Woke Christmas Morning

People are protesting Charlie Brown Christmas because Franklin the black kid is forced to sit in a lawn chair on the other side of the table.
They’re also protesting Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer as bigoted.
And the song “Baby It’s Cold Outside” has run afoul of the Me Too Movement, who claim the lyrics are tantamount to date rape.
Not to mention that some radical Muslims get offended by people wishing them Merry Christmas at all.
I asked Santa for a baseball bat.
Aluminum? Wood? Carbon-fiber? As long as it’s not Whiffle.
I just want to beat myself senseless sometimes.

The Taps

It all started with a pub that offered beer on tap.
Just one beer available on tap. Nothing fancy.
Then, the pub next door offered two different beers on tap.
So, of course, the first pub needed to offer three.
And the pub next door offered four.
Five… six… seven… ten… fifteen… twenty…
Pretty soon, both of the pubs had a massive wall of taps.
The bartenders now spend more time changing kegs and tap handles and checking lines than actually serving beer.
It’s crazy behind that wall.
I like to go in and ask to see the wine list.

Weekly Challenge #762 – Cluster

Mice

LIZZIE

Throw it in the bin and forget about it.
But this area is a cluster of infected cases.
Throw it in the bin and forget it.
Walking away is not an easy task when your conscience nags you.
He had to go back. He grabbed the bin, dragged it away to the dump area and chuck it into the fire.
The bin was closed the whole time. He made sure of it.
When he got ill, he was tossed in that same neighborhood, forgotten.
The others, they kept throwing infected stuff in the bin, carelessly, just like they did before

RICHARD

This is it…

“This is it… We’re going to die!”

Emily voiced what we’d all been thinking, but couldn’t bring ourselves to say.

The cluster of meteorites glittered; green sparkles on the radar screen. Each the size of a football pitch, with a combined mass that meant the earth was doomed.

It was just a matter of time now.

There would be no last ditch space rescue missions, no desperate missile strikes, no long shots… But it might just work.

This was it. Immanent global extinction.

I swallowed, then heard my own voice, matter of fact and steady.

“Yes, we’re going to die.”

SERENDIPIDY

A cluster of deaths.

Such an evocative term.

One or two, or just the occasional passing barely raises an eyebrow, but a cluster is something else entirely.

Follow it with the words, ‘in suspicious circumstances’, ‘in the local area’, displaying the same pattern’, or ‘by an unknown cause’, and you have the beginnings of a recipe for fear, panic and rampant speculation.

And whilst people are entirely distracted by the cluster – my favourite diversionary tactic – I can pick off whoever I want, in ones and twos, occasionally and without displaying any clear pattern or similarities.

And nobody will ever notice.

TOM

The following is more a moment than a story. Also I need to drop the name for those living and dead. A vastly popular women in our county had died. The memorial service was to be done in a theater with over 700 people present. The day of the event I got a call in San Jose they need a sound guy. I had to drive 120 mile in 2 hours. Do the math. Somehow I defied physics and got there on time. The woman who had called me said they had found someone, hadn’t I got the message. I said, “What the fuck, this is a total cluster fuck.”

NORVAL JOE

Dergle Vander Hoont, his wiener dog growling from his hiding place in the bulky man’s coat, joined several other odd looking men and women who clustered around the federal agents. The man covered in dust growled in a genial way at Bilbert’s mother, “You can take your son and go, Gladys. We’ll take care of these two clowns.”

As Billbert’s mother ushered him toward the car, Linoliamanda and her family reappeared from an exam room. Linoliamanda’s head was wrapped in a white, gauze bandage.
“Hold on, Mrs. Blanketmaker,” Mr. Withybottom boomed. “I’d like a word with you about your son.”

