Category: My stories

Wigs

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I know a man who flips people’s wigs.
Figuratively and literally.
It’s not easy to do these days, considering the complexity of hair weaves and the strength of organic glues, but he’s had a lot of practice and never fails to cause sufficient stupefaction and hairpiece inversion.
Sy Sperling, the hairpiece magnate, and the wig-flipping man are arch-rivals. When Sy creates an unflappable wig, the man stays up nights working out how to flip it.
And he does.
Upon hearing of his latest failure, sure enough, Sy feels a brief rush of air on his scalp.
He’s flipped his wig!

Gift Basket

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My wife is making the cats a gift basket.
The gifts include treats, new collars, and catnip.
A few toys, too. As if they don’t have enough toys already.
There’s also a lot of colored tissue paper that the cats will like to play around in.
Despite the fact that the basket is on a high shelf, the kitten’s managed to find a way up there and inside the basket.
Based on how much of a pest she is to the other two cats, I don’t think she’s trying to say she’s a gift to them.
We need more catnip.

Cookies

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My mom always made the best cookies. I have recipes, but it’s not the same.
It was so hard to resist them. They never lasted long.
When she made plates of them for others, she had to hide them, or wrap them with several layers of foil and plastic to keep the rest of us out.
She put a plate on the front bench to take to the neighbors, but the next morning all that was left was the plate.
No foil, no plastic, no cookies.
The dog had eaten them all.
Or, at least, that’s what we told her.

Regifting

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Santa slides down the chimney, opens his sack, and puts the presents under the tree.
Then he picks up the presents sitting by the fireplace and stuffs those into his sack.
Back up the chimney, into the sleigh, and the helper-elf double-checks the inventory and flight plans.
“I know that business is bad, Boss, but did you have to add regifting to your services?” asked Twinky.
“Shut up,” said Santa, watching the GPS flash a new destination. The time display next to it flashes an unjolly red. “Fucking eBay.”
He cracks his whip, and the eight miserable reindeer take flight.

Cold Feet

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The last thing you want at a wedding is for the groom to have cold feet.
Or the guests.
That’s why I keep the feet warm when I cater to cannibal weddings.
I made a special tray that keeps them at just the right temperature, but doesn’t dry them out.
I’m sure it would pass the Health Department’s inspection, if cannibalism didn’t throw up a red flag.
Or the fact that this island doesn’t have a Health Department.
Just cannibals.
Either I cater their weddings the way they want, or they will want me.
I’d rather serve than be served.

Printer

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The printer is jammed.
The printer always jams when I need it most.
Somehow, the printer knows I’m in a rush, and that’s when it chooses to jam.
Chooses. Yes, I said chooses.
In fact, I bet there’s a chip in the printer that tells it when I need it most.
It syncs up with the chip in my head. The X-ray resistant chip.
I know that you don’t believe me, but if you’d just let me open up my skull, I’d show you.
It’s not buried deep. Just a little hole, and you can peek inside.
Here’s a drill.

Pennies from Heaven

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Every time it rains, it rains pennies from Heaven.
Falling like bullets, they pierce umbrellas and shatter car windshields.
Dozens of people don’t make it to shelter and lay in the streets, bleeding or dead.
Birds, too.
After the storm passes, ambulances pick up the injured and dead, and we sweep up the broken glass, tow away wrecked cars, and bag dead animals.
We used to gather up the pennies and head to the bank, but now we bring them to the foundry.
They melt them down for the zinc and copper.
One day, they’ll finish the giant protective dome.

Roller Coaster Therapy

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I have this friend in the hospital that has a unique way of releasing all their frustrations and anger and fears.
They call it “roller coaster therapy.”
You get on a rollercoaster with your therapist, and you spend the next three minutes working out your problems while screaming and waving your arms and getting loop-the-looped.
By the time you get to the end of the ride, you’ve pretty much gotten everything out of your system.
Well, that’s assuming you get to the end of the ride.
Sometimes, they fall off of the sofa.
And that’s why they’re in the hospital.

Thong

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Professor Hastings began his Nobel Prize acceptance speech with a softly whispered “My thong is on backwards.”
I was all downhill from there.
Before Hastings could be subdued, he had stripped off his clothes and was dancing on the podium.
“What category did he win again?” asked a security guard.
“Chemistry, no doubt,” said a hostess, only just now realizing that it was Hastings that had offered to uncork and pour the champagne for the attendees.
Her throat felt warm. Her vision blurred.
And, like everyone else in the room, she started to worry that her thong was on backwards.

Turning Blue

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Tracey shouts that she’s going to hold her breath until she turns blue if she doesn’t get her way.
Fine, I say. Go ahead and do that.
So, she does. She holds her breath and after five minutes she turns a bright shade of blue.
She stares at me, her eyes bulging.
I stare back, sticking my tongue out at her and breathing normally.
“This air sure is delicious,” I say. “Since you’re not using any, all the more for me.”
I walk around, taking deep breaths, sighing with satisfaction.
Tracey’s passed out on the floor, turning pink again.
Dumbass.