Bunny Rabbit

December 21, 2008 by


Milo’s trailer home sat uncomfortably close to the dirt road that led to John’s country home. Milo’s dad Harry didn’t work so he was home most of the time doing chores like cooking and cleaning. Harry was good around the kitchen.

Harry was also a transvestite who liked to wear frilly aprons, but nothing else. Harry would hang his laundry on the clothesline  butt naked.  John tried to make sure Andi never wandered over to Milo’s.

“Dad, did you see my rabbits?” Andi asked John. “Let’s take a look around,” said John to Andi.  John and Andi looked all around the yard thinking the bunnies might be hiding in the wood pile or under the porch. They were nowhere to be found.  Andi was starting to cry but John assured her they would be found.

About that time Milo came walking up the dusty dirt path. “Milo, you seen Andi’s bunnies?” John asked. “Yes,” Milo said. “They are in my dad’s freezer.”



December 19, 2008 by



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 by

“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 by

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 by

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 by


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.


A Good Bad Day

December 9, 2008 by


A boy named Tom, who was known locally as Floccinauchus, was singing Christmas songs on the elevated train, and that pissed everyone off, so they all threw tiny hatchets at him.  Floccinauchus bled, but he was a hemophilac, so he loved it.  He got off at Fullerton and began to snap his fingers.  He walked with one hand in his front pocket, chewed his gum with his mouth open, and quoted lines from a.k.a. Pablo.  This infuriated Sancho, who was behind him.  Sancho pulled a ripsaw from his fireman’s hat and flayed the skin behind Floccinauchus’s neck.  Floccinauchus laughed and scratched his nipple.

In the barber shop, Floccinauchus pulled out a Rubik’s Cube.  This irritated Sal, Floccinauchus’s hairdresser.  He pulled out a cleaver and chopped off Floccinauchus’s ankles.  Floccinauchus just spat and squeezed his shoulder pads playfully.

Floccinauchus loved to chew Fruit Stripes until it lost its taste, which was approximately four seconds. Then he SPAT IT OUT!  Sometimes he would dress up as Tony the Tiger, but he’d be naked underneath.  He’d only tell Vavooshka, his Godmother.  One night Floccinauchus, while dancing to Winger, choked on chicken broth.

As his lifeless corpse lay on the turntable, Vic Tayback lit a fuse.  In the winter heat Floccinauchus exploded into chunky pieces.

Meanwhile, Larry bought an attaché case.

Animal Crackers

December 4, 2008 by

The sweet smell of fruity nectar from the town orange groves was an evil tease, Chase thought to himself. He could not believe she would leave him there alone and cold at the bottom of the sewer, injured. True, the fall itself normally would have been no big deal, had he remembered anything at all of the ways of the Ninja that he had trained so rigorously for as a youth and had mastered by age 14.

Had he remembered how to fall without getting hurt perhaps they both would be laughing about the whole thing right now. Surely surviving a 23 foot straight fall into a storm sewer at midnight in the rain would provide a lifetime of bragging rights and bar-room story telling bravado.

But such was not the case, and Peter knew he had no one else to blame but himself for his current predicament. Well, maybe she was part to blame. After all, she did push him. Albeit accidental, had she not pushed him they would be at the theater right now enjoying Super Bad 2: Porky’s Retreat.

Instead, he was lying 23 feet below the street in the driving rain with a broken femur protruding at an ackward angle from his left leg and a broken right shinbone, also compounded, above the ankle. In addition to his podiatrary problems, Ken had broken both arms at the elbows in a feeble attempt to use them to break his fall. Unable to stand, much less move on account of the pain, he could only lie there on his back, looking up at the street light.

To make matters worse (as if they could be any worse Greg thought to himself), he found that he didn’t so much care about his broken limbs, the pain, or being trapped 23 feet below the street in a sewer in the rain.

No, all of that seemed trivial when compared to the fact that his penis was hanging out of his pants, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The Hunt

December 3, 2008 by

Henry Rider could have been the President of the United States.  He could have been the most powerful man of his time.  Instead, he decided to be a scum-sucking, pig-faced bum.
Henry liked to go hunting with his friends, and now was a perfect time for it.  He and his friend Frank were going up to Bear Park to hunt gorillas.
“So Frank, you gonna be sure to bring that ella-phant gun-a-yours?”
“Jeez—fer almost bein’ da Presadent, you shure awr dom.  Of course I’ll bring it!”
“Hey—fuck you—don’t remind me of that.”
The two left for Beaver Lodge at 4 o’clock.  They arrived at 4:15 and ate breakfast.
“I’m gonna shoot me a big goat with this here gun-o-mine, Henreeey!”
“Man, I love Beaver Pond, don’tchya?”
“Yeah.  It’s neat.  Let’s get t’sleep sos’s we kin wake up early and snare us a bear or somptin.”
“’Night to ya too…”
“Shit, what a dream,” Henry said to himself, waking to a maddening buzz.
“Oh hell, I’m gonna be late.  It is not acceptable for a candidate running for President to be tardy for his inauguration.”
Henry Crawford left his home, briefcase in hand, three-piece suit in tact, ready to become Mr. President.

The Collector

December 3, 2008 by

If dead carcasses of small rodents were worth money today, then Ralph Croder would be a rich man.  Ralph had a dead rodent collection that exceeded even the number of blackheads on Frasier’s nose.  Ralph’s collection included: a giant rat, a brown mouse, mickey mouse, hermit mouse, and his favorite, a vole.  So if dead rodent carcasses had value these days, Ralph would be a definite self-proclaimed millionaire… but for now, he’ll just have to enjoy watching reruns of Here’s Boomer.