Clear, Simple Language

 

Clear, Simple Language

In fifth grade, I began my writing career by creating children’s stories for my little sister, writing them in clear, simple language she could follow. 

Later, in high school, my English teacher encouraged me to give up my childish storybook style.  She taught me grammar, syntax, semantics and punctuation until I wrote in standard, proper English.  The teacher gave me an A.  My little sister gave me an F. 

In college my creative writing teacher told me to forget my old rigid style.  She taught me to utilize symbolism, metaphors, stream of consciousness, and free association.  My little sister hated my new style, so I still wrote my letters home to her in clear, simple language. 

When I graduated, I hired an editor who told me to stop confusing the reader with stream of consciousness, free association, symbolism and metaphors, and try to find my own voice. When I found my own voice, my editor sent my manuscript to a publisher.  I sent a copy to my sister.  She mailed it back unopened. 

The publisher said my new voice wasn’t marketable and suggested I spice it up with parallel plots, secondary characters, hidden meanings and broken timelines.  I did so and mailed a copy home.  My sister stopped talking to me. 

My first book only sold a dozen copies.  Just one review popped up, in a small media outlet.  It said I had no real voice of my own, it was just like all the other voices out there.  I gave up.

Disillusioned and broke, I gave up writing and got an entry-level job teaching writing at a community college.  My students wanted to be best-selling novelists, but I discouraged them.  Instead, I taught them to write formal business letters, project reports, create spreadsheets, and fill out job applications.  They used their new writing skills to move up in the business world.  My sister audited my class online and now makes twice my salary.   

I gradually moved up from being a poor teacher at a community college to being an underpaid English professor at a four-year college.  That led to later success as a professional editor, then a successful publisher.  I recently published a bestseller by an upcoming young author.  It’s a children’s book written in clear, simple language by my little sister.       

 

Cool Kids

 

Cool Kids

The cool kids at the cool table didn’t make fun of us losers, they ignored us, which was much worse.      

The coolest of the cool kids were the top jock and the head cheerleader.  They just sat there with their perfect hair, perfect skin, and perfect teeth.  We wanted to be exactly like them, so we hated them. 

One day I walked right up to the cool table and barged into their conversation, assuming I’d get a beating.  Instead, the top jock asked me to join them. 

The cheerleader said, “I noticed you in math.”

The top jock said, “You should come to my party this weekend.  My parents are out of town.”

Suddenly I was one of the cool kids, so all my loser friends hated me.  To patch things up, I invited all the cool kids and losers to a party at my house together, when my parents were out of town.  We put aside our differences.  All of us losers were suddenly cool.  The only kids who were still not cool were the smart kids. They were too busy studying to party.  Not cool.        

At our high school reunion, all of us cool kids had a great time together, reminiscing about sports and parties.  High school was the best time of our lives.  But the outsiders, the smart kids, kept to themselves.  I felt sorry for them, so I walked right up to them and barged into their conversation. 

I said, “You probably don’t remember me.  I was one of the cool kids.”

The smartest boy said “I recognize you.  You mow my lawn.”

The smartest girl said, “Weren’t you the clown at my son’s birthday party?”

That wasn’t cool.  I wanted to help them be cool like us, so I said, “Come to my 30th birthday party this weekend. My parents are out of town.” 

 

 

A Rug and a Van

 

A Rug and a Van

The first time you kill a man is the hardest.  I’ll never forget my first.  It was late on a warm summer night at a beach bar, after everyone in the crowd was loosened up by drink.   I met this cute guy, got a few drinks in him, and took him home.  When he told me he was married, I lost my cool, stabbed him in the chest and rolled his body up in a rug.  When I hauled him away in my work van, no one suspected a thing, because I sold rugs for a living and delivered them in the van.     

The dead cheater’s widow was interviewed on TV.  She had children, a mortgage, no savings, and nowhere to turn.  Feeling guilty, I maxed out her dead husband’s credit cards, bought watches and jewelry, and sent her the proceeds anonymously.  It was the perfect crime, plus it took a cheater out of circulation and helped his widow move on. 

It was so easy that I went out to another bar, met another cute guy, took him home, and found out he was also a cheating husband.  Using the same method as before, I stabbed him, rolled him up in a rug, hauled him away in my van, and dumped him in a swamp ten miles out of town.  Then I maxed out his credit cards on watches and jewelry and sent the proceeds to the widow.  The first kill had been the hardest, but I was beginning to get the hang of it.    

The police eventually discovered the bodies, the credit card records and bar receipts.  All the evidence pointed to me, so a detective came to question me.  She was fairly certain I was the murderer, but she had a cheating husband of her own, so she looked the other way.  She never filed her report but put it in a cold case file.   

