Do you like my shirt?
Thank you. I just got it.
Yes, it’s a very expensive shirt.
Oh, sure, it was on sale and there’s that sales tax holiday going on, but it still cost me a pretty penny.
I wanted to look my best for my sister’s surgery.
You see, it’s an experimental surgery. Very risky.
We’re hoping for the best, but things could go wrong.
And when things go wrong, well, we Jews do that whole “rending of garments” thing.
So she knows how much I’m pulling for her.
(But if things go wrong, I’m tearing my pants.)
Tag: commentary
You, who are strong…
Frank told me that he loved poetry. Always wanted to be a poet.
Instead, he became a dentist. His parents made him go to college and then medical school for dentistry, but he absolutely hated it now.
He sneaks out at night to go to poetry readings in coffeehouses and he reads his poetry.
Wakes up tired, exhausted. So tired, he makes mistakes.
As if he cares at his work anymore.
“I just blow through checkups now,” he says. “I get paid either way, right?”
I just stare back.
“Oh. Right. You’re fine. I think. Whatever. Go ahead and spit.”
Stability
I moved to this town years ago.
Got this house, picked out some furniture, and started my new life here.
I was alone.
Confused.
Afraid.
After years of shakiness and instability, trying one self-help book after another, I turned to religion.
I sought out every faith there was, and they all gave me holy books to take home.
The Bible.
The Torah.
The Q’Ran.
The Book Of Mormon.
All of them.
I tried them all, and after years searching, I finally found one that was the right fit.
Steady as a rock.
No. Really. My kitchen table doesn’t wobble anymore.
The Password
A man in a trench coat steps into the alleyway, walks down the steps, and knocks on a steel door.
A peephole slides open.
“What the password?” a voice growls.
“Mendicant,” whispers the man in the trench coat.
“Thank you,” growls the voice behind the door, and the peephole slides shut.
Somewhere in the building, a man at a computer terminal is drumming his fingers, waiting.
Another man runs into the room and says “Mendicant.”
The man at the terminal types in the new password. The screen confirms the input.
“I hate having to change these things every ninety days.”
Generous With Words
The fool is most generous with his words, a flood of nonsense and spittle spills from his lips.
I pull out a handkerchief, wipe my face, and try to maintain my smile.
Thankfully, he does not test my comprehension of his prattle, but merely asks if I understand.
“Yes,” I say. “Do go on.”
Sadly, he does, and I am subjected to more nonsense, more unwelcome moisture, and occasional stray bits of gristle.
“Try fainting,” whispers Duchess Morgan in my ear.
I roll my eyes and go limp.
Servants “revive” me as the fool moves on to his next victim.
The Feast Of Saint Walter
Unlike other feasts for saints, The Feast For Saint Walter is unique in the fact it does not involve any elaborate preparations, but involves eating from a dumpster.
That’s right. A dumpster.
Walter was flat-ass broke when he was alive, bumming money from everybody.
I always said “It’s a miracle that people still give that dude money.”
Bob once told me “It’s a miracle his wife hasn’t thrown his broke ass out.”
He was rummaging through a dumpster and hit his head on the lid when the truck came.
Martyrdom through compaction.
Hey, is that an orange rind?
Walter provides!
Making The Grade
Years ago, back when I was in college, I was better at hauling kegs than carrying a courseload.
My GPA was horrifying.
However, I was making good cash running parties, so I figured I could buy my way out of the mess I’ve made.
I caught the professor at one of the parties, a Wheel Of Fortune-themed party, and I told him “I know I’m getting an F, but I’d like to buy a vowel, please.”
Five hundred bucks, it cost me.
That night, the professor shacked up with a Freshman and got fired. His TA turned in the F.
Get your own ghost!
What are you doing, wrapping your rage in a ghost?
If you’re going to be an asshole, do it on your own terms!
Don’t go dragging their good name through the mud as you bloody your fists on someone face.
It’s disgusting when you wrap yourself in the flag and act all patriotic for profit, but it’s utterly revolting how you exploit the memory of someone who trusted you.
How could you?
What’s even worse is that you didn’t even wait for them to die.
I wish you were dead, because I can’t wait to do the same to you.
The Only Way
Whenever someone tells me that something is the only way to do something, I challenge myself to try to think up another way to do it.
Sometimes, I come up with a much better way, and I propose it to them as a viable alternative.
“It’s easier, less expensive, and is much safer to do,” I say, going through the plans. “Plus, it doesn’t cause any pollution.”
The other person scowls angrily. “You cannot do this because God says not to.”
I do it anyway, because if God doesn’t want me to do things cheaper, safer, and easier, fuck Him.
Writing Trouble
I’m having trouble writing.
I try to think of things to write, but I just can’t find inspiration.
So, I went out for coffee.
There was a girl there with bandaged hands, and she was barely able to hold her coffee.
“Carpal tunnel,” she says. “Surgery messed up. Six months.”
I got her a frozen coffee with a straw, and we talked.
She’s also a writer. Has lot of ideas, just can’t write them all down.
I offered to transcribe them for her.
“Oh, I’ve got a voice to text program,” she said, getting up. “Thanks for the coffee, though.”