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.
Category: My stories
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.
Easy Street
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?
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.”