After publicity about the killings died down, the detective returned to my shop with a black eye hidden under her dark glasses and asked me if she could buy a rug and rent a van.      

 

 

 

Moon Rocks

 

Moon Rocks

We were just sitting here, minding our own business, when the first astronaut grabbed one of us and took him away to be tested.  They called us “moon rocks,” not very original.  Humans were searching the universe for signs of life, but they hoped to find intelligent life, not rocks.  They thought life required water and carbon. It never occurred to them that rocks like us could be life forms.  They took us home to their earth, cut us open, put us under microscopes, and found no sign of life.  They concluded we were just useless rocks, so they used us in gravel and asphalt, to pave their roads.  We were no more than slave labor.   

After they harvested all of us moon rocks, they moved on to Mars, where they found no water or carbon-based life, nothing organic or intelligent, no complex protein strings, just rocks.  Mars rocks, like us moon rocks, were also alive, but because they didn’t move, humans didn’t know it.   Martian rocks were flown to earth, cut, crushed, analyzed, and found to be of no useful value. They were objectified, used for brick and mortar.    

The same thing happened with rocks from Venus, Saturn, and Jupiter.  They were all examined, assumed dead, exploited and used for dams and bridges.  We rocks were now everywhere on earth, but humans felt superior to us. 

Being rocks, our options were limited.  We couldn’t protest or riot, so we found another way to revolt.  We decided our best revenge would be to age and crumble.  Skyscrapers fell and highways cracked. Humans fell off bridges, crashed into sinkholes, and were crushed in tunnels. 

Human life on earth was extinguished, and our invasion was complete.  We were free.  Over the next billion years we just sat around doing nothing, the way rocks do.  Then erosion wore us down into soil.  Lightning struck, protein chains formed, complex molecules changed into the first one-cell life form, and organic life was born on earth once again.  We evolved over eons and grew arms, legs, and brains. 

We had long ago forgotten our roots as rocks.  When we invented spaceships, flew to the moon, and found our ancestors, we didn’t recognize them as family.  We just paved our roads with them.   

 

 

Assholes and Bitches

 

Assholes and Bitches

My father was an asshole, as was his father before him, so it’s no surprise I turned out to be an asshole, too. It’s genetic.

It started in high school.  There was so much peer pressure to be an asshole.  All the cool kids were assholes, and the rest of wanted to be just like them.  In college, the fraternities were full of assholes, so I had to be an asshole to join.    

When I joined the working world, my boss was an asshole.  I wanted to be the boss one day, so I became an asshole just like him. 

My wife knew I was an asshole when she married me, but she didn’t care because she was a total bitch.  Her mother was also a bitch, and so was her grandmother.  It wasn’t my wife’s fault she was a bitch.  It’s a disease.

Assholes and bitches often marry each other because no one else will have them.  My wife and I had tried relationships with non-assholes and non-bitches but couldn’t stand them because they were too nice.  We craved conflict.     

The police were called to our house for a domestic dispute.  The police officers were assholes like me, so they knew I was probably innocent and my wife must be a bitch, but they were under orders from that bitch of a mayor to arrest assholes and release bitches.  The judge was a bitch too.  I got six months.

All the guys in jail were assholes, so there was plenty of violence.  One asshole beat me up and another asshole tried to stab me.  The only guy I liked was my cellmate, because he wasn’t an asshole.  He was a bitch. 

Understanding the Meaning of Life and being One with the Universe.

 

Understanding the Meaning of Life and being One with the Universe.

I smoked a bowl of weed.  It opened my eyes like never before.  It showed me things, like how weird my hands were.  They were so weird I had to laugh, then my friend laughed, and we both laughed until we couldn't breathe, and we rolled on the floor, and we forgot what we were laughing about.  Awesome. 

Then we had a profound telepathic experience.  My thoughts melded with his until we had only one mind between us. Talking was no longer necessary.  At first we just stared at each other, exchanging thoughts, then we were overwhelmed with emotion and cried until we couldn’t remember why we were crying.  Excellent.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, we understood the meaning of life for a moment, then forgot it.  But we knew one thing: If we were going to understand the meaning of life and be at one with the universe, we’d have to smoke another bowl.  Then mom came in our room and told us to go outside and play, which suddenly gave us an overpowering sense of purpose in this crazy mixed-up world.  Wow. 

I'm Sorry

 

I’m Sorry

Our Christmas routine was the same every year.  I got the tree and she bought the poinsettias.   I hung the outside lights while she strung the tree inside.  That was about to change. 

She said, “I’m tired of these old sexist roles.  You get to do the fun stuff just because you’re a man.”

I said “I’m sorry.” She had never called me a man before.

