The biggest word I’ve ever used is no.
When Enron collapsed and they were taking down the giant letters over the scoreboard at Enron Field in Houston, I was the IT Manager of a television station.
And there was a project to run fiber from the station to the stadium for video and data.
I convinced the crane operators to put the N and O together and I stood in front of them with an angry pose.
Someone took a photo for me, and it looked hilarious.
But over the years, I lost that photo.
I still have the memory.
Carry the load
I don’t pry. I don’t ask.
I find it to be rude to ask too much.
But it’s strange… the less you ask people, the more they trust you with.
Some things are small. Other things are big.
And then there’s the things that are huge.
Too big for them to carry.
So, they tell you, to help them carry.
You might think that the more people who carry, the lighter it is for everyone, that isn’t how it works.
Trust doesn’t work that way.
It’s a lot to carry.
But you will. And they will help you carry yours.
Patton
A simple white cross.
Just like thousands more at the cemetery.
Far, far away in a distant land they gave their lives for.
His name. His rank. His hometown.
And the date of his death.
That’s all. Nothing special.
Sure, it is set apart from the others.
A low chain fence, some flagstones.
Some bushes around a small plot of grass.
But no statues of angels, no lights.
No wreaths or flowers.
No cannon.
And no flags.
Just a soldier with his men.
In eternal rest.
Not killed in battle, like so many here.
But a drunk driver, turning left.
Weekly Challenge #930 – Car Crash
A day late, but not a dollar short…
The next topic is PICK TWO Free gift, Long live The King, Hit, Scribble, France, Waterfall
LISA
A different man comes to the door this morning. His face is less gentle. He stares too long at all of us as he pops the box down. I see it in his profile a brother or a cousin, definitely a relative.
It’s awkward. He stands staring for too long. We stare back expectantly whilst having no idea what to expect.
“He’s been in a car crash.”
None of us speak.
“He’s OK but in hospital.”
He turns, lingers by the door.
“Do you need anything else?”
I’m not sure if any of us has blinked.
We shake our heads.
RICHARD
Bad Reception
“Why do you watch that rubbish” she asked.
I looked at her blankly, waiting for further explanation.
She put on her ‘exasperated’ look. “It’s car crash TV. You know it’s aimed at plebs and Neanderthals, don’t you?”
I grunted in response. Might as well rise to the occasion, I thought.
She looked at me in disgust, “well, I’m not watching it with you, I’m going to watch Britain’s Got Talent in the bedroom!”
I gave her a moment, waiting for the bedroom door to close, before switching to the movie channel.
Nothing like having a good movie all to yourself!
LIZZIE
They survived the car crash. They survived the cruise ship sinking in the Mediterranean. They survived the train wreck in Sri Lanka. And the list went on and on. A tsunami, a volcanic eruption, a flood, a tornado, even a pandemic. Until that long-awaited trip to the North pole. “Take the icebreaker. It’s safer,” someone said.” No, of course not. “Let’s do something dangerous. Nothing ever happens to us.” They rented a small plane. Did they know how to fly a plane? Not really. And that’s where the list stopped. Simulation terminated. “Lousy game. Good thing it was dirt cheap.”
SERENDIPIDY
Yeah, I cut the brake lines. So what?
It’s not as if the car was worth a whole lot. It was falling apart, an unreliable rust bucket that would only start when it felt like it, and was a complete nightmare to keep on the road.
So, it really had to go, and I wanted to send it off in style. The idea was to floor the gas pedal and let it crash headlong into a tree, without anything to prevent the impact.
So, I cut the brake lines. So what?
Oh, right. Yeah, my husband was driving.
So what?
TOM
crash
It was my freshman year in college. My roommate was driving a Ford Econ. We were tooling down the JFK back to Evanston. Suddenly a spring downpour, 2in in about five minutes. We got cut off, not quite. Truck clips the front of the van sent is into a 360 spin. We pile into a bridge abutment. Driver’s door pops open dumping my roommate out. Van does a second 360 toss me out the same door on to the freeway. I side diagonally across four lanes of highway. And finally pile into the guardrail. Miracle, I survived the car crash.
Calcutta
It was the 36th hole. Two days of play. Our team was in second place. One stroke difference from beating the guys in first place. This was the only match at the club that banked bets. The caddies were not allowed to bet, but one member place them for us. The whole club was surrounding the green of the 18th. All three of the team dropped their putts. If my member dropped it on one it looked out the team behind us. The putt rims the cup and rolls a way. Everyone sees the choke. Crowd does a low murmur.
NORVAL JOE
Linoliumanda knelt next to Billbert, looked at Sabrina’s leg and threw up.
