Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category

Girls Just Don’t Dig Me (Part 2)

January 27, 2009

I was at this big roller rink once my freshman year in high school. We all went there ‘cos it was really trendy and had the BEST Mr. Pibb. I had no idea how to skate, but I thought it would be a kickin’ good time. So I sat on one of those square things to put on my rented skates. I was pissed when I realized they had only given me one skate, but then I remembered I only had one leg. So I stumbled onto the main floor, where the vixens are, and started to play the field.

Getting up after my eleventh or twelfth fall, I noticed a sultry young red-haired love cat with glitter in her hair looking down at me. Her stare was inviting, and I asked her if she’d mind giving me a lesson or two. She smiled and, amused, began to giggle. I thought she fell for my innocence or thought my inability to skate was charming, and that boded well for things to come. But when she grabbed me by the locks of my dishwater-blond hair and swung me around ’til I was out of control, I knew my premonitions were faulty. The other girls joined in, and I became an unhappy one-legged billiard ball bouncing around the hellish pool table called Rollerhell. Eventually my torso hit the rink’s edge, shattering my pelvic bones. I lay doubled over, shot down in flames.

I don’t know. I guess girls just don’t dig me.

Advertisements

A New Time, a New Place

January 9, 2009

Bernie sat in a room filled with her favorite food, sweet potatoes.  She liked them any way she could get them.  She had wished for this bounty, and the wish had come true.  She got her sweet potato wish.  She never had believed in magic, and there was nothing that made this wish different than any other wishes she’d made in the past that had gone unanswered: no magic dust, no flash of lightning, no Zoltar fortune-telling machine on a deserted boardwalk. She just wished for sweet potatoes one morning in her bedroom, and lo and behold they appeared.

“Holy mama jama,” she exclaimed. “Gold rush!” (This was kind of a play on words, since a Goldrush is a variety of sweet potato.)

She couldn’t wait to dig in. She grabbed a delicious-looking tuber and took a bite.

“Shit!” she realized. “These motherfuckers are yams!”

Bernie hated yams. To her, yams were sweet potato posers. Sweeter and moister, the yam is not even distantly related to the sweet potato. Who did this wish-giver think he was! Didn’t this asshole know that yams are from the Dioscoreaceae family and not the Convolvulacea? WTF!!! AMATEUR!!! The genie or whatever the hell might as well have sent her a room full of dirty grass.

Bernie destroyed all of the yams in a rage and vowed to never wish again.

Chromosome Fear

January 8, 2009

Ted Baker knew that the only thing left in his life worth living for was his pet dog Bob.  Bob was the pride and joy of Ted.  Each day Ted returned home from work at the mortuary, Bob would greet him at the door, awaiting his daily walk.

One day, Ted decided to take Bob for a walk in the park two blocks away from his house. “C’mon Boy, we’re goin’ on an adventure,” he said.

The two set out toward the park.  Bob wandered from side to side, smelling the fragrant grass and urinating every now and then. Across the street was a bakery.  Bob caught scent of food and darted across the street. *BLAM!* Bob was smashed dead by a semi.

“Oh, shit,” cried Ted, running toward the corpse of his beloved dog.  The truck driver squealed to a halt and walked over to Ted with a look of genuine remorse.

“Jesus, I’m real sorry.  He just…”

“Fuck you, you mutated fuck nose!” interrupted Ted.  Ted grabbed the truck driver and smashed his head into the street lamp.

The truck driver fell onto his back.  Ted pounced on his stomach until his insides came out of his mouth.

Satisfied, he went to the bakery that had attracted Bob’s attention.  There he bought a chocolate Bundt cake and smiled.  Oh, how dear Bob had loved Bundt cakes!

Waiting for Windy

January 5, 2009

lev01

Basically, Billy had about six hours to make perhaps the most important decision in his thirty-eight year-old life. To some, the answer would be simple. There would be no question for many as to what Billy should do. The storm was bearing down on his Gulf Coast sunshine state, and he was under mandatory evacuation.

After Katrina, no sane person would ever again doubt the powers of a category 5 hurricane. Billy, having lived more than fifteen years in Florida, had seen his share of lesser hurricanes, but had lived through at least two category 3 or above ones. And this one, already a strong cat-4, was predicated to make landfall right on top of his apartment.

To Billy, this presented a problem. Normally Billy would have been gone a day earlier. Having a sixth sense about tropical disturbances, Billy would have seen the track, and drove up to Tennessee to enjoy the cooler weather, mountain air, and Dollywood.

This time was different. This time, Billy was smack dab in the middle of the most important event of his life. As a kid, Billy had spent the time and dedication, taken the photos of his old tv screen as proof, and earned high-score patches for E.T, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Pitfall Activision games for Atari.