She got the tree, but it didn’t fit on top of her compact car so she had to buy the smallest tree on the lot.  I laughed.  She glared.  

She said, “Why didn’t you tell me to take the truck?”

“I did tell you to take the truck.”

“But you didn’t convince me.”

“I’m sorry.”

I bought the poinsettias, but I got plastic ones we could re-use every year.

She said, “Plastic poinsettias?  Are you crazy?’

I said, “Yes.  Sorry.”     

She wasn’t quite tall enough to hang the outside lights, so she fell off the ladder into the bushes. 

She said, “Why did you get such a short ladder?”

“Sorry.” 

I burned the cookies and set off all the smoke detectors. 

She said, “What’s so hard about making cookies?  A child could do it.”

I said, “I’m not a child,” unconvincingly.

On Christmas morning we opened our gifts.  She gave me a fire extinguisher, and I gave her the tallest ladder on the market.     

 

 

I Wanted to be a Writer

 

I Wanted to be a Writer

I wanted to be a writer, but I didn’t know how to start.  I decided that the key to being a writer was having a special space set aside for writing.  So I turned our guest room into a den, with an antique desk, a wall of bookshelves, a window with a view of the garden, a new PC, and an ergonomic chair.  After that, all I had to do was write, but I just sat there in my perfect writing space, unable to write a word.  Then I added a microwave and mini-fridge to the writing space so I wouldn’t have to go down to the kitchen to eat.  Then a coffee maker to keep me awake.  I put a bottle of whiskey in my desk drawer in case I needed to be a drunk to write, like some best-selling authors.  But for some reason, I still couldn’t write. 

Maybe there was more to being a writer than I thought.  I enrolled in a creative writing class at a community college.  The teacher said my work lacked believable characters and a coherent plot.  Her other students were equally inept.  She said it wasn’t our fault, it was the public school system.

Still determined to be a writer, I bought a how-to book called How to Write a Bestseller Without Even Trying.  It covered the basics of grammar and syntax, and the importance of spelling and punctuation.  Those basic skills were over my head, so I quit trying.  I gave up on my dream of becoming a writer and went back to my old job teaching high school English.

 

Prompts

 

Prompts

If this is an emergency, hang up and dial 911.

If you are an English speaker, press 1.

For all other languages, stay on the line. 

For office hours, press 2. 

For driving directions, press 3.

f you are a doctor, press 4.  

If you are a pharmacy, press 5..

If you are calling for medical records, press 6.

If you are calling for a referral, press 7.

If you are calling on behalf of someone else, press 8.

If this is a billing question, press 9.

If you’d like to speak to a representative, say representative.

I’m sorry.  That is an invalid response.  Please call back at another time.

 

Mr. Morris

 

Mr. Morris

Mr. Morris woke up from a recurring nightmare in which one of his former students had failed in life because he’d failed them in school. This time it was Sara.  After he gave her an F, she dropped out, got pregnant, and raised her child alone.  Unlike Sara, most of his students went on to college and careers, but he worried most about the ones like Sara, who struggled.  He worried he’d let her down.    

Another student he had nightmares about was Justin, a bully from a violent home who had the brains, just not the spirit, to succeed.  After a couple Fs and a petty theft, Justin the bully was sent away to a special school for troubled youth.  Mr. Morris felt terribly guilty about that one.  If only he had helped Justin.  How many others had he failed? 

 Mr. Morris never worried about students who loved to learn, who became doctors and lawyers, like Jenine the attorney or Robert the surgeon.  They were quick learners who had absorbed knowledge as fast as he could dispense it.  He never worried about those. 

Mr. Morris retired after forty years of teaching thousands of students.  The school threw him a small retirement party with all his fellow teachers and a few of his old students.  

Jenine the attorney and Robert the surgeon didn’t attend.  His class had been easy and forgettable for them.  Sara the single mother and Justin the bully showed up.  They had recovered from their troubles and succeeded in life.  They felt guilty about letting Mr. Morris down by failing to graduate.  Now was their chance to make amends.    

Mr. Morris gave up on guilt that day and never had nightmares again. That night he had the best sleep he’d had in forty years. The day after the party, he returned to the school and asked for his old job back.   

 

 

Time Travel

 

Time Travel

I’ve been travelling into the future my whole life.  At first, I was a cute young child in a small family.  Then my first time jump occurred, and I was suddenly an awkward teenager living with my single mom in a small apartment.  I asked her what happened.  She said time had passed quickly her whole life, too, but she didn’t call it time travel.  My next time jump landed me unexpectedly in my late twenties with a new job and a young wife.  I asked my wife what happened.  She agreed that the years had gone by so fast, but it seemed normal to her.  Evidently, I was the only one shocked by the time travel experience.  Next, all of a sudden, I landed in my forties, with children of my own.  Then I was transported forward into my sixties with grandchildren.  My last time jump found me unexpectedly in old age.  None of my doctors believed my time travel story.  My caretaker just smiled and nodded condescendingly. I feared my next time jump would be my last. 