PLANET Z

The Cluster is a group of stars, about twenty thousand light years from Earth.
We’ll send you the coordinates and spectral signatures.
There’s a man we want.
What’s his name?
Doesn’t matter.
You’re going to destroy the planet he’s on.
So, here’s a solar detonator.
You blow up the star, the flares destroy the planet.
What about the rest of the people on that planet?
Who cares?
Here’s half the contract, and half when you finish the job.
Just be sure to get out of the system before the star explodes.
Otherwise, I’m getting a half-off deal on the contract.

The Diet

In the past year, I’ve lost almost seventy pounds.
That’s a lot, and it took a lot to do that.
I cut out all candy, all fried foods, all red meat.
Pretty much all meat, really. I’m practically vegan.
No alcohol, either. Don’t drink your calories.
I walk on my treadmill for at least an hour a day.
If I eat more, I walk more and I eat less later to make up for it.
There’s a handy little app on my phone to track it all.
Except for my sheer hatred for all these fast food commercials, of course.

Quitting Time

Made it in to work just fine.
A little late, who cares?
Went through the usual rituals.
Make tea, get ice water, start music.
That kind of thing.
I have a list on the door to remind me.
When I am ready to work, I look at the list again.
Just to make sure I didn’t forget anything.
And then, I work.
Or, at least, I pretend to work.
There’s not much to do.
So, I make a show of doing something.
Then when it’s an hour or so to quitting time, I pack up, clean up, and go home.

Pizza and Guinness Day

Don’t call it Turkey Day.
I never have turkey on Thanksgiving.
Instead, I go by Kennealy’s Irish Pub and order a pizza to go.
Then I have a Guinness while I wait.
I call it Pizza and Guinness Day.
You can call it non-traditional, but tradition is when you do something every year.
And every year, I have pizza and Guinness, so it’s a tradition for me.
It’s far better than slaving over a hot stove for hours.
Instead, I stare at a hot bartender for minutes.
And cleanup is as simple as tossing the empty box in the trash.

Trump Pardon

Every year, the president pardons the White House turkeys.
And yet, they hold a Thanksgiving banquet every year that features turkey.
So what’s the difference between the turkeys who get pardoned and the turkeys who get slaughtered, cooked, and eaten?
Is there such a thing as a turkey crime?
And why don’t they ever pardon the cranberries or stuffing or the mashed potatoes?
When I become president, I’m going to pardon the mashed potatoes.
I’ll even make that my platform: vote for me, and I’ll pardon the mashed potatoes.
But not the gravy. Because that would be crazy, you know?

Unit Seven F

A reprimand for Unit Seven F.
That makes three this week.
Seven F is usually reliable. Very reliable.
No reprimands at all before this week.
And now, there are three.
That’s not good. That’s not good at all.
Check the readings. Check the logs. Check everything.
Everything seems normal.
But then, everything seemed normal for Unit Twelve B.
And we all know what happened with Twelve B.
Those poor people, I can’t get their screams out of my head.
Maybe if we take Unit Seven F offline for a day or two.
Just to be safe. Just to make sure.

Breakfast Is

Breakfast is a cigarette and a cup of coffee.
Nobody has time for lunch.
Dinner is what’s left in the bottle. And another cigarette, if there’s any left.
Maybe a date will make you breakfast the morning after.
At her place, of course. There’s nothing at mine.
Except the coffee. And cigarettes. And the bottle.
Weddings, birthdays, funerals… those times, okay, I’ll eat something.
I’ll pick something up off of the buffet.
Before I head to the bar and grab a bottle.
Grab a pack of cigarettes out of somebody’s coat pocket.
I’ll have my dinner now, and breakfast tomorrow.

Weekly Challenge #761 – Chainsaw

Cat box

LIZZIE

Grasp a line of thought. Or try to.
And those animal heads mounted on the wall. The moody embalmed fish that was supposed to look alive and looked even deader. All conspiring to kill.
The door swung open and there it was. They dumped it on the table.
To work.
The chainsaw slashed through the skin, the meat, the bones. Cracking sounds signing the final surrender.
A leg, another leg. An arm, another arm.
The head… Oh, the head… That grimace of anger.
Good thing they didn’t have to mount her head on the wall. The fish wouldn’t like it.

