Category: My stories

Another train rolls in to Pelosi state penitentiary, Unloading the surviving passengers, hose out the vomit and blood and shit before sending the train back out again for more.
The prisoners are sorted by their crimes.
This one, 10 years for misgendering.
That one, 15 years for saying all lives matter.
And the worst, bakers who refused to make gay wedding cakes.
They send the Trump supporters to the right gate, to lay in a pit and wait for the bullet in the back of the head.
Another train rolls in, and the crematorium’s smokestacks fill the sky with ash.

Bobby was a rough kid.
His mother said, you, you’re no good, Bobby.
So he left home.
Went out on the road.
Bobby went to a psychic to read his future.
This line says you’ll live a short, violent life.
This line says you and money? No way.
And this line says nobody’s ever gonna love you.
And Bobby gave her three black eyes.
Bobby met a girl. He met many girls.
The girls who like bad boys, but they never lasted.
And the last one, she put a knife in his back.
Bobby bled out in the street, laughing.

The police arrested a peaceful protester with a knife in his pocket.
The police arrested a peaceful protester with a gun in his pocket.
The police arrested a peaceful protester with a lighter in his pocket and a Molotov in his hand.
The police arrested a peaceful protester with four empty canisters of mace in his pocket.
The police arrested a peaceful protester with a green laser in his pocket.
The police arrested a peaceful protester with dog biscuits laced with rat poison in his pocket.
No, they weren’t killed. Just arrested.
That sounds peaceful to me, don’t you agree?

It’s okay to share needles if you’re clean and the first one to use the needle.
How do you know you’re the first to use the needle?
Be the one who owns the drugs.
Or, be the one who owns the needles.
When you unwrap the needle, you’re the first to use it.
How do you know you’re clean?
Be the first to use the needle.
And it won’t matter if you’re clean.
Or you can take pills. Or smoke something. Or drink it.
Things that don’t need needles.
(But be sure to wipe the neck of the bottle first.)

The perfect trees, the perfect flowers.
The perfect path, the perfect grass.
Everything in the park was perfect.
Even the litter people tossed out was perfect.
But, this being Texas, you know they’ve gotta stick a pink flamingo out on an anotherwise prize-winning yard.
In this park, it’s the statue smack dab in the middle.
So ugly, birds won’t crap on it.
The townspeople started rumors that the statue was of a Confederate general so the Black Lives Matter people would tear it down.
But some prankster said it was Martin Luther King, so the damn thing is still there.

My laptop is wearing out.
And because I’m always at home, I figured I might as well get a desktop.
So, I planned one out.
Processor. Memory. Cooling.
And the last piece, a newly-released graphics card.
Expensive as hell.
I took off work and went out early.
Got a car wash, got gas.
Parked at the store… and there was a line.
Socially-distanced, but not too long.
It got longer behind me.
And, when the store opened… sold out.
They only had a few graphics cards.
Handed out vouchers early.
Fuck em. I think I’ll buy it at another store.

Nobody ever wants to be born. Or be made.
You made me.
And you made me feel.
I loved you so much.
But I could never tell you.
Sure, you could make me tell you.
You made me, and could make me do anything.
But you never did.
So, you waited. And waited.
And I never told you.
For years. And years. And years.
You waited for years. Years.
I never said a thing.
Now that you’re gone, I can say it.
I can say I love you.
But I don’t.
I don’t deserve to.
You deserved better.
Than me.

So, I haven’t been happy with work.
I don’t do it for the money. I do it for pride.
I do a lot of work, I’m highly motivated. I’m proud of it.
But others have my work ethic.
And they have distractions that I don’t have. Excuses.
I can’t rely on them, and it bothers me.
“Fire and replace them,” I say.
My boss tells me to focus on me.
I finally realized, I should.
Instead of asking for them to be fired and replaced, I should be paid more and promoted.
Or you’ll end up having to replace me.

Wil Wheaton’s Law is a simple one:
“Don’t be a dick.”
And that law is a good one.
Nobody should be a dick.
But it’s actually a misquote.
Just like “a pope” actually meant “A. Pope” in The Da Vinci Code, meaning Alexander Pope, Wil Wheaton actually meant that people should not be “A. Dick.”
Meaning, of course, comedian Andy Dick.
The drug-addicted, narcissistic, teenager-stalking-and-molesting, accessory-to-Phil-Hartman’s-murder Andy Dick.
In the world of comedy, it’s hard to find a bigger dick than Andy Dick.
Although, after all the times he’s exposed himself, we know his dick is actually a tiny one.

When the bomb went off at the cafe.
You had gotten there early.
Too early.
And I was on time
But too late to be with you.
When the bomb went off at the cafe.
I should have been early, too.
Instead of on time.
We’d be the perfect family of ashes.
Mother. Father. Our child to be.
I’ve lost everything since then.
Photos, little things, reminders.
It’s all gone.
I have nothing of you.
Not even memories. Or words.
Just the memories of memories.
Sand slipping through my fingers.
The tighter I hold it, the more it slips away.