Category: My stories

Hole In The Moon

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Somebody shot a fuckin hole in the moon.
No, really. Don’t believe me?
Look up there yourself.
It’s right there.
See?
Last night, I looked up, and there it was. A hole in the moon.
It was in all the papers and on television, but nobody knew who shot the hole in the moon or how they did it.
Don’t tell me you don’t see it.
A big hole. In the moon.
You can’t miss it.
What do you mean you don’t see it?
There’s a hole in the moon.
I swear.
And it wasn’t me.
I just saw it.

Kill All The Lawyers

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Doctor Odd’s wealth comes from a series of patents he’s licensed the rights to.
If I told you what devices he invented, you’d be amazed.
You’d also be shocked to know that such easy-to-use devices were blamed by countless fools for causing grievous injuries.
They sued Doctor Odd for millions of dollars.
Doctor Odd responded by inventing one last, simple, incredibly useful invention.
Everyone in the world ended up buying one. In fact, each person born into this world is provided with one now.
Oh, and this invention – it also kills lawyers.
(Which makes it even more useful, I suppose.)

Caps Lock

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I hate it when I accidentally hit the Caps Lock key and everything I type is all caps.
So, I took a butter knife and pried out that key.
I don’t make mistakes like that any more.
I also pried out the Pause key because I never use that one.
I never use Scroll Lock or the keys on the number pad either.
They’re gone, too.
Then I started prying out more keys. Symbols. Numbers. Letters.
Pretty soon, I was left with nothing remaining.
The screen asks me to hit any key to continue.
I’ll just sit here, happily waiting.

No Plan Survives Battle

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Jane, my editor, smiles as she reads my manuscript.
“No plan survives battle,” she says, as she’s said with all my other manuscripts.
The first was a mystery. She turned it into a best-selling cookbook.
My award-winning biography of Simon Bolivar started as a simple romance.
Then came the collection of Dutch poetry, the travel guide to the moon, a guide to Poker…
Everything I give her, she completely changes it… transforms it.
When I read it, it’s still familiar. Like my own writing is trapped within, screaming to be let out.
Bills scream to be paid, too, you know.

The Playboy God

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In his penthouse apartment, God is drinking.
He does this every night.
One, two, three too many.
He wobbles and sways on his barstool, finally falling to the vast black marble floor.
In a final moment of clarity, he retches up the universe.
Then, he passes out.
In this vomit cosmos, we are born, and live, and love.
And die.
After eons of uneasy slumber, God comes to his senses.
Confused, clumsy, and disgusted with himself.
Ignoring our pleas for mercy, he looks for a mop.
Then, after cleaning up, he settles at the bar.
And begins the cycle again.

Space Signals

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We’ve been waiting centuries for the signal to arrive, and now that we have it, we can’t understand any of it.
It’s just digital jibberish flowing through the vastness of space, and we have no idea what any of it means.
But it’s out there. And we’re collecting it up, storing it in a digital library until we can figure out what it all means.
Sometimes I wonder if way out there in space, strange beings are gathering up all the crap we broadcast out into the void.
I’m sure the idiots at the RIAA will sue them for it.

My funeral

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yesterday night
I was thinking about
my funeral
if i were irish
i’d have a wake
and at that wake
there’d be alcohol
and music
and a guillotine
so my friends
and family
could hold a raffle
and the winner
would get to
cut off my head
(unless, of course
that is how
i died
in the first place)
instead, i am jewish
and there you will be
sitting shiva
for seven days
but just because
you have to sit
it doesn’t mean
it can’t be
on a whoopee cushion
or on a shiatsu
massage device
draped over
your chair

Water Flows

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If you insist on looking back, fine – Let’s all look back.
Water spreads in the ocean.
Water flows down the river.
Water runs through the sewer.
Water runs down the pipes.
Water collects in the drain.
A teardrop rolls down a face, falls into a drain.
Another. And another.
A painful memory recalled.
Drinking a glass of water.
Water flows into the glass.
Water flows through the pipes.
Water flows through the treatment plant.
From your perspective, it’s a painful memory.
But the water doesn’t know or care.
It just flows from place to place, unaware of what it does.

Salt and Pepper

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Her collection started simple – a dog and a cat. The dog held the pepper and the cat held the salt.
Then, she got a bride and groom set. The Bride’s dress used to be as white as the salt inside it.
Year after year, shelf by shelf – the shaker collection grew.
They kept her company in her old age, surrounding her with gleaming beauty.
When she died, she asked that her ashes be poured inside the shakers and her house turned into a museum.
Instead, the ashes were lost at the mortuary, and the shakers are sold off on eBay.

The H Word

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“To the man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail.”
Ever hear that?
I have. And I saw something similar to it carved into the bathroom stall: “To the man with a tree and a rope, everything looks like a nigger.”
Disgusting, isn’t it?
Know what’s worse? It’s carved into the bathroom stall of a church.
My church.
I close the Bible and look up from the pulpit.
“Which one of you fuckers wrote that?” I shout.
They stare back. Nobody responds.
Oh well. No sense beating a dead horse.
Potluck Sunday, you know.
Pass the potato salad, please.