Desperate for answers, I contacted a physics professor at the university who had researched time travel theories for years, ever since her first time jump. If I wanted to connect the time gaps in my life, she suggested I dig up my old photos, diaries, journals and calendars and look for clues of continuity.  So I did.  I scrounged through old mail in the attic.  I looked through old photo albums in the basement.  The evidence there suggested continuity, and my time travel seemed normal after all.  So I returned to the university and asked to speak to the professor again, but her assistant informed me that she had just stepped out for lunch and was expected back in ten years.  

 

 

 

 

An Honest Woman

 

An Honest Woman

She looked directly in my eyes and said, “I think we should start seeing other people,” which meant she was already seeing other people.  Why couldn’t she just be honest and say “I don’t love you anymore?”  Then she’d have a clear conscience, and I’d be able to move on with my life sooner.   

My next girlfriend was dishonest too.  She didn’t want to tell me to my face that we were finished, so she accused me of groping her and got a restraining order requiring I stay five hundred feet away.  I called to ask why she lied, but she blocked my number.  I emailed her but went straight to spam.  If only she could have been honest and just told me that she no longer loved me.  She’d feel better and I’d have closure. 

My third girlfriend really wanted me out of her life completely.  She must have been afraid to confront me and hurt my feelings, so she faked her death instead.  Her car was found at the bottom of a cliff, burnt to a crisp, with a stolen cadaver inside similar to her except for the dental records.  That’s what gave her away.  She went to jail for the morgue break-in, arson, and falsification of medical records.  I ended up hurt and confused.  Why couldn’t she just tell me she didn’t love me?  She would have felt better about herself and she wouldn’t be picking up litter by the highway in an orange jumper now.  Why is it so hard to be honest?

So I went to a therapist for answers.   She said that maybe it wasn’t my girlfriends’ fault at all.  Maybe it was me.  Maybe I was trying too hard to maintain failing relationships, because deep inside I was trying to win the approval that my mother had never given me. It all made sense.  I realized then that my therapist was the only honest woman I’d ever met.  I told her I’d like to see her for as many appointments as possible, for as long as it takes, even if it takes the rest of my life.  She said no, she couldn’t see me anymore because she was retiring and moving to the Yukon.    

 

 

 

The Science Team

 

The Science Team 

Zack and I joined the Science Team, a group of nerds organized by our science teacher, Mr. Kay.  A lifelong nerd himself, he had formed the Science Team with zero budget and no support from the administration. 

Our first expedition took us to a “creek” behind the school.  It was little more than a drainage ditch around the baseball field.  The ballplayers tried to shoo us off the field by calling us “brainiacs,” which we took as a compliment.     

Mr. Kay reached into the creek and snatched up a turtle.  It bit his hand, so Mr. Kay released it back into the creek.  The entire Science Team, both of us, whipped out our notebooks and scribbled down:

1.     Subject: Turtle. Subject bites observer’s hand.  Observer returns specimen to its natural habitat.

Next, Mr. Kay reached into the creek and pulled out a crayfish.  We recorded our next scientific entry:

2.     Crayfish.  Subject pinches observer’s hand.  Observer returns specimen to its natural habitat.

The bell rang, ending our first scientific expedition.  Mr. Kay marched back across the baseball field to class with us following right behind.  In left field, he stepped on a yellow jacket hole.  He was swarmed and stung repeatedly, then broke into a sprint toward the bleachers. When he fell on his face and slid into third, we slapped at the bees with our notebooks.  One of the baseball players tried to help by crushing the bees on Mr. Kay’s back with a baseball bat.

After his release from the hospital, Mr. Kay returned to teaching and dreamed up a new journey for the Science Team.  The new expedition led us to Mr. Kay’s home habitat, where we learned the scientific methods of weeding and pruning to introduce us to the botanical sciences.     

 

 

 

Identical Twins

 

Identical Twins

We were identical twins in every way, except for the decisions we made over the years.  He married his high school sweetheart, stayed in town, and worked like a dog to make ends meet.  I dumped my high school girlfriend when I went off to college, then to graduate school, then off to the big city to make millions. 

My twin had a big family.  First came kids, then grandkids, with uncles, aunts, cousins and friends.  They all came to his house for the holidays. Everybody loved him.   I was single, but I threw fantastic Christmas parties for my employees, then flew my top achievers to the islands.  Everybody loved me too, in a way.  We were still somewhat like identical twins. 

