanging tree.
Hangings are now private events. Invitation-only.
No people coming from miles to watch.
No pushcarts. No lemonade or pretzels.
Just the witnesses, the criminal, the hangman, and a bottle of champagne.
Put To Sleep
Once, he was the youngest of our cats.
He ran circles around the others, who hissed and swatted at him with arthritic paws.
Now, he is the oldest, and it’s his turn to go to the vet.
He will be put to sleep.
No, this is not a euphemism for euthanasia.
He will be literally put to sleep.
And then flash-frozen.
Just like the others.
Deep in the salt dome under the city, the Pyramid Of Bast is being constructed, one brick at a time.
One soul at a time.
When completed, perhaps she will arise.
And all will rise.
Interrogation
We bind his ankles and wrists with wire, put him in the chair, and shove a burlap sack over his head.
The manual then said: “When he wakes up, yank the hood off of his head.”
Fred read that wrong, and the moment the guy woke up, Fred yanked off his head.
What a mess.
At least the head was in a sack, but the rest just bled everywhere.
Afterwards, we wrote the author, suggesting that a tarp be put down under the chair, or at the very least some large rags or towels you don’t plan on using again.
Sing, Motherfuckers!
His powerful X-Ray Vision, stalemated by another superhero with O-Ray Vision in a game of naughts and crosses.
Faster than a speeding bullet, even faster than a bullet driving sensibly under the speed limit.
He once sued Dr. Pepper for malpractice… and won!
He sold vowels wholesale to Pat Sajak, who resold them on Wheel Of Fortune at a huge markup.
He once crossed an oboe with a bassoon to create an oboassoon, which Keith Richards uses as a bong.
“Grease” became a musical when he stood up in the audience and shouted “SING, MOTHERFUCKERS!”
That’s me, dammit!
SING, MOTHERFUCKERS!