RICHARD

Chainsaw

I’ve never owned a chainsaw, never wanted one and have no idea what I’d do with one anyway.

It’s not exactly an essential accessory for the man about town in an urban environment; chainsaws aren’t really necessary for unclogging the photocopier or for hosting Zoom meetings.

I don’t possess any checked shirts, or have any giant redwoods requiring felling, and I just know that putting me in charge of a chainsaw is about as sensible as giving a baby a loaded Kalashnikov.

It’ll all end very badly.

Even so, being a guy, I feel I really should own a chainsaw.

SERENDIPIDY

Those chainsaw massacre slasher movies really wind me up. Clearly created by idiots with no practical experience of serial killing, carving up bodies, or for that matter, owning a chainsaw.

To begin with, chainsaws are messy. Yes, a bloodbath sounds fun, but in practical terms it’s a nightmare when it comes to cleaning up.

Then there’s chainsaw maintenance – cleaning and oiling the chain and guide, constant re-fueling, and the tedious business of sharpening chain teeth: Bone blunts them dreadfully.

It’s a lot of hassle, time and energy, when an axe will do the job just as well.

It’s quieter too!

TOM

The Flying Karamazov Brothers

I’ve lived a Forest Grump life. I’ve meet a mess of folk early in their careers. Robin Williams, Penn and Teller, Donald Rumsfeld, Rodger Stone, the girl who sang on Paradise By the Dashboard Light and the band Styx. Hands down the odd guys were the Flying Karamazov Brothers. I was living in Santa Cruz and I would go watch them practice moves in the park near the bakery during lunch breaks. They had this funny bit juggling running chainsaws. While cross tossing eight saws they did this patter. “You rip a these, you mend a these.” Damn they were good.

NORVAL JOE

Billbert’s mother hurried to take him in her arms.
A man followed her, still covered in the dust from the collapsed headquarters. He laughed at the two agents with a ratcheting growl that sounded more like a chainsaw. He asked, “What’re you federal boys doing here?”
“Why we’re here, is federal business and we’re not ready to share that with the likes of you people. What we’re here for, is to take this boy for questioning.”
Billbert’s mother stepped in front of her son. “If you’re going to take this boy for questioning, you’ll have to go through me, first.”

TURA

Chainsaw
———
The kid pushed through the saloon doors and stared wildly around. The old men stared back.

At last, one broke the silence. “You lost, boy?”

“This is the Last Chance Saloon, right?” said the kid.

The old-timer grinned. “Well boy, that depends which way you’re headed.”

The kid said nothing.

“If it’s advice you’re looking for, I got some right here.” He leaned toward the kid and leered. “Don’t cut your genitals off with a chainsaw.”

“Hey, that’s some pretty good advice you got there, boy!” wheezed another old-timer.

The kid bolted outside.

It was exactly three in the afternoon.

RICK

Good Gig

It’s one thing to have a cord of wood, and another to make it suitable for the stove or fireplace. Pickup truck, chainsaw, log splitter … Mike had a good gig going. Splitting logs and stacking wood all over the county, cash only, all word of mouth recommendation.

Snakes, poison ivy, bees … Easy enough to deal with if you know how. Blue skies, sunshine, cool mountain air … The benefits outweighed the hardships.

Mike always kept a pint of blackberry Brandy and a couple of joints in the truck for particularly glorious days …

… Like I said … Mike had a good gig going.

PLANET Z

People were always getting Rabbi Chaim Esau’s name wrong.
Instead of taking offense, the good rabbi embraced it.
“I am Rabbi Chainsaw,” he says from the dais, firing up a gas-powered McCulloch and waving it in the air. “Who wants a circumcision?”
The congregation would laugh, and he’d get right into the sermon.
He performed this opening gag for forty years.
And then, one Saturday, as he hauled the growling chainsaw into the air, he suffered a rupture.
The blade fell through his head like a knife through butter.
They made sure to get his name right on the headstone.