Thirty years later, in the year 2008, these games were obsolete. However there was still a following for video game high scores. There were still those who followed and worshipped. There were still games without a “master,” and Billy wanted badly to leave his mark on the video game society by claiming a Master spot.

He was not interested in besting known scores or titles. He did not choose Donkey Kong, PacMan, Frogger, Qix, Galaga, or Space Invaders. Instead, he chose what he felt would be a shoo-in. A game that many have heard of, but nobody had conquered.

Billy set his sights on Miner 2049’er, and he was on level 999.

“Fuck that storm,” Billy said aloud, as he moved Bounty Bob into position to clear the last and final level. “I can swim,” he thought, and smiled… “Oh my darling, oh my darling…” he sang…

http://miner2049er.classicgaming.gamespy.com/audio/clementine.mid

Krüebert, the Foul-Smelling Elf

December 24, 2008

Long ago, next week sometime, maybe Wednesday, there lived a horrible smelling elf named Krüebert. He loved to make toys, especially crappy ones like table badminton sets, knockoff Silly Putty, and Drillbit Taylor dolls. Nobody wanted him or his lousy toys.

“Krüebert,” Bouncy would say, “you smell like bouillon cubes. Can you please go die or something?”

Krüebert would cry and seek comfort in making some plastic Dukes of Hazzard handcuffs.

“Krüebert,” Flouncy would growl, “the best smelling part of you, your hair, smells like the fetid dingleberries of Dasher, the most malodorous of the reindeer, smothered in afterbirth. Now please swallow one of these Polly Pocket dolls, which were recalled by Santa because they are a choking hazard and contain lead paint.”

Finally Bjugnakraekir, the Head Elf and Toymaker (who actually created the world) intervened and decided to make things right. He (or she) bathed Krüebert, only to discover that he smelled worse afterwards, and his remarkable stench ruined the North Pole’s supply of soap and Santa’s special bathing place. Realizing that, as creator of the world, the abomination of Krüebert was his (or her) fault, his (or her) only recourse was to destroy the Earth and start anew.

And to this day, the inhabitants of Og, the New World, are mystified by why just one of the billions of stars out there in the universe smells a little bit like rotten liverwurst. Little do they know, morons that they are, that within this star lies the remains of the wonderful but stanky elf named Krüebert and the lutefisk he was eating when the world exploded.

Birkenstock

December 19, 2008

toga-riki

Never!

Never again I told the clerk. Never mind the fact that the clerk did not know me, or my preferences with regards to what I felt was quality footwear. No, I did not care that security had been called- I had been thrown out of Target for far worse than this…

I had had enough, and I called poop on their rip-off Birkenstock wanna-be slip-ons made somehwere in China. No, I would not like to try another pair, and no, I did not want to stick around and talk to the store manager…

Rather, I smelled hot dogs, Slushees, and salted-pretzels. Aaaah. Target’s café, the last respite for a traveled man like me.

“I’ll have mustard!”

Microphone Check

December 18, 2008

“Testing, testing.”  The teacher, a very tall, lanky man had brought in a microphone that day.

“Can you hear me?” The class all yelled “Yes!” back to him.  He walked from behind the desk with a pile of papers and passed each one of them out face down to the students.

He walked back to his desk and stood in front of the microphone again. “You can turn over your tests and start writing.”

“Testing, testing,” he said. Then he giggled, because that’s what he was doing… Testing them.

Spoink, Maker of Mischief

December 16, 2008

Spoink got a kick out of sitting on appliances.  Once he laughed so hard he spit out the salt water taffy he was chewing.  Mrs. Glickle, although never brave enough to admit it, would giggle at his whimsicality occasionally, but only when he pressed his buttocks atop the toaster oven.

‘Hee hee hee,” she would titter, as her 143 year-old husband lay po-faced on the windowsill. Mr. Glickle, a hard, upper class man, employed as a bagger at the local A&P, looked upon Spoink’s acts of silliness only with disdain.

“This typifies the decadence of our nation’s youth,” he would say, as he thrust his fists at his collection of urns. “Our rebellious teens now choose to sit on refrigerators or microwaves rather than cool things like reclining chairs or bean bags.”

One day, while Mr. Glickle was petting Prodigy, his pet howler monkey, Spoink skipped in and sat on his 4-speed blender. Laughing, he hummed the theme to Doogie Howser M.D.

Mr. Glickle fumed. “If you don’t get off now, I’ll gorge your humming throat with carob or other such substitution snack foods,” he yelled, followed by an intense, bestial groan that caused the frightened magpies to flee to safety.

Oblivious to his wrath, Spoink continued his capricious actions by dashing to Mr. Glickle’s washer/dryer set.  He seated himself and immediately began to chuckle.  Not only did the premise of sitting on a major appliance delight him, but the vibrant whizzing of the clothes dryer tickled his bottom, causing his subtle chortle to evolve into a booming guffaw.

