I know it’s impolite to do so, but we talk about you behind your back.
Literally. We stand right behind you and talk about you behind your back.
Oh, you can hear us back here?
What if we whisper. Like this?
Still hear us?
Well, I guess that defeats the purpose of talking about you behind your back if you can hear it.
Maybe if you would lean against a wall and we can talk about you on the other side of the wall?
That’s not the same?
Well, at least our conversation puts your back up against the wall.
Category: My stories
Jif Skippy
Girls are not made of sugar and spice and everything nice.
They are made of peanut butter.
You know, If I made a daughter out of peanut butter, I’d name her Jif Skippy.
Because if I made a son out of peanut butter, I’d name him Tom.
No, I wouldn’t name him Peter Pan. Because everyone else making boys out of peanut butter name their boys Peter Pan.
Some use chunky, others use smooth.
I don’t have a preference, as long as it isn’t low-cost generic.
If you’re going to make a daughter out of peanut butter, use quality ingredients.
Resource
The company handbook says that their most important resource is their employees.
Bullshit. When you work for SolarNet Energy, the most precious resource is the orbiting array of reflectors and collectors.
If there’s a choice between you and the array…
Let me rephrase that. There is no choice. We protect the array at any cost.
Any cost.
The previous CEO of the company wanted a ribbon-cutting ceremony.
I said “Dumb idea.”
She insisted. And she accidentally started an electron cascade reaction.
After they pulled out her charred corpse and fixed the grid, I said “Well done, guys. Flip the switch.”
Hostages
Gunshots.
Screams.
Alarms.
Shouting.
Then, after a while, sirens.
The bank job went sour, so the robbers took hostages.
“We brought plenty of water and food for ourselves,” they said. “Either meet our demands or these hostages can starve.”
Pizzas and cokes arrived quickly, but the FBI refused their demands.
“Don’t you want a helicopter?” they asked. “Or a bus to the airport?”
“Nope,” the robbers said. “We want horsey-back rides out of here. We hadn’t had those in years and loved getting them as kids.”
When the situation was over, the FBI had to admit, they had fun, too.
Feathers
She carries the sack full of feathers.
I carry the fan, dragging a long extension cord behind me.
When we get to the Henderson’s, I set down the fan
She opens up the sack.
I turn on the fan.
It’s loud. Really loud.
The strongest one I could find that I could still carry.
She knocks on the door.
But I can’t hear it. The fan is that loud.
I can’t hear the deadbolt turning and the door opening, either.
But I hear the yelling when she dumps the feathers on the fan.
That’s when the feathers start to fly.
Smithereens
The kids built an airship, rigging bicycles and peach-crates to a massive solar-heated airbag with a lightweight steering and ballast system.
After a few test flights and an inspection by the county engineer, I gave them permission to take it to school.
“Check the forecast,” I said. “If there’s any chance of rain, you’re taking the bus or walking.”
They used to ride their bikes, but those were now a part of the airship.
Pedaling quickly, they rise into the air gracefully.
That’s when I see their bookbags still on the porch.
Little scamps!
I run for a dangling tether-rope.
You may now kiss the… WHAT?
I got married in Vegas eleven years ago.
It was a small ceremony. Friends and family.
And a preacher who was drunk out of his fucking mind.
He stumbled and slurred his way through the ceremony, and he couldn’t stop staring down the Maid Of Honor’s dress.
Then, at the end, he said “You may now kiss the bridge.”
“Don’t you mean bride?” I asked.
But by then, he was passed out, and I thought I smelled gas, so we all ran for it before a spark could blow us all to Kingdom Come.
What about the bridge?
Tasted… rusty.
Ring
Packed crowd at Madison Square Garden.
A boxer climbs through the ropes and steps into the ring.
The crowd roars.
Another boxer climbs in.
More cheering.
The boxers wait.
“Where’s the ref?” asks the first boxer.
“I dunno,” says the other.
They turn to their corners, but their managers and crews don’t have a clue, either.
A microphone is lowered on a cord, but there’s nobody to take it.
So, one of the boxers grabs it and begins to sing.
The other joins in as harmony.
The crowd loves it.
Beats getting the shit beaten out of you, I suppose.
The Apple
I like to go to the store and buy a bunch of different kinds of apples.
Red. Golden. Macintosh.
All different kinds.
Then I bring them home and slice them up, making an apple buffet.
Each apple has its own unique texture, tartness, sweetness, and juiciness.
I try them all, closing my eyes and picking out slices to put in my mouth, chew slowly, swallow.
I thought about putting out caramel and honey and other things to dip them in, or walnuts and peanuts to roll them in.
But for me, the apples are enough.
Here. Have one, Snow White.
The Valve
Ernest has had heart trouble for years.
The doctor says it’s something congenital, but eating pork and bacon as often as Ernest does doesn’t help matters much.
So, he’s getting a heart valve replacement.
“One of them mechanicals?” asks Ernest.
“Actually, you’re a good candidate for a transplant from a pig’s heart,” said the doctor.
Ernest thinks for a bit. “Good, but one thing, doc?”
“What’s that?” asks the doctor.
“For as much as I’m paying, I should get the rest of the pig,” he says.
Three weeks later, he roasted it on a spit to celebrate leaving the hospital.