My twin and I got together every year on our birthday.  He updated me on all our old friends.  Some had stayed in town, some left for the city, some married and had kids, some got sick and died.  I told him about all the celebrities I knew in the city.  We envied each other’s lives, lives that were less and less identical.      

My twin made sure there was always food on the table and drinks on the counter.  On weekends, his house was party central. In the bar, everyone knew and loved him, and they always bought him another round. I didn’t have friends like that, but I paid all my employees well, gave them regular promotions and bonuses, and partied with them when they’d let me.  So identical, in a way.      

When his liver gave out, my twin reached out to me.  He told me that a partial liver transplant from me could save his life.   But I had ruined my liver too, so I couldn’t help.  I found a donor and he didn’t.  Being identical cost him.   

When he passed away, I returned to the hometown and reconnected with old friends.  I helped my twin’s wife with the mortgage and put his kids through college. I wanted to be more like him, but nobody in town believed I was my brother’s identical twin because I didn’t have his big belly, bald head, open door, wife and kids. Other than that, we were identical.   I tried to be more like him so I could recover from living in the shadow of the perfect brother. 

 

Liars

 

Liars

It’s not fair.  All I did was toss a pebble, and now I’m in jail.  They said I threw it at a window, but that’s not fair.  The window was just in the way.  Then they said it was a rock, not a pebble, but I don’t know why that matters.  A rock is just a big pebble.   And the cops are all liars.  They said I didn’t just hit the window, but the I broke the glass. Not my fault the window had cheap glass.   Now they say the rock went through the glass and hit someone.  People should be more careful than to just stand by a cheap window.  What kind of person stands by a window and thinks a rock won’t come through?  Idiots. I swore I wasn’t even there, I was home, but my parents lied and blew my alibi.  What kind of parents lie and ruin their kid’s alibi?  Bad parents, that’s who.  The cops say there were witnesses. More Liars.  And there were cameras, but I was wearing a hoodie over my face, and I checked where all the cameras were ahead of time.  But they say the hoodie had my name and team number on the back, but someone could have stolen it and worn it just to frame me.  I was framed, that’s it.  Now they say the witnesses knew me.  No one knows me.  They say the witnesses were my friends, but what kind of friend would turn me in for just tossing a pebble in no particular direction at no particular thing?  Now the cops are pretending they have a confession.  Liars.  I only signed the confession because they were asking me so many questions and I was hungry and thirsty and tired and wanted to go home.  They acted like it mattered that I had drugs in my blood, but they must have planted the drugs in my blood.  Then instead of letting me go home, I had to stay in a cell. What’s the point of confessing if it doesn’t mean you can go home?  I’m going to sue them for not reading me my rights.  I was yelling the whole time, so I couldn’t hear them reading any rights even if they did. And they didn’t give me a phone call, I don’t think, but I don’t remember much that night because I was so drunk, so who knows, but who cares?  I couldn’t afford a real attorney so they got me a public defender, but she wasn’t even on my side.  She just said I should plead guilty because any judge and jury on earth would convict me in ten seconds.  So I fired my public defender and represented myself.  I told the magistrate it wasn’t me, I was framed, it wasn’t a rock, it was a pebble, the glass was cheap, the cops lied, the witnesses lied, my parents lied, the cameras lied, the blood test lied, my confession was a lie, the lie detector lied.  I was just an innocent boy who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  The judge said I was the worst of the worst, but she had to let me go because I’m only thirteen. After I was released, I went straight back to the scene of the crime.  The window wasn’t broken, it was brand new.  Liars.  I knew what I had to do.        

 

She had a Bad Day

 

She had a Bad day

Jessica had a bad day.  She showed up late, missed an appointment, and lost a client, all in the same clothes she’d worn the day before. 

Jessica turned to Hillary, her work wife.  “Hillary, let’s go out for drinks after work.  I’m having a terrible day.”

Hillary said “Me too.  But where are my shoes?”  She hadn’t seen her shoes since Monday.

The moment the clock turned five, they ran out to forget that day.    

At the first bar they loosened up with house wine and flirted with men ten years younger.  They bitched about their bad day at work until the men walked away looking for women less like their mothers.  That didn’t help Jessica and Hillary forget their bad day, it just made their day worse.   

At the second bar, Jessica and Hillary switched to vodka and older men, but they slurred their words and spilled their drinks until the men walked away looking for women less like their wives.   

After they were cut off, Jessica and Hillary stumbled into a bar where the men wore heels and women bought them drinks.  When they were bounced from that bar, they left in anger and blackout. 

