Category: My stories

Best Ideas

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I get my very best ideas in the bathroom.
You too?
Yeah.
So, I like to keep a notepad in there.
But today, I totally forgot a pen.
No, I wasn’t going to write anything using something… gross. Ewwwwww.
I tried to repeat my great idea over and over so I wouldn’t forget.
But Nardo came into the room, meowing for attention, so I pet him.
By the time I was done in there, I had forgotten my idea.
So, I put a box of pens in a drawer in the bathroom, took 5 Ex-Lax, hoping for inspiration to return.

Band In A Box

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Somebody showed me “Band In A Box.” Just set up a looping track, set the key and the beat, and you’re ready to play or sing along.
It really works.
Until this morning, that is. I pushed the button and nothing happened.
My virtual bassist caught a nasty virus from a digital stripper, then he wrecked his car in a racing game.
No backups, either. The funeral’s tomorrow.
The guitarist looked up Yoko Ono on Wikipedia, fell in love with her, uploaded himself to India, and vanished.
The drummer became a Pastafarian – Flying Spaghetti Monsters.
So, anyone for Guitar Hero?

Put Em On The Glass

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Arnold requested that they put his name on the door to his office, but the office manager kept declining it.
So, he’d write his name in dry-erase marker on the glass door.
The janitor would come by after hours and wipe the glass clean.
This went on for years. Other employees got their names on their doors, but even when Arnold got promoted up the ranks, he never did.
Finally, Arnold outranked the office manager and demanded to know why his requests were declined.
“What the hell do you expect with a last name like Shitfucker?” said the office manager.

Dictator

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The townspeople got word that the country’s dictator, after many years of ruling with an iron fist, had died overnight.
There were celebrations, cries of freedom, and they threw together an effigy of Old General Montcastle for burning.
Then, they looked around and realized things really hadn”t been all that bad with Montcastle running things.
They put the effigy in the town square and started to pile up flowers at its feet, turning it into a memorial of sorts.
Montcastle’s son got word of the memorial and said “Collect the flowers, but we’re still burning the place to the ground.”

For The Birds

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Ever sit down in a restaurant, and you hear people babbling in another language, and you just know it’s about you?
I’m that way with birds. I think among the chirps and tweets and caws and trills, they’re talking about me.
I grabbed a bird off of a clothesline and demanded to know what it was saying about me.
It kept cawing and scratching madly, so I asked it slower and louder.
That always works with people, right?
But no matter how hard you try, it doesn’t work with birds.
So, I threw it against a wall and walked home.

The Best Tea

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Back in WW1, as our boys fought the Kaiser, we made sure they were provided with the best.
The best guns. The best uniforms. The best food. And, most of all, the best tea.
Now, conditions weren’t always the best, and it’s hard to transport millions of teacups through enemy lines. And no civilized man drinks tea from a tin cup.
So, the boys would put tea leaves on their tongues and we’d pour in the boiling water.
They made a contest of it, who could hold their tea the longest before swallowing.
Sugar? Lemon?
Pathetic Nancy boys, those were!

Sign Here

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Nobody notices as she slips in through the back door, silent as a whisper.
Everybody’s busy getting ready for the last scene, shoving props around. Costume changes.
She recognizes a few of the actors and gets out her little autograph book.
“Excuse me,” says a voice. She nearly jumps out of her skin as a man with a clipboard taps her on the shoulder. “Are you with the press?”
She’s frozen. She doesn’t know what to say. She-
“Yes,” says an actor. “She’s here to interview me.”
The clipboard-holder vanishes.
The actor opens the book, signs his name, and smiles.

Punisher

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The Mystic Sisters have a good racket going.
One’s a punisher for hire, taking clients down into her dungeon and beating them within an inch of their lives.
A few days later, they see the fortune-teller sister, the one who read bruises instead of palms.
Sometimes, guys go into the dungeon but don’t go to the fortune-teller. Other times, they see the fortune-teller, but they got their bruises elsewhere.
And then, well, one day, the punisher limps into her sister’s house. She’s got two black eyes.
“Save the bullshit and just get me some ice,” she says.

The Belt

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Mother likes it when we come to dinner, especially when I bring the kids.
When dinner is over and Dad loosens his belt, I see something in Mom’s eyes.
She’s afraid.
Sometimes, she’d call me at the strangest times. Early. Late.
But when I ask her if anything is wrong, she doesn’t say a word.
What does Dad do with that belt that scares her?
I found out last week. Mom was in the kitchen, beaten to death. Dad was hanging in the basement from the belt he beat her with.
Thanksgiving will be at home this year, I guess.

Heartless

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The kidnappers sent Julius one of Edna’s toes, but he still had trouble rounding up the ransom.
Time was running out for Edna. The deadline was Valentine’s Day, and they”d threatened to cut out her heart.
I won’t bore you with the details, but things went sour.
What arrived at Julius’ doorstep on February 15th, wrapped in paper, was her stomach.
The kidnappers didn”t know much about anatomy.
“This means she”s still alive, right?” begged Julius.
The FBI agent looked at his partner.
They started to pack up their equipment and notified the office that it was homicide’s problem now.