Mr. Glickle felt that it was time to further threaten the youngster.

“I’m warning you, Spoink, if you set your fanny on but one more of my electrical pieces of hardware, I shall flay your skin with a tiny blade and peg you with Mediterranean bulbous herbs!” screamed the harried, dying man as he juggled sea onions.

Spoink, unconcerned with Mr. Glickle’s squill, continued his sonic joy by chortling fiercely.  He smelled SpaghettiOs and, bored with his fun at Mr. Glickles, returned home, naked and confused.

Girls Just Don’t Dig Me (Part 1)

December 15, 2008

I was over at Osco, my favorite place, and I was buying some toaster pastries with filling.  The checkout girl was hot, and her terrain looked ready for plowin’, if you know what I’m saying.  I was feeling kinda right, you know, I had just gotten my hair cut, my calves were prominently displayed under my striped Bermuda shorts, and my zits were clearing up.  When she rang me up, she said, “That’ll be $4.56.”  I smiled and said, “Here you go,” and I added hopefully, “By the way, would you like to see a movie with me or something?”

Well, her feigned retail smile faded and was replaced by a grimace.  She grabbed my ‘Tarts, crushed them, and chucked them at my xiphoid process.  As I looked at her with stunned eyes, she shoved her fingernails into them, gouging through my cornea.  I ran for the exit, sheathing my bleeding eyeballs with the palms of my hands, and as I waited for the automatic door to open, I heard her maniacal laughter over my moans of pain.

I don’t know.  I guess girls just don’t dig me.

Flank Steak

December 12, 2008

wrigleytrough

Liquid fire.

That would be the only way he could describe the feeling as he released his bladder and let loose the demon-fuel urine trapped from ‘neath his abdomen. He had been here before, and he did not like this place. A place of pain and fear and angst and worry.

When he was a young boy, he traveled across the Illinois-Wisconsin state line to attend a Milwaukee Brewers vs. Montreal Expos baseball game. There, at the stadium, he and his father and uncle went to use the restroom facilities.

It was the first time he had experienced “the wait.” A long, snake-like line of men who could taste the urine in their throats as they waited for their turn to relieve themselves. Only at this facility, there were no urinals. No, rather there was only a trough-like canal at the end of the room, some stalls, and a few sinks.

When the line had progressed enough that he and his father and uncle were inside the actual restoom, he first laid his eyes upon the spectacle. Men, impatient and unable to hold their bladders, opted to walk over to the waist-high sink and relieve themselves there.

It disgusted him, but still he had to go. So like a good boy, he waited his turn and finally approached the trough. When he arrived there, he discovered a river of urine and vomit mixed with things to this day he knows he can never identify– things that should never be discussed or identified. He held back the urge to vomit and laugh as he pissed into the trough with a stream strong with youth and an arc superior to the men at his sides. He was proud of his stream despite the discomfort he felt with the numbers around him.

Later, after more soft drinks, the game ended.

His father asked, “Do you need to go to the bathroom before we get in the car?”

“No,” he replied, not wanting to experience the trough or “The Wait” again.

After a 45 minute wait to exit the parking lot, and about halfway home, the feeling struck. The pain. He knew it would be a matter of minutes before something would either explode within him, or he would cry like a babe and beg his father to pull over.

Moments later, he was there. At the place. The place where the pain is so great, that a man actually prepares himself to piss his pants and accept it- not be embarassed by it- for it was a matter of nature not pride.

At that precise moment he spoke.

“Dad. I have to go. Now. You can either pull over and let me go, or I will just piss my pants. Your call.”

He wasn’t sure if it was the maturity in his voice- the even-toned nature in which he simply stated his case (a case which any man of any age would understand), or if it was the man-fear of another pissing in the man’s sacred vehicle- whatever the case his father took the next exit, which happened to be a rest stop, and pulled over.

He jumped out and, with no care for adult supervision, ran into the men’s room and pissed for 5 minutes straight. He was amazed that he could actually feel and see his abdomen shrink with each passing minute, until finally, he had emptied his bladder. Satisfied, he flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and walked back to the car.

His father cursed him, Afer all, valuable travel time had been lost, but he did not care. The feeling of freedom and ultimate salvation was more powerful than guilt or shame. This feeling needed be savored, he thought. This feeling needed to be stored away in order to be compared in adult life, to bring reality into play and keep reality in check. He knew this feeling was too important to be squandered.

And tonight, as an adult, after 14 beers at Chili’s, and a 45 minute ride ahead of him, he knew what needed to be done- he needed to fucking piss before he departed, and piss he did.

PISS he did.

http://www.youtube.com:80/watch?v=3MHtx1nwFow