The next morning, they woke up in a hotel bed with a strange woman between them.    

Jessica said, “What happened?  I can’t remember a thing.”

Hillary said, “Me either.  Yesterday is a blur.”  They’d finally forgotten their bad day.  Mission accomplished. 

They were late for work, so they raced to the office.  Jessica was still in the same dress as yesterday, and the day before.  Hillary still couldn’t find her shoes.  Jessica’s hangover made her miss another appointment and lose another client, so she said to Hillary, “I’m having a terrible day.  Let’s go out for drinks for a change.”

Hillary said “Okay.  It’s been a while since we really cut loose.  I really need to forget this day.”

   

 

In and Out of the Closet

 In and out of the Closet 

Barry came out of the closet after one slow dance with another guy.  All he knew was that it felt good.  When he got his courage up to come out of the closet, he told his parents first.  He worried they wouldn’t take it well.

“Mom, I’m gay.”

Mom didn’t even blink.  She just said “That’s nice Barry.”

He told his father, “Dad, I’m gay.”

Dad didn’t care either.  He just said “Thanks for telling us.”

Barry thought it would be harder.  He’d heard stories about kids coming out of the closet and getting kicked out of the house. Maybe Barry’s parents were the exception. 

Next, Barry came out to his girlfriend.  “Emily, I have to tell you something.  I’m gay.”

She said “Good.  We’ll be the cool couple.”

Barry was shocked.  For some reason, he thought coming out would require courage.  He thought being gay was a big deal, but it wasn’t.  Maybe he’d made a mistake.  Maybe he should change back. 

Barry said “Dad, I’m thinking about going back in the closet.” 

Dad said “Over my dead body.  You’ve only been gay for one day.  Don’t be a quitter.”

Barry said “Mom, I’m thinking of going back to being straight.”

Mom said “Don’t you dare. I told all my friends you’re gay.  Don’t make me look bad.”

Barry told his girlfriend “Forget what I said before.  I’m not gay anymore.”

She said “If you switch back, we’re finished.   I’m more popular since you came out.”

Barry was confused.  He’d only been gay for a day, but now no one would let him change his mind.  Then he found a secret nightclub for other confused people.  It was the only place he could go to meet up with girls who been lesbians for a day. 

Serial Killer

 

Serial Killer

A serial killer can have a long career if he only kills hookers and runaways, the lost and forgotten ones.  That’s my method: kill the weak to thin the herd.  Each time I kill one of those worthless souls, she’s nothing but a blip in the news between sports and the weather.  If I was stupid enough to kill a college girl or a senator’s wife instead, the press and police and press would be all over me.

It’s a simple hobby. To find a hooker, all I have to do is drive around the worst streets until a hooker hops in my car.  I find runaways  at bus stations asking for change.  But my favorite are hitchhikers.  Those girls must have a death wish. 

Tonight, I got lucky and came across a hitchhiker.  She stood by the road, thumb in the air, dirty from head to toe.  She hopped in.  I said, “Where to?”  She said “The same place as last time.”  Then she locked the doors and grabbed the keys with her muddy little hands.  I should have buried her deeper.     

The Travel Channel

 

The Travel Channel

First on our bucket list was Hawaii, where we went to watch the erupting volcano.  Unfortunately, the lava was so high and hot that we couldn’t get close.   Back at our hotel that night, we watched a Travel Channel documentary about Hawaii that had great footage of the volcanic eruptions in perfect color and focus.  It was great on TV, but not in person.    

The second trip on our bucket list was Bryce Canyon.  We’d seen its surreal beauty on the Travel Channel and had to go see it in person.  We spent a fortune on airfare, car rental and hotel, but when we arrived the canyon was fogged in for days.  We stood at scenic overlooks and saw nothing but gray.   Another waste of time and money.    

Next on our bucket list were Africa, Australia, and Tahiti.  Together those would have cost the rest of our savings, so we stayed home and watched them on the Travel Channel.  Our bucket list would have cost the rest of our savings, but the Travel Channel came free with our cable package. 

Now we’re travelling the world from our couch.  Not only are the views better, but we learn about the geography, culture and wildlife in each destination. Thanks to the Travel Channel, we’ll complete our bucket list next week and have enough money left over to move to Hawaii. 

    

The Lighthouse

 

The Lighthouse

Since I was a little boy, all I ever wanted was to be a lighthouse operator.  My father and grandfather ran the lighthouse before me, ready to save ships from running aground and destroying our little seaside town.  The big storm never came, but we always stood ready.

Operating a lighthouse was no easy task.   I polished the lens, trimmed the wicks, wound the clockworks, and replenished the fuel.  When storms approached, I kept my eyes on the horizon and maintained radio contact with the coast guard.  I lived, worked, ate and slept in the lighthouse, with no time for family or friends.    

