Unlike other feasts for saints, The Feast For Saint Walter is unique in the fact it does not involve any elaborate preparations, but involves eating from a dumpster.
That’s right. A dumpster.
Walter was flat-ass broke when he was alive, bumming money from everybody.
I always said “It’s a miracle that people still give that dude money.”
Bob once told me “It’s a miracle his wife hasn’t thrown his broke ass out.”
He was rummaging through a dumpster and hit his head on the lid when the truck came.
Martyrdom through compaction.
Hey, is that an orange rind?
Walter provides!
Category: My stories
Turn
I’m out in my workshop, tinkering with junk I’ve scavenged.
It took a while, but I think I have this old radio fixed.
I plug it in to the solar battery array, flip the switch, and the tubes begin to glow.
So beautiful.
I slowly turn the knob, and the empty frequencies swirl and crackle with the random almost-nonsense of static.
Something pops.
Wait. Was that a voice?
I turn the dial back.
Nothing.
I keep my eyes closed, listening… searching…
No voices. No music. No recorded messages.
I turn it off.
Am I the last man alive?
God forbid.
Take Your Rocket To Work Day
Today is Take Your Daughter To Work Day.
Jameson came in with a rocket launcher over his shoulder.
It seems he didn’t read his email and heard things wrong. Thought it was “Take Your Rocket To Work Day.”
Which seems weird, sure, but if you know Jameson, it’s not all that weird.
Rocket sounds an awful lot like daughter. Especially when you launch a lot of rockets over the weekend and have considerable hearing damage.
The one thing that has me worried is that Jameson may have misheard “Take” and think we said “Launch.”
I wish he’d read his email.
The Divorce of Figaro
Did you know that Mozart wrote a sequel to The Marriage Of Figaro?
It’s called The Divorce Of Figaro.
A year after the chaotic wedding day, Figaro is lamenting his crazy.
Seductions and singing.
Feasts and fancy.
Subterfuge and plots.
The Count and The Countess are on the rocks, too. The entire mansion is a wreck, every treasure having been smashed against walls in endless fighting.
The four take their fighting to the street, and they bump into each other.
They end up divorcing, The Count marries Figaro, and the curtain comes down.
A good story, but the music sucked.
Making The Grade
Years ago, back when I was in college, I was better at hauling kegs than carrying a courseload.
My GPA was horrifying.
However, I was making good cash running parties, so I figured I could buy my way out of the mess I’ve made.
I caught the professor at one of the parties, a Wheel Of Fortune-themed party, and I told him “I know I’m getting an F, but I’d like to buy a vowel, please.”
Five hundred bucks, it cost me.
That night, the professor shacked up with a Freshman and got fired. His TA turned in the F.
Which came first?
Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
Does it matter? Do we need to go over this again?
Fine. It was neither.
That’s right. Neither the chicken nor the egg came first.
It was the flying saucers.
They landed, aliens came out, and then looked around for a while.
The flying saucers took off, but they left a bunch of stuff, like crystal skulls, eggs, and chickens.
The crystal skulls mutated the eggs so they hatched all the different forms of life, like horses and monkeys and people.
There’s your answer.
Oh, and I’ll take my horse eggs scrambled.
The World Is My Gym
The world is my gym.
The sidewalk is my treadmill.
And the membership is free.
Sometimes, it’s raining.
Sometimes, it’s hot.
Sometimes, it’s cold.
Sometimes, it’s windy.
But, usually, it’s nice out.
The birds are singing.
I can’t hear them.
I have my headphones on.
A bird swoops past my head, flapping.
Defending its nest.
This happens every day.
I think about bringing a club.
Or a weighted sock.
To stun the aggressive avian.
What if I kill it?
Who would feed the baby birds?
I imagine myself, perched over featherless chicks.
Then vomiting into the nest
Where’s my ladder?
The Statue
We dug up the statue and cleaned it off.
It was a golden angel, and it was perfect in every way.
When was it made?
Who made it?
Why?
It didn’t weigh like it was solid gold. We thumped it and it sounded hollow, but filled with something.
Did we dare open it?
We had it shipped back to the university, and after careful examination, we found an unobtrusive spot to drill.
The hole grew deeper, deeper…
That’s when the poison gas leaked out, and as we choked, we realized it was the artist’s final statement:
Don’t fuck with perfection.
Sense Of Home
The difference between house and home.
Home is where you feel safe. Home is where you belong.
The moment you no longer feel safe or feel you belong, it no longer feels like home.
Afraid. Hurt. Breathing quickly.
Violated.
Add locks, add alarms.
There’s nothing you can add to bring back that sense of home.
So, you go somewhere else. You search for some place safe.
Where you feel like you belong.
It takes time.
Cuts scar over. Bruises vanish.
You stop jumping at every noise.
Eventually, you forget to be afraid, and the worry slowly goes away.
Welcome home.
Get your own ghost!
What are you doing, wrapping your rage in a ghost?
If you’re going to be an asshole, do it on your own terms!
Don’t go dragging their good name through the mud as you bloody your fists on someone face.
It’s disgusting when you wrap yourself in the flag and act all patriotic for profit, but it’s utterly revolting how you exploit the memory of someone who trusted you.
How could you?
What’s even worse is that you didn’t even wait for them to die.
I wish you were dead, because I can’t wait to do the same to you.