Family Pushed to Brink by ‘Perfect Storm’

June 11, 2009 - Leave a Response

Mom said it was fine cuz her “future 3rd husband” George Clooney was in it.

They told Randy that it was like Deadliest Catch, and he loves that show.

I didn’t care, really. Secretly, I think Mark Wahlberg is the sexiest thing on the universe, but nobody knows that. I saw Planet of the Apes four times in the theater.

So everybody was just ok with the movie–not super into it, but ok enough to watch it together. Family time, you know?

But Dad was crazy about it.

He cried–even at the normal parts where everything was fine and the fishing guys weren’t dying. Cried through the whole thing.

He kept telling me and Randy how educational this was. How we should be so grateful to have a dad who was alive and fish at the supermarket–he couldn’t even make up his mind about what he was sad about!

So Josh texted me right at some big important part. I swear to God, I just took it out of my pocket to see what it said. I wasn’t even going to reply because Dad was right beside me, but he goes crazy any way.

“We’re trying to watch a movie, Carol Anne!”

“I should just take that damn thing away!”

“What do I have to do to have some family time around here?”

He’s nuts. Mom tries to calm him down, but it’s not working. He suggests she go marry George Clooney, who probably doesn’t care when people ignore the “emotional climax of the film.” That’s what he said.

So Randy starts crying over all the arguing. I try to take him to my room until Mom and Dad settle down, but Dad goes apey again.

“He should see this, and learn how hard life can be. He’s certainly not getting it from this damn fine movie I’m trying to watch.”

So Mom goes immediately to her trump card: she goes and gets a suitcase and starts packing in front of him.

I just texted Mom, and she says she and Randy will be back tomorrow.

Christ, I’m never watching The Perfect Storm with them ever again.


No Tuna Sandwiches for Next Generation?

June 8, 2009 - One Response

Mickey Gladhand stumbles into his apron, hitting the light switch with his elbow as he enters Mickey’s Tuna Sandwich Stand. He is 72 years old. This is his last day.

Mickey’s Tuna Sandwich Stand put four Gladhand kids through private school. The two that felt like going to college didn’t pay a dime. The tuna sandwiches paid for everything.

His tuna sandwich stand started feeling like a prison in 1988, so he started planning his retirement. The bills from the hip replacement delayed things for a decade, but he’s handing the keys over to a hotshot name Travis at 5pm. Travis plans to use the space to rent Kindles to subway commuters. Mickey doesn’t know what the hell a Kindle is. All he knows is that he never has to touch a goddamn tuna fish sandwich for the rest of his old, stupid life.

One of Mickey’s regular customers comes by. Mickey doesn’t know her name because neither is friendly enough to ask those things. Today, though, she has her daughter with her. This lady’s daughter is six years old. When she grows up, she will be able to rent a Kindle on the way to work, but she will not be able to buy a tuna sandwich.

6-ft. Lizards Threaten Airport, food chain

May 16, 2009 - Leave a Response

Hey, airport! Yeah, you. Don’t look around like you weren’t expecting us. Nobody sexually harrasses Danny’s girl without hearing from us, his lizard friends who are 6-ft. tall!

I don’t know where you found the temerity, my friend. You think because you’re an airport you can send suggestive text messages to Danny’s girl? No, you cannot–not if we, a cadre of 6-ft. lizards, have anything to say about it!

Here’s what going to happen, airport: you’re going to take this composition book and write out a very sincere apology to both Danny and his girl. We’ll take said apology back to Danny, and if he’s satisfied, we don’t come back here and rip out your Delta hub. You dig?

That’s what I thought.

C’mon, 6-ft. lizards. Let’s get out of here. We’ve got some lions and orca whales to eat.

Screams Recorded in Cockpit of Crashing Plane

May 13, 2009 - Leave a Response

Ari takes his headphones off and slams them on his soundboard. He’s normally very particular about the tweaking of any of its myriad of knobs and buttons, but today…Christ, today. Ari hits the intercom button and sends a tired “fuck it” into the microphone.

In Ari’s vocal booth is chazz prompter, who stopped capitalizing his name when he joined Cadaver Dogs Cartel. chazz has been working on the screaming tracks of their new album for five days now. At Ari’s rates, that’s over $14000. Cadaver Dogs Cartel sells a load of t-shirts, so that’s not really the problem.

“It’ not intense enough, right?” chazz is blaming himself.

“There’s just no sense of vulerability in your screaming, Chazz.”

“It’s chazz.”

“Right–if there were only some way we could put you in real, immediate danger. This record would be so perfect if your screams were recorded in the cockpit of a crashing plane.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do, mate.”

“Chazz, you’re not Australian.”

“It’s chazz.”

