All the world’s a stage
But unlike those women and men
Who are merely players
With their exits and entrances
We are the guys who run the box office
Selling tickets to people
Who have nothing better to do
Than watch the same old shit
Happen over and over and over
Sure, some do it better than others
The ushers come in and tell us
“Hey, this one dude, he’s good!”
We take turns, close a window
Watch for a while, get bored
And come back to the box office
Reopen the window, and ask
“How many for the show?”
Category: My stories
I can hear the television cameras
They say I am the Bobby Fischer of Tiddly Winks.
I say I am better than he was at… at…
Play chess?
Piss people off?
Hate Jews?
Whatever he did, I am better at Tiddly Winks than what he did.
He had his board, his pieces.
His outbursts.
I have my squidger, my winks, my mat, and my cup.
Blitz! Blitz! Blitz!
Pot them all fast!
One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six!
Now I wait for my partner… and…
NO!
COME ON, YOU COULD HAVE MADE THAT SHOT!
Hurry up! Hurry up!
Hurry up, doctors…
Hurry up and clone me!
The Cake Of Damocles
The Tyrant of Syracuse, Dionysius, welcomed the rebel Damocles into his home, offering his throne to the visitor.
“It’s all yours,” he said. “Enjoy.”
“Thank you,” said Damocles, and he sat down.
It was then that he looked up and saw a red and white cake, suspended over the throne.
“What’s with the cake?”
“It represents the threat those in power must live under every day.”
“Threat of cake? But I like cake.”
“Then I guess you like danger.”
That’s when the cake fell, and the sword inside it impaled Damocles.
“Oh, did I forget to mention it’s strawberry swordcake?”
The Trouble With Truffles
The trouble with truffles
Is how much they cost
If the truffle is bad
Think how much you’ve lost
Dull aroma? Dull flavor?
Yes? And you simmered it right?
Then you must go to the store
And prepare for a fight!
The store owner laughs twice
“What are you, a dope?
It’s no truffle at all,
But a bar of black soap!”
“Then where is my truffle?”
Your blind rage is all spent.
Falling down to the floor
And then notice… your scent.
Back home in your shower
Sitting there in a tray
Is a decaying truffle
melting slowly away.
Scribe
Where do I get my ideas?
I don’t know. Everywhere, I guess.
I’m walking along, minding my own business, and I see something that inspires me.
I used to keep a spiralbound notebook with me for those times, to write down the ideas.
Then I got a smartphone, but when my hands were full, or I got ideas in the shower (sometimes the same thing, really), I’d end up forgetting them.
Now, I have a monk write everything down for me, any hour of the day.
Brother William is loyal and efficient.
While I am a complete and total douchebag.
The Magic of Music
I came upon a grassy meadow
Massive human hands
Raising violin bows
Like magicians’ wands
Notes rose from the grass
Like dandelion seeds in the breeze
Rising… Rising…
Fading fading vanishing
I could not see any strings
The hands remained still
I heard music all around
A voice: “Music is the magic of life.”
I sat, watched, listened
I think of it again, and smile
The shadows grew long
I thought about heading back home
It’s still out there, that meadow
Where it is, I do not know
I’ve never come across it again
Closing my eyes, the magic returns
Property Values
The housing market’s in trouble, and everybody’s worried about property values going down.
Somehow, that building you live in stopped being a home and became an investment.
A bad investment.
So, you come up with a plan.
Drag the treadmill to the front porch, find the tightest traffic-stopping spandex you can fit into, and see what happens.
A week goes by.
Two weeks.
Three weeks.
You check the online property values map site your friend told you about.
The numbers have gone up.
“I’ve still got it,” you tell yourself, heading for the shower.
(And leave the window curtain open.)
Rending
Do you like my shirt?
Thank you. I just got it.
Yes, it’s a very expensive shirt.
Oh, sure, it was on sale and there’s that sales tax holiday going on, but it still cost me a pretty penny.
I wanted to look my best for my sister’s surgery.
You see, it’s an experimental surgery. Very risky.
We’re hoping for the best, but things could go wrong.
And when things go wrong, well, we Jews do that whole “rending of garments” thing.
So she knows how much I’m pulling for her.
(But if things go wrong, I’m tearing my pants.)
Leading
The old saying goes: You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.
Especially if it’s a vampire horse. Those only drink blood.
However, when you do the math, they’re a lot cheaper to take care of that normal horses.
They don’t need all that veterinary work, shoes, or other crap. Maybe the occasional fancy Victorian-style leather saddle.
None of that glitter or black eyeliner crap. Fuck Twilight, dude.
Oh, and fresh victims every now and then, which if you don’t mind going through a new stable boy every few days, isn’t much of an imposition.
You, who are strong…
Frank told me that he loved poetry. Always wanted to be a poet.
Instead, he became a dentist. His parents made him go to college and then medical school for dentistry, but he absolutely hated it now.
He sneaks out at night to go to poetry readings in coffeehouses and he reads his poetry.
Wakes up tired, exhausted. So tired, he makes mistakes.
As if he cares at his work anymore.
“I just blow through checkups now,” he says. “I get paid either way, right?”
I just stare back.
“Oh. Right. You’re fine. I think. Whatever. Go ahead and spit.”