Category: My stories

Tendy works in The Word Factory.
She’s in the development division that makes new raw words.
They also work with rejects that come in for refurbishment and recycling.
The functional prototypes go to the testing division.
Tendy’s friend Bartch works in Testing.
He runs words through durability testing to ensure they can stand up to frequent use.
Some words come back to Tendy for necessary improvements.
While others go out for field testing.
Once a week, the whole factory listens to the CEO as he reads off the list of new words.
For the exceptional words, the creators get bonuses.

Casey’s brought his car into the shop again.
It’s a disaster on wheels, but he can’t get rid of it.
“It’s the car I’d drive my kid to the hospital in,” he said.
She died of something slow and horrible, it was in the papers.
And so was he.
“You’re too good to me,” he said. “Fix her up good as new again?”
I think they’d what he was telling the doctors.
The other guys at the shop say he’s wrecking it for attention.
“Munchausen” is what they call it.
I looked it up. And wondered what killed his kid.

The report says that halfway through the flight, a guy in first class loses his shit.
He’s a science teacher, and the pull tab on his soda can uses a second class lever.
“I thought this was first class!” he shouts. “I want a first class lever! Effort, Fulcrum, Weight! ”
He starts hitting the flight attendant with a pillow.
“Stop!” she shouts. “That’s also a second-class lever!”
And he stops long enough for the marshal to knock him out.
How a science teacher affords first class, I dunno.
And how a flight attendant knows basic physics, that’s a bigger mystery.

Sure, I could watch baseball at home, but there’s nothing like going to the park.
It gets me out of the house for a while.
It’s amazing how things have gone from paper tickets to a code on your cell phone.
The apps do everything… tickets, ordering food.
I noticed a beta feature on the app that says BALL.
When I tapped it, sure enough, a ball was hit right at me.
Knocking me out cold.
I woke up in the hospital. I’ll be here for a few days.
But at least I’m out of the house for a while.

When I ask Siri to do advanced math calculations, I think fondly of every math teacher telling me “You won’t always have a calculator.”
Well, I did then, and I do now.
I didn’t always have batteries, but when I got a solar calculator, I didn’t need them.
And then I imagine the math teachers in Hell, having a hundred calculators jammed into every orifice of their body.
Over and over.
Oh, and slide rules, too.
Can’t forget slide rules.
Sodomize those bastards with them.
What about abacuses?
Not as much, I think.
Maybe spank the math teachers with those.

Back in the old days, there was a game called Wizardry.
It was like Dungeons and Dragons with wizards, fighters, thieves, and clerics.
There were also bishops who could identify items that you could sell to the store.
Pretty useless otherwise. I’d leave them before.
Clerics were good for two things: healing combat characters and raising them from the dead.
Much cheaper than raising them in the town’s chapel.
If your entire party died, well, you had to send someone down to fetch their bodies.
Just pray your bishop can run fast enough to avoid getting seen by the monsters.

Before they were the dogs of war that warmongers would let slip, they were the puppies of war.
Breeders picked from the best lines of dogs of war to produce them, breeding for the best attributes of war.
Showing off their selections at dogs of war shows, working out deals with other breeders to reinforce bloodlines.
Feeding them puppies of war chow to help them grow big and strong and healthy.
Training them to be obedient, as long as they remain on the leash.
But when let slip, all chaos results.
And not just scattered squeaky toys and pissed carpets.

Every company, junk food and fast food, sends out their mascots to schools.
Today, it’s the clown in yellow, red, and white. the one from the burger place.
He’s at the school to teach the kids about nutrition and exercise.
Leading them through games and songs and dances.
The pudgy kids stumbling, falling, and wheezing.
Tomorrow, it’ll be the old man in the white suit, the one from the chicken place.
With more games and songs and dances.
And when the fun is over, the kids go home, and they scream for the unhealthy stuff.
Coming back fatter and clumsier.

The Swiss claim to be neutral.
A permanent mountainous buffer between France and Austria.
They refuse to join any defense pacts.
They refuse to join any economic treaties.
Or allow attacks to be launched from their territory in their conflict.
However, they’re more than happy to lecture others from on high on how to conduct war and human rights.
While manufacturing and selling weapons to everyone. (Until war breaks out)
Filling their banks with the gold and assets of the world’s leaders.
Expensive chalets for the losers of those conflicts.
Oh, and to sell body bags.
And watches. And chocolates.

If you use a razor, you’ll give yourself nicks and cuts.
But if you use an electric shaver or trimmer, you’ll end up causing more than a few ingrown hairs.
The closer you shave, the more ingrown hairs happen.
Some become inflamed and messy.
Squeezing them out, cleaning them up, patting on the astringent.
Again. And again. And again.
I don’t know which is messier, the razor or the shaver.
As I get older and my hands shakier, I cut myself more.
Before I wash the blood from my face, the cat jumps on the counter to lick it off.