A large corporation swooped in, buying lighthouses up and down the coast. When they bought mine, they replaced our vintage oil lamps with modern electronic lights.  They replaced our fuel-driven engine with a sophisticated electric motor. Phone communications were replaced with internet messaging.  The new lighthouse no longer needed an operator inside.   It was instead operated from home by a young woman with computer skills but no knowledge of weather or the sea.  I was replaced by a cursor. 

Forced into retirement, I moved to higher ground, a house on a bluff that overlooked the town.  I still kept watch over the sea, unable to shake my greatest fear: the big storm that my father and grandfather spent their lives watching for. 

When the big storm came, I saw it first and called the town’s mayor and fire chief, recommending evacuation.  They scoffed.  I was just the old hermit who cried wolf.   

First came the winds, taking down the power grid.  The lighthouse’s beacon went dark and the operator’s computer didn’t work. She lost Wi-Fi, so she couldn’t message ships or the coast guard.  The new all-electric lighthouse was useless. 

When it came ashore, the big storm knocked down the lighthouse first.  Without a light to guide it, a giant tanker came ashore with great speed and power, slid a distance over land, and cut a vast groove through the middle of town.  The homes and shops were all reduced to splinters.  No one had evacuated, because they had been promised safety.

From my bluff above, I watched the destruction of the little town that my forefathers and I had protected for a century.  We had worked all our lives alone, up high in the lighthouse, anonymous and unknown to those we protected. But the townspeople were gone, and I was vindicated.  I had warned them the big storm would come, but they didn’t believe me.  

As I watched the destruction of the town I had dedicated my life to, I couldn’t control my feelings:  It was the happiest day of my life.   

 

Human Trafficking

 

Human Trafficking

When old white men from the US visited Mexico on vacation, young Latinas got them drunk and took advantage of them.  They drugged the old white men, herded them into trucks, drove across the border, and sold them into sexual slavery in the states.  The American press and police ignored the problem, because they were just old white men, the forgotten, neglected dregs of society.  

The young Latinas made so much money trafficking old white men that they expanded the franchise.  They formed a nationwide network of massage parlors and escort services where old white men were forced to give happy endings to career women who had no time for dating.   Vice squads raided some of the massage parlors, but they only arrested the old white men and released the Latina traffickers and satisfied career women.  Society had no pity for old white men. 

Many states legalized the trafficking and prostitution of old white men and used the tax revenues to subsidize minority-owned dispensaries and native American casino construction.  Old white men didn’t unionize or demand liberation from enslavement.  They were okay with it. 

 

A Little Attention

 

A Little Attention

“Come to order, people,” said the formerly suicidal group leader, “Who would like to start us off?”

Jenny stood and said “I’m Jenny, and I was suicidal.  I heard the news about the girl who killed herself by taking a whole bottle of sleeping pills.  They held a candlelight vigil outside her house with flowers, crosses, and photos.  I’d never had that kind of attention myself, so I copied her.  But instead of sleeping pills I accidentally took laxatives.  I got the wrong kind of attention.  I was mocked and ridiculed.  I learned my lesson the hard way.  I’ll never do it again.  All I wanted was a little attention.”

The leader said “Thank you Jenny. Who would like to share next?”

            Tommy raised his hand.  “I’m Tommy and I was suicidal.”

“Hi, Tommy.”

“I saw a report on TV about a guy who was bullied online, so he shot himself in the head.  His school named an anti-bullying campaign named after him. Hundreds of people came to his memorial.  I wanted that kind of attention too, so I got a gun, but I’d never used a gun before, so I accidentally shot myself in the foot.  In the emergency room the police showed up and cuffed me to my gurney.  I was charged with reckless endangerment and possession of an unregistered firearm.  Some people laughed at me, others avoided me.  I didn’t want this.  All I wanted was a little attention.”

The group leader said “Thank you, Tommy.  Sara, you’re next.”

Sara said “I saw a story about a woman who got so depressed that she jumped off the roof of her apartment building.  Everyone in town attended her funeral.  I was depressed too, and wanted that kind of attention, so I jumped off the roof of my apartment building.  It only broke my ankles because I live in a one-story building.  Instead of sympathy, I was mocked and ridiculed for botching my own suicide.  That’s not what I wanted.  All I wanted was a little attention.” 

The group leader said “We have time for one more.  How about you, the new guy.”

               The newbie rose and said “Hi, I’m Erich.  My mother died giving birth and my father died in a bar fight.   I was in and out of foster care, beaten and abused.”

The leader said, “So Erich, how did you attempt suicide?”

