Category: My stories

The Rings

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During the Olympics, Hector stopped serving onion rings at his diner.
He also diced onions instead of putting them on hamburgers as loops.
The risk of five onion sections arranging themselves into the five rings logo of the Olympics was far too great, and lawyers were constantly watching for an opportunity to sue.
“Onions make you cry,” said the lawyers. “But we’ll make you hurt.”
Then they’d order a hamburger with onions and onion rings, just to rub it in.
Hector snapped, grabbed a lawyer, and shoved his face into the fryer.
The others, he stabbed.
And didn’t even cry.

The Useless

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After all of Roger’s hair fell out, he threw out his combs, brushes, shampoos, and hair gels.
He didn’t need them anymore.
However, he kept his hairdryer, since sometimes he liked to give himself a blast of heat.
And he liked to scare the crap out of the cat with it.
Sneaking up on a cat isn’t easy to do, but over the years Mister Whiskers had become somewhat deaf.
Roger even had an extension cord for the hairdryer.
As Roger pointed the device at the cat, it rolled over and exposed its fuzzy belly.
Roger sighed and pet it.

The Executed

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The execution is over, and the king congratulates the royal headsman.
“Well done,” he says.
The headsman nods, holding his hood.
Afterwards, he walks to his dungeon alcove, closes the door, and lays down his massive axe.
Then, he takes off his black hood and hangs it on a hook.
There is no mirror in this room… they are luxuries for the nobles.
So, he is saved from the horror of looking upon his rotten and gruesome visage.
Pulling the freshly decapitated head out of a sack, he replaces his rotten and putrid one.
And puts the hood back on.

Fuzzy Cheese

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Robert’s in his eighties, so you can’t blame him for having his share of “senior moments.”
The other day, he was carrying around a small wheel of moldy cheese, petting it and calling it “Mister Whiskers.”
Seems he was remembering an orange cat from his from his childhood, he forgot to put on his glasses, and the hairy hunk of Cheddar just got his broken imagination going again.
Still, it’s not as bad as when he tried to French the stove or hump the dishwasher.
We’d put him in a rest home, but we’re a little worried about the appliances.

The Scrubber

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As I lay back in the tub and relax, I look up at the shower head and the lufah scrubber hanging from there.
My eyes are cloudy from the steam and the stress of the day washing off of me, so when I look at the sponge at the end of the stick, it looks like a cross between Mr. Peanut and one of the California Raisins.
I can’t tell if he’s smiling or frowning. He’s squinting, for certain, but his expression is really hard to read.
Who cares, right?
So, I reach for the stick and scrub my back.

Advertising

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I don’t like advertising in bathrooms.
So when I see ads in the mens bathroom, I take then down, go into the womens bathroom, and put the ads up there. Then I take down the womens ads and put them in the mens room.
Nothing quite like walking up to a urinal with a leg razor ad staring you in the face, right?
I’ve also noticed that toilet paper is much nicer in the womens bathrooms, so I take the rolls from there.
Do I put them in the mens room?
No. I just take them for myself.
I’m cheap.

The Overcoat

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For a century, Danny O’Bannon’s overcoat hung on a hook in O’Bannon’s Bar.
His great-grandson Timothy stared at it and then the contract on his desk.
Danny also liked to gamble, but Danny picked winners.
“Just sign it, Tim,” said the lawyers for the development company. “We’ll take care of the rest.”
Tim picked up the pen and wrote his name at the bottom of the contract.
When the lawyers left, Timothy put on the overcoat and looked for the old hurricane lantern.
One flick of the lighter, and the old bar was in flames.
And O’Bannon’s was no more.

The Voter

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The moron holds a ballot in his hand, looking down the list of names.
It doesn’t make a lick of difference. The moron does not know how to read.
He refuses to admit it, though. He’s too proud to admit it.
He also doesn’t watch the news on television. He likes to watch sports and movies.
As long as they don’t require much thinking, he’s fine. Never did like thinking much.
He steps into an open booth next to yours and begins to punch out his choices.
And in the end, his vote counts as much as yours.
Tragic, no?

The Day Ends

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Valentine’s Day comes once a year, and then it’s gone.
The flowers are dead, the chocolates are eaten, the champagne bottle is out in the recycling bin with the rest of the glass, and the card is buried behind the past few day’s stack of bills.
Still, it’s not as grisly a scene as when St. Patrick’s Day is over.
Half-empty kegs, beer-vomit and piss in the hallway, plastic cups on the lawn…
And then there’s the matter of the dead leprechaun.
I followed the rainbow, found his gold, stuck the little corpse in the pot, and buried it again.

Despise

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I despise you now, but one day, I will stop despising you.
You see, I plan on living forever, and once you meet your doom, there’s not much point in despising you, is there?
There will be so many new people, young and fresh, that will need despising and there’s no sense in wasting despise on the dead.
They’re, like, dead, you know? What’s the point in despising a dead person? It’s not like they can feel your despise.
I just wanted you to know.
Here’s your cheeseburger and fries.
Would you like some ketchup and salt for the fries?