Tag: commentary

Grooves

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Old man, asleep at the bar.
He’s never said a word in three years.
Nobody knows who he is or what his story is.
Let’s take him to the jukebox.
You can hear sounds of ancient times by running the needle along ridges in pottery.
It’s from when vibrations got embedded in them as they turned on the pottery wheel.
This old man’s got lots of wrinkles, so we put him in the jukebox.
He is instantly electrocuted.
When the smoke clears, we prop him back up at the bar.
To tell you the truth, he smells kinda better now.

Forty Acres

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My name be Rufus Washington Cleveland and I be 173 years old today.
What’s this here place called? Time Square?
Well, I calls it mine.
I been waitin over a century for my forty acres and a mule, and I’m takin these here forty acres.
Lincoln himself promised em to me. Said “You get forty acres and a mule, Rufus.”
When I axed him which forty I get, he just said “Just go take ’em.”
Gonna be a shame to tear these here buildins down, but this here is mah land, and I wanna get to plantin in the spring.

Quote

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They say the devil can quote scripture.
Of course he can. He wrote it. Every word of it.
Branded on the backs of the sinners with red hot pokers.
Skin torn from flesh, pressed into sheets, bound between brimstone covers, still dripping with their blood.
He was there at the Council of Nicea, making changes to his rough draft, whispering in old priests ears and making deals.
I’ll make you a saint.
I’ll make you a hero.
I’ll make you a prophet.
I’ll make you a god among men.
Every hotel room is his church, his word in the drawer.

Half the moon

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Which half of the moon do you want?
The left? The right?
Waning? Waxing?
Or perhaps you want the top of it?
Don’t forget the bottom.
Maybe you want the side that faces us. Certainly you do not want the side that faces away.
What do they call it? The dark side of the moon?
Take your time. It is an important decision.
What of the other half? Who gets that?
Is half the moon not enough for you? Need you have more?
I can understand. What good is half a moon?
Better to have none at all, I suppose.

Art Museum

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Every day after work, I go to the art museum.
It is on my way home, next to a family grocery that always has the best apples.
You aren’t supposed to eat in a museum. But they let me bring an apple in.
Or an orange, if I am not in the mood for an apple.
Museums often display just a part of their collection to the public. The rest is in storage or being restored with touchups and cleaning.
They let me look at the many works sitting in storage, admiring the Junior Varsity squad of the art world.

The Dead Lawn

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The lawn is dead.
I tried watering, fertilizing, sod patches – you name it, I’ve tried it.
You know how some kooks tell you to play music for plants? Well, I tried that too. I guess those kooks were as kooky as I’d thought.
There’s nothing left of the lawn. It’s all blown to dust.
It’s a shame, because I bought a shiny new lawnmower.
The neighbors come by to borrow it. They expect me to fill it with gas.
Why? What’s the point?
They have lawns. Let them gas it up.
I’ll just sit here, watching Dust Devils graze.

Lasso

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You don’t need a license to carry a lasso.
That’s why I carry one of those instead of a gun.
Guns are aloud and messy. Lassos are a lot friendlier.
But have you ever tried robbing a bank with a lasso?
The teller laughs like you’re crazy.
If you’re robbing a bank with a lasso, you are crazy.
The teller says for me to hold out my hand.
“Why?” I ask. “What for?”
“Just do it,” she says and smiles.
So, I do it, and she puts a penny in my palm.
“That’s for being cute,” she says. “Next!”

Life Hands You Lemons

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When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.
So, I did.
Death handed me lemons, too.
I made lemonade with them.
Karma gave me lemons. More lemonade.
Then, Fate handed me a bag.
“More lemons?” I asked. “Please, not more lemons.”
Fate nodded yes.
So here I am, sitting on an island of lemons in a lake of lemonade.
Instead of a boat to rescue me, everybody’s bringing me lemons.
They ask lemon advice, when to plant, when to pick.
They want me to write a book.
ENOUGH!
If life hands you lemons, yell GET THESE FUCKING LEMONS AWAY FROM ME!

Hack Writerland

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Sixty-five million years from now, an amber block containing a mosquito will be drained of “author” Michael Chricton’s blood.
Through the miracle of junk science, his DNA will be patched to a chimpanzee’s and grown into a theme park attraction.
From all over, they will pay to see herds of hack writers roam the hillsides, devouring fringe research and vomiting up novel after novel, screenplay after screenplay.
“Mommy! Look at the box office on that one!”
Until a theme park rival tries to steal the DNA and causes deadly violent mayhem!
But that’s a tale for another hack to tell.

America

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Here lies America, and all of America’s lies.
All the lies we told the world and all the lies we told ourselves.
In the home of the brave, we move the fences in and jog the bases to thunderous applause.
In the land of the free, we doubled the price so we could buy one and get one free.
A thumb in every balance pan, a fox in every henhouse.
Eat chicken for dinner too many times and you will discover there are no eggs for breakfast.
Don’t scream at the fox to lay eggs. He has eaten and left.