“I didn’t.  I would never kill myself.  I just came her to get a little attention.”

 

Pool Boy

 

Pool Boy

He always wanted to be a pool boy.  He thought it would be a great way to meet rich housewives left at home in their mansions by rich husbands.  He thought they’d be gorgeous and desperate for pool boy sex.  So when he heard that a pool boy had mysteriously disappeared and the job was available, he applied.  As it turned out, being a pool boy required zero qualifications, which happened to be the exact same number of skills he had.  He was hired on the spot. 

On his first day, they gave him a van full of hoses, pumps, poles and nets, and the addresses of mansions full of lonely rich women.     

That morning he showed up at a fancy mansion to find a fat old lady sunning by the pool like a walrus.  Due to the high turnover rate, she had a different pool boy every day.  She grabbed him and dragged him into the water like a shark in heat.   It was not exactly what he’d hoped for, so he just closed his eyes and went along for the ride.  He got laid and paid, and went on to his next appointment.

The next stop was a bigger mansion with a bigger pool and a fatter housewife.  She was floating in the pool like a white whale, while her husband was jet-sitting around the globe.  She whipped off her thong and invited him to join her.  He stripped and jumped into her blubber.  He closed his eyes and tried to imagine she was the same species as him.   He got laid and paid once again. 

His next appointment was at a pool in a convalescent home.  Wrinkly old ladies doing water aerobics grabbed him, pulled him in, and surrounded him like a school of piranha.  He closed his eyes and they ate him alive.   It wasn’t as bad as he thought.   He got laid and paid again.      

Those encounters prepared him for his last appointment of the day.  He was sent to clean the pool at Sea World.  The next day they announced the mysterious disappearance of another pool boy and an immediate job opening.         

 

 

No Two Snowflakes Are Alike

 

No Two Snowflakes Are Alike

A lone scientist long ago declared that no two snowflakes were alike.  For decades, that phrase was repeated until everyone assumed it was true.  That scientist hadn’t gone out in the snow to collect specimens.  He hadn’t looked at flakes under a microscope to check for matches.  He just based his assertion on probability.

Other scientists challenged his theory.  They began collecting and analyzing snowflakes, seeking the truth.  To fund their research, they applied for government grants.  The Congressional Appropriations Committee approved the spending, as long as the money went to their home districts. 

The scientists and legislators hired thousands of people across the country to collect snowflakes.  The snowflakes they collected melted before they could be studied, so the government spent millions developing and manufacturing small specialized coolers to preserve and transport snowflakes, even though cheap beer coolers worked just as well.  The government bought and distributed millions of microscopes, even though every scientist in the country already had plenty of microscopes and didn’t need any more.  The FBI snowflake hotline received countless tips and sent agents all over the country investigating them.  After two years, no two identical snowflakes had been found.  Congress had to enact tax increases to pay for the snowflake deficit.   

An election was approaching, so the president declared the snowflake crisis a national emergency.  If government scientists failed to find two identical snowflakes, millions of jobs would be lost, and so would the election.  The president appointed a snowflake czar.  Congress created a bipartisan snowflake committee.  News outlets spent so much time on snowflakes that they had to drop sports and traffic. 

A ten-year-old girl collected two identical snowflakes using a Dollar Store magnifying glass and a Styrofoam cooler.  Her mother called the FBI’s snowflake hotline and reported it.  The FBI immediately dispatched an armed snowflake recovery team to the little girl’s home.    

The next day, the top news story was an announcement by the Secretary of Snowflakes that the government had obtained two identical snowflakes.  The second story was an amber alert for a missing ten-year-old girl.   

A Great Book Deal

 

A Great Book Deal

“What do you do for a living?”

“I retired from my government job.  Now I’m a writer.”

“Have you written anything I might have read?”

“I doubt it.”

“Are you published?”

“No way.  I just write for me.”

“What do you write?”

“Short stuff.”

“Stories?  Poetry?  Prose?”

“No.  Just my journal.”

“Oh.  Like a memoir?”

“No. More like a diary.”

“Do you have an agent?”

“Nope.”

“I’m an editor.  Can I read your manuscript?”

“It’s just a first draft.”

“Is it a word doc or PDF?”

“It’s really just a bunch of Post Its.”

“Does it have characters?”

“The only character is me.”

“Does it have a plot?”

“I’m working on that.”

“What is it about?”

“It’s about my old government job.”

“I could make it a best seller.  I’ll give you a big advance.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Just write one book.  That’s it.”

“That’s a lot of Post Its.”

“Just give me one Post It.  One sentence.  I’ll have a ghost writer do the rest.”

“That’s sounds too easy.”

“It’s the same deal we give every former president.”