Billbert pulled off his hoody, folded it into a thick square and pressed it against Sabrina’s wound.
“Mandi. Hold this against Sabrina’s leg.”
Wide eyed, Linoliumanda shook her head, and vomited again.
“You have to,” Billbert said and took her hands, placing them on the hoody. “Keep pressure on the wound.”
Billbert leaped into the air and shot toward the van.
With a loud crash and the sound of tearing metal, the van shook and the driver was thrown to the ground, his assault rifle landing yards away.
PLANET Z
Some men put their man caves in their basements and fill them with televisions and barstools and sports memorabilia, but Elias’ mancave is a literal cave along the coast of Scotland.
When he invites the guys over for the drink, they hop in their rowboats and fight the waves for an hour or so before landing exhausted on the rocky shore.
Some don’t make it, and the ones who do raise a toast to their memory.
Then they head back out, because the mancave gets lousy television reception, and the cable guy died last year.
The gang toasts his memory.
CHATGPT
Amidst the night’s haze, tires screeched and metal clashed. Two lives intersected in a split second, forever altering destinies. Glass shattered like dreams as reality blurred into chaos. Sirens wailed, piercing the silence of the once serene street. Bodies shaken, hearts racing, they emerged from the wreckage, grateful for survival yet haunted by what could have been. In the wreckage’s aftermath, amidst twisted metal and broken dreams, they found solace in each other’s embrace. A reminder that even in life’s most jarring collisions, there exists the potential for healing and the strength to rebuild from the wreckage.
The robot umpire
People call it a robotic umpire, but it’s a combination of radar guns, cameras, and computers.
The system gathers up all the data and tells the guy behind the plate if it’s a strike or a ball.
It doesn’t scan whether a swing goes around.
It doesn’t judge foul tips.
It doesn’t call safe or out on bases, foul or fair balls, or other important calls that umpires mess up.
Nor does it sue the league for accusations of racism because it gets passed up for promoton.
Which is why it’s still in the minor leagues, calling balls and strikes.
Got to get into a fight
I paid fifty bucks for the pay-per-view fight.
Ordered a bunch of pizzas and picked up a keg.
Moved the big TV to the patio, dragged out the sofa and chairs, and rented some more.
Put out some lawn games, cornhole, that kind of thing.
Put up a chalkboard for anyone who wanted to make any wagers.
Winner. Loser. Round. Knockdowns and knockouts.
People parked in the driveway, the yard, along the street.
Neighbors came over, too.
The fight lasted twenty-six seconds.
But the party lasted all night long.
Help me get everything back inside and take back the keg?
Simulation
There’s no such thing as a good car wreck
All my money couldn’t change the past.
But it could buy a future of a sort.
After some experiments with holograms and robots, they worked up a simple screen simulation.
“It will be like talking to her over the phone or on a Skype,” they said.
And there she was. On the screen.
My princess.
“It was all my fault,” my daughter said. “I’m so sorry. Stop beating yourself up.”
We cried for a while, said we loved each other.
Then they shut me down and went back to their experiments.
Terrible Twos
My mother said that when I was a little kid, my terrible twos were truly terrible.
Where my brother was an absolute well-behaved saint, I was a holy terror, and she broke a kitchenware store’s supply of wooden spoon on my ass from all the spankings.
However, the beatings happened long after my twos, and more often for my mother’s transgressions, not mine.
Many years later, my parents came to Texas to manipulate and blackmail me into supporting them.
I disowned them both.
If my terrible twos were terrible to my mother, then my terrible fifty-twos are a well-deserved nightmare.
Unbalanced
My washing machine makes a lot of noise.
The repair guy came by and said that it’s unbalanced.
He gave me an estimate of two hundred dollars, but I told him to go away.
I can fix it myself.
You see, my therapist said I was unbalanced.
And he prescribed some pills, yoga, and meditation.
They work for me, so they should work for the machine.
I put the machine on a yoga mat.
And toss in some of my anti-anxiety pills.
It didn’t work.
Why?
I didn’t take it to my therapist.
Sadly, he doesn’t make house calls.
Belushi
Looking back at the talent and the box office returns, one can easily say that the wrong Belushi died.
John Belushi was a force of nature, producing cult classic after classic.
And his final two films, while not smash hits or cult classics, still brought in money.
James, on the other hand, started awful and took a nosedive from there, ending John Hughes directorial career along the way.
His sitcom was unwatchable, filling a timeslot until something better came along.
Jim retired to run a cannabis farm a few years ago.
For all our sakes, let’s hope he stays there.