Category: Elisson

It was only a matter of time before she branched out into a new business.
Name recognition? She had that – in spades. Her online journal was massively popular: on the rare occasions when she accepted comments, hundreds would sprout, like mushrooms after spring rain. She was eagerly sought out for interviews. Television. Newspapers.
But writing was becoming a bore, so she now turned her prodigious talents to the world of fashion design. Within months, her pocketbooks were being introduced in the hottest salons of Beverly Hills and Salt Lake City.
Yes, ladies: Now you, too, can own a DooceBag.

Ron had trouble holding down a job.
He was fired from the zoo after they caught him spanking the monkey. Even worse, there was evidence that he had also been whipping the lizard.
He lasted less than a week at the Tyson processing plant. Someone discovered him in the process of choking the chicken, a job he was unauthorized to perform. The SPCA was outraged.
All of this changed when Ron interviewed with the Staunton Amalgamated Chess-Piece Manufactory. He was hired, quickly rising through the ranks, eventually becoming CEO.
For nobody could wax a bishop as well as Ron. Nobody.

Harrison lifted the spoon to his mouth and started chewing. His face contorted into a mask of disgust.
“Jeezus! What is this shit?”
“Exactly,” replied Johnston.
“We did some research. Turns out most mammals do a lousy job of extracting nutrients from food. Plenty of stuff just – goes to waste, you’ll pardon the expression. We’re simply running it through a second time.
“Plus, the ingredients are practically free. Think of the variable margin – like printing money!”
Harrison considered this briefly, rolling a kernel of corn around on his tongue.
“Add a sugar frosting and put a bear on the box.”

Father Dominic was beginning to come unglued.
The Offertory had gone just fine. Sanctus, likewise. Lord’s Prayer, no problem.
The Agnus Dei had never sounded sweeter.
It was after Communion that things began to get sketchy. Congregants started milling around aimlessly, bumping into each other in the pews, cracking ankles on the kneelers, eyes glazed. It took three hours to herd them all out the door after “Missa est.”
By now, Dominic felt pretty strange himself. Bizarre lights flashed; weird howls echoed. Was God speaking?
Later, he found out that an altar boy had spiked the Communion wine with LSD.

The card showing today’s special at the company cafeteria read “Geek Salad.”
Fucking typos, I thought. Nobody takes pride in their work anymore.
I stepped up to the counter to place my order. A big bowl of salad would be good. Feta, anchovies, the whole works. Mop everything up with a hunk of pita bread.
That’s when I noticed the whacked-out dude behind the counter, biting the heads off live, squawking chickens and spitting them into a big tub of lettuce and dressing.
Huh, I thought. No typo after all. But at least this guy takes pride in his work.

My buddy Dave struggled with his weight for years.
Name a diet; he’d tried it, with dismal results. Weight Watchers. Jenny Craig. Atkins. South Beach. Ultra Slim-Fast.
A few months ago, someone told Dave about Transcendental Meditation. Worked wonders, they said. Your guru would assign a mantra, a specific random word that you would repeat to yourself to focus your meditation. Having the right mantra was critical to help you concentrate, avoid distractions, achieve your goal.
Dave’s goal was to lose 85 pounds.
His mantra was “Hersheybar.”
Last time I saw him, he was at 325 and heading north fast.