Coyote

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It was Paco’s first time crossing the border, and he didn’t want to get caught
His cousins tried the desert route. Those that survived were caught and spent five months in jail, only to be bussed back home.
“Use the coyote,” said his grandmother. “He is a genius at crossing the border.”
Paco found the coyote. He handed him the money, and the coyote handed him a crash helmet.
“What is this for?” asked Paco.
“The catapult,” said coyote. “Our would you prefer the rocket roller-skates?”
Paco shrugged. “Who am I to question genius?”
“Supra-genius,” said the coyote. “Hold tight.”

The Wacky Adventures Of Abraham Lincoln 57

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Abraham Lincoln put down his afternoon sandwich, rubbed his temples, and moaned.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mary Todd. “Is Congress bothering you again?”
Abe nodded. “It’s those thickheaded fools. I cannot make it better known than it already is that I strongly favor colonization.”
“Well, you know what I do when I want you to remember something,” said Mary Todd.
Abe scratched his head. “No, I don’t.”
“You silly goose, I stick a note in your sandwich,” said Mary Todd.
Abe picked up his sandwich, opened it, and read the note inside:
“QUIT EATING THESE DAMN NOTES BEFORE YOU READ THEM!”

Rage Again

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Jim S. the Folderman still hasn’t gotten over his rage.

I’ve never truly been happy.
My mind is a swirl of anger, bitterness, disappointment and hatred. Not for or at a particular person, group of people or even any THING in particular but just an overall permeating, deep RAGE at “stuff.”
Depression forms an almost solid border to hold the rage back and keep it simmering on the back burner. Rarely, the rage pokes its head through but is quickly subdued.
An almost momentary flash of happiness occasionally interrupts this constant emotional battle. Every time, though, an uncontrollable factor breaks the happy-moment and re-heats the rage.
Then, depression sets in.

The Don

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After all these years, you think they’d finally figure it out. But no.
If I had to blame somebody, I’d blame that Cervantes fellow for getting it backwards. But what do you expect from one of these “creative” types? I’m a busy man, and I don’t have the time to explain the intricacies of my profession to every Tomàs, Ricardo, and Hernàndez that comes along.
Especially when that profession is unusual.
Don Quixote is my name. Agricultural architectural restoration is my game.
What do I do?
I restore correct vertical alignment to air-powered size reduction equipment.
Yep. I untilt windmills.

Weekly Challenge #2 – Five Minutes Late

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Welcome to the second Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
The topic is: five minutes late.
You have until midnight on Friday the 28th to email me your story.
It would be preferred that you attach your own recording of the story, but if I have the time I will record and include all of the contributed stories in a single collection, which will be posted next Saturday.
If this takes off and there’s a healthy amount of participation, I may go ahead with my plans to create 100 Words Or Les Nessman 2.0. (With weekly themes instead of daily themes to cut down on burnout and attrition.)
Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.

Midnight came, and midnight went. Time’s up!
There were 8 stories this week. Go ahead and listen to the stories (click on the grammy-o-phone icon there on the left side of this entry) and vote for your favorite:

Who wrote the best story?
Elisson of Blog d’Elisson
Rahel Jaskow of Elms in the Yard
Andrew Ian Dodge of Dogeblogium
Jim S. the Folderman
Jim Thompson of Making Movies
Rona
Beck of Incite
The Mystery Man from Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com


Thanks to everyone for sending in their stories, and I look forward to what you’ve got to write (and say) next week.

Rage

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Jim S. the Folderman experiences white-hot rage…

I’ve known a few moments of momentary satisfaction at a beautiful day or a gorgeous woman. Happy moments like the birth of my children, my wedding day and other things such as that briefly pierce through the shroud of doubt, confusion, melancholoy and… RAGE.
Yes, rage. I know it comes as a deep surprise but I’m a mad motherfucker. Just plain mad at the world. Overall, I’ve learned to live with it and usually, I manage to hold it back long enough to enjoy some happy moments.
Mostly, though, it just embitters me and makes me a jaded, cynical bastard.

Help Me

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Andrew Ian Dodge waxes poetically:

How can I get forward
When trapped by my past
Trying to look ahead
Instead of covering my arse
Demons & devils haunt me
Trying to get their desire
Not letting me free
Refusing to let me be
Wanting their bit of flesh
Deserved or not no matter
Things in chaos & mess
Trouble, bother & loads of stress
Evil & madness pursue
Pain & pressure ensue
Save me from this madness
All the terrible badness
Revenge & payback can wait
Free me afore its too late
Revenge & payback can wait
Free me afore its too late

Got Jesus?

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Yesterday, as the Missus and I were on our way to dinner, we saw a car in front of us with a decal in the rear window: Got Jesus?
It was clear, based on its design, that the decal was Yet Another Ripoff of the well-known “Got Milk?” advertising campaign, the one featuring celebrities sporting Milk Moustaches.
The Missus asked: When you Get Jesus, do you get a Jesus Moustache? And if you do, what color is it?
I’m no expert, but I’d say that between Ash Wednesday and Easter, you have a purple mustache…but on Easter, it turns white.

Alarming behavior

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Typical alarm clocks can be turned off with a single button.
On the other hand, the alarm clock function on my cell phone requires me to hit… let’s see: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10 buttons.
Of course, there’s the much simpler option to press and hold the power button to turn the phone completely off before the alarm sounds.
I suppose that’s why I pulled out my phone at 10:30 today and it’s completely off.
Which is why I got a watch. To tell time when my cell phone is off.
This is how my mind works. Or, in this case, fails to work.

Below Average

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Unlike our neighbors’ kids, all of the children in Lake Whybehere are below average. They’re all good children, but just a little behind the curve. A few seconds late off the starting blocks in the game of life.
Their conversations are enthusiastic, but babble. Their play is confused and often ends in medical treatment.
Most suffer from lethargy, but a few demonstrate occasional spunkiness. Like running in circles with scissors faster than usual.
Maybe there’s something in the water. The power plant dumps an awful lot of crap into Lake Whybehere.
Perhaps we’ll dump it in Wobegone from now on.