Special-needs Student Left on Bus Overnight

January 3, 2009 - Leave a Response

I am staying on the bus. The bus will get back to the school. Alice and Blake and Kelly and Leo and Nate and William will get off the bus. Miss Sally and Miss Melanie will help Nate with the wheelchair ramp. I will stay on the bus.

Alice and Blake and Kelly and Leo and Nate and William are off the bus. I am hiding. The bus driver will take me back to the bank and I will watch the machine count the money again. Mr. Adair will give me a red sucker again. The bus driver will take me back to Pizza Hut. I will get a personal pan pizza with no pepperoni.

This is not the bank. The bus driver turned the bus off. He put on his green jacket and left. There are 22 more buses here. This is not the bank.

I sing “A Whole New World” into the bus driver’s intercom seven times. I eat three Cheetos that were under Kelly’s seat. I count twelve seats. There are thirteen seats when Nate is on the bus! I am cold.

The sun comes up. The bus driver gets back on the bus. He says You can’t be on the bus retard. He plays with his radio. He picks up Blake and William and Leo and Kelly and Nate. He drives me to my house. The police man lets me sing “A Whole New World” in his loudspeaker two times.

Five Pirate Attacks Repelled in a Single Day

October 30, 2008 - Leave a Response

Five Pirate Attacks Repelled in a Single Day


Timothy’s jacket is covered in what seems like of mixture of rum and blood.  It’s ruining the leather seats of his Maxima.  His left ear is just barely attached to the rest of his head, the result of either rapier or vicious parrot.  He’s got a number of other remarkable battle scars, but it’s fair enough to just say Timothy’s been through some heavy shit.  The satisfied smirk on his face suggests two things: Timothy isn’t so worried about the seats of his sedan, and the other side of his recent skirmish fared even worse.


Timothy turns down his usual drive home talk radio to rehearse the phone call he’ll make to his dad tonight.  He’ll start off with calling him “old man” and—after checking in on mom’s health and the weather–casually bring up his dad’s glory days in the Pirate Repelling Corps.  Timothy will let the old man yammer for a while. Pops (Timothy will call him this, too) will inevitably bring up the time he thwarted three pirate attacks in one day.


Timothy will remain cool.  “So impressive,” he’ll say, without an air of smugness.  “Gets better every time you tell it, big man.”  And that’s when Timothy will tell dad about his day and the Five (motherfucker!) pirate attacks he repelled in a single day.


Dad will, of course, make excuses.  “Pirates aren’t as tough as they used to be, kid,” he’ll insist.  Timothy will call out his dad’s unfair downplaying of his triumph, hang up, and spend next Thanksgiving at T.G.I. Friday’s.

Wedding-Day Disasters Didn’t Stop ‘I Dos’

August 8, 2008 - Leave a Response

He wonders how many times she brings it up in a day.  Certainly, she’s entitled to bring it up when the subject of wedding disasters is broached; she always leaves every whiny bride in the room thinking her wedding wasn’t quite so bad after all.  But he’s starting to think there’s an air of unforgiving disdain in her telling total strangers about their wedding day at any opportunity.

At the zoo: “Flamingos turn their heads upside-down to eat shrimp, too?  Reminds me of my wedding…”

In the grocery store: “That’s a great price for watermelon, but I can’t stand the look of one after my wedding…”

Voting at local community center: “I’m so torn on proposition 13.  It’s like the time I had to decide whether to put the fire out of my wedding dress or stop my husband from karate chopping my catatonic Uncle Tom.”

Couples therapy: “I’m not always convinced he’s paying attention to me, like the time I said ‘I Do’ and he said ‘Remind me to get the oil changed tomorrow.’”

They arrive home from another dinner party with people from his new job.  She wowed all in attendance with the part about the duck and the remote-control blimp.  They do not hold conversation in the bed, her with her Christian novel, him with his nightly bowl of applesauce.  She turns the lamp off and says, “I love you.”

Wedding-Day Disasters Didn’t Stop ‘I Dos’

Bombers Want to Be Beheaded, Not Shot to Death

July 30, 2008 - Leave a Response

Your average camelhumpers would kill us as soon as they got the camera turned on.  These guys are different, we guess.  Got a little honor in ‘em.

When they remove the bags from over our heads, they shout something in Farsi and point to a PP-19 Bizon submachine gun and then your standard-issue machete.

We know immediately what they were implying, but that doesn’t make the decision much easier.  Johnson says the bullet treatment; his thinking being the gun might jam up and give us an opportunity to escape.  Bennett wants the machete for what he assumes will be a faster death.  Me?  I’m on the fence.  Neither looks too appetizing to be honest with you.  I forego my chance to break the tie and suggest a little Rosh ambo to settle the matter.

The Arabs flip the hell out when Johnson and Bennett start playing rock-paper-scissors.  One actually leaves to make sure we’re not somehow calling in air support.  Johnson wins when Bennett tries playing two rocks