Tag: commentary

Poor Support

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I’m reading through my emails when I come across one with the subject line of Poor Support!!!!!!
I count the exclamation points – at least twenty.
Then I think for a moment… did they mean Poor Support as in they got bad support, or are they showing sympathy for Support?
Email strips the nuance out of language.
And also, for that matter, the text of the show notes here on the podcast.
I read the message and it’s just some customer bitching that they had to manage their server themselves.
You know – like the contract says.
No nuances there, folks.

Leland Clay

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Leland Clay?
That’s a name that brings back memories.
He was the town’s banker, a decent enough fellow. Always dressed nice. Not too nice – just nice enough.
You know, Leland would leave candy out so the kids would come in to put money in their passbook accounts for college.
Leland vanished one day. So did all the bank’s money.
He turned up in the Bahamas – had himself a nice place there.
Not too nice – just nice enough.
We burned it to the ground with him inside it, and the investigators got the rest of the money back.
Want some candy?

With Them

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I used to dance. But I don’t anymore.
For a while, I tried. But the braces on my legs were stiff and awkward.
Everyone smiled and was very supportive.
Too supportive. Like a spotlight was on me.
So, I stopped. And I stopped listening to music, because it made me want to get up and dance with it.
Maybe I can start a dance club, where I can teach others to dance. Or a dancehall where people can dance to my music.
I will dance through them.
And who knows? With medicine as it is, maybe with them some day.

Message in a Bottle

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I watched as the waves carried the bottle to the beach.
I picked it up, popped the cork, and pulled out some scraps of paper.
They were coupons for herbal medications to make my breasts bigger and my penis longer and thicker.
Then there was a letter from the widow of some oil executive who didn’t know me, but they blessed me and said they’d be dead soon.
Oh, and apparently I’d won a big lottery or something.
Looking out on the water, I saw the glitter of a million more bottles.
“Goddamned Spam,” I mumbled, crumpling up the notes.

Catered

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My grandfather was very sick, but he had just undergone some kind of procedure or another, and he said he felt up to calling family.
His last words to me were “Heaven will be catered.”
The next day, I was at school, and I got called into the office.
I don’t remember much after that.
Was I fifteen? Sixteen?
Today, I look in the mirror.
Too fat.
I don’t breathe the same drycleaning chemicals he did that rotted out his organs, but still…
I’ve been cutting down, eating less. And exercise.
Hold my seat, Papa Willie. It’ll be a while.

Dolls

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When Lisa was a little girl, she loved to play with dolls.
But instead of dressing them up for fashion shows, she commanded them to attend tea parties.
Not invited… commanded.
She eventually grew out of playing with dolls, graduating to commanding friends and coworkers around.
It was much more fun commanding them around. After all, humans can feel, worry, think, and fear. Dolls can’t.
One day, she looked around to find herself alone at her tea party of a life, abandoned and lonely.
Still, what a pretty dress she had on. Such a lovely hat, too.
More tea, dear?

You wimp!

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There’s no shame in losing.
You know you’ve tried your best, but it just wasn’t good enough.
However, there is shame in losing to a little girl.
Especially when it’s a little girl in a pink frilly dress and a sailor’s cap.
Sure, you can claim that she only dresses that way to throw off her opponents, but that’s what you said about the guy in the wheelchair, too.
The man had to speak out commands to roll his motorized chair to get his foot to kick your ass, for crying out loud.
Oh, please.
Stop crying already.
You… wimp.

Gun Safety Lesson

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Once upon a time, there was a little boy with a very large gun.
His father always kept it in the nightstand, and it didn’t have a child safety lock.
The boy knew the gun was in there unlocked. So, standing on his very tippy toes, reaching, he got it out.
Looking over the gun, he checked to see if it was loaded.
Sure enough, it was.
And it was in his hands.
So, the little boy took the child safety lock out of the shopping bag and locked it up.
But he forgot to give his father the key.

Bum Rush The Charts

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I don’t make the music. I make musicians.
I can take any washed-up pampered drug addict, wrap them in spandex, and you can sponsor their next worldwide tour along with every other crappy light beer brewer.
People eat this shit up, so they need something to wash it down with, right?
And its not like we’ve got competition. Where you brew beer by the tanker truck, radio only has our crap to play.
It’s not payola. It’s… business.
Do we have a deal?
Good.
I propose a toast… what? Use your beer?
No thank you. I don’t drink your swill.

Swing Hard!

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The Presidential Mansion has a birthday party every week, it seems. So many children, grandchildren, cousins, close family friends…
Every birthday party has jugglers, magicians, and marvelous decorations you’d expect from the First Citizen Of All.
But it wouldn’t be complete without the clown.
He stands there, terrified.
“Make me laugh,” commands El Presidente.
The clown falls to his knees, begging for mercy.
“I said make me laugh. Now.”
The clown gets up and tries a little soft-shoe.
El Presidente snaps his fingers, and the clown is strung up along with the piñatas.
Here’s the stick, Paco. Now swing hard!