Peeping Drone

 

Peeping Drone

I’m hovering over your house.  I see your wife is sunbathing on the deck.   Nice.  I drop down a bit and look through your bedroom window.  You really should put clothes on before I drop by.  As my drone circles the house, I look in all your windows.  The wood floors in the living room are like new, but the carpet in the hall needs to be replaced.  I see your son is spending way too much time playing video games in his room.  He really should get out more.  I don’t like the color scheme downstairs.  Too many earth tones.  You should spruce it up with some accent colors.  Your daughter is online again, wasting her youth on social media instead of getting out and seeing her friends in person.  The kitchen needs updating.  You really should replace those old appliances.  I see the housekeeper is getting into your liquor cabinet again. 

Overall, the property looks great.  I’ll put a sign in the yard and get you three offers this weekend. 

Super Model

 

Super Model

My modelling career began when I was thirteen.  Mom took me to a modelling agency and paid for my head shots.  The agency liked my body more than my face, so they offered me an ad for teen jeans.  Soon, gigantic pictures of my ass in blue jeans appeared in fashion stores at the mall.  When my friends recognized my butt in jeans, they rushed to the modelling agency too, but the camera didn’t love their asses the way it loved mine.

My portfolio began with butt pics but soon moved up to boob shots.  When girls saw me in magazines wearing a pink push-up, they all rushed out to buy my new bras.

After that, everything I touched went viral.  If I drank bottled water in an interview, the water company’s stock soared.  If I wore pink lip gloss, it flew off the shelves. I could afford to retire by the time I was eighteen, but didn’t, because it wasn’t about money.  It was about attention.  I was addicted to exhibitionism.   

As I approached twenty, my fan base shifted from girls to young women, so I was photographed less often in underwear and more in trendy skirts and dresses.   Later, my target market moved on from young women to mature, professional women who wanted to achieve success in the business world by looking like me.    

I realized I was over the hill when I was asked me to pose in stretch pants and comfortable shoes.  Young girls got the hot jobs and squeezed me out.   Then I was forced to move into the plus-size market, and then the maternity fashion world.  Now I do infomercials for diet pills.

All good careers must come to an end.  Pilots have to retire at sixty-five, and athletes usually retire by thirty. Now I know how they feel.  I’ll turn twenty-four next week. 

I Called In Sick

 

I Called In Sick

I called in sick on Monday and told the boss I had a cold and would be out for a day or two.  Two days later I still didn’t want to return to work, so I called in and pretended it wasn’t a cold but the flu, and I’d need to stay out all week.  After a week I still didn’t want to go back to work, so I called the boss and told her it wasn’t flu after all, it was covid and I’d be out two weeks.  After a month I called in and said it wasn’t covid after all.  I said I was pregnant and needed a year leave.  The boss said I couldn’t be pregnant because I’m a man and fired me.  So, I sued her for gender discrimination and won a settlement five times my annual salary.  The settlement money ran out in five years, so I tried to find another job.  No one would hire me because my former boss gave me poor references, so I applied for disability.  I went to the disability office, sat down with a case worker, and confessed my history of faking illness to get time off.  She loved my story and gave me a mental disability status.  When I returned to her office the next day, she was gone.  Her boss said she was out with a cold and would be back in a couple days.                

MOVE OVER, OLD MAN!

 

MOVE OVER, OLD MAN!

“MOVE OVER, OLD MAN!” yelled the driver of the red car passing me. He was right, I should get over, so I yelled back “I’M SORRY!”  When I changed lanes to give him room, I accidentally cut off a yellow car.  That driver yelled “GET OFF THE ROAD OLD MAN.”  He was right, I am old, and not the driver I used to be, so I yelled back “SORRY, SORRY!” and slowed down.  But when I slowed down, the blue car behind me had to brake hard.  He flipped me the bird, so I waved a wimpy wave and muttered “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” 

Everyone drives so fast these days, like they have to be somewhere in a hurry.  I used to be like that when I was young, before I had kids and learned to be patient. 

A black car came up from behind, passed me on the right, cut me off, braked hard, yelled “OUT OF THE WAY, OLD MAN!” and flipped me the bird.  That was the last straw.  I lost my cool and floored it. I passed the yellow, blue, red and black cars, yelling “SLOW DOWN, KIDS!”  My heart was pounding because I was terrified of road rage.    

I drove as fast as my car could go, cornered like a madman, and burned up all my fuel and tires.  I kept it up until the last lap, when I screamed down the straightway, got the checkered flag and trophy.  Champagned flowed in the winner’s circle.  The drivers who had cursed me now congratulated me.  Then we all took the bus home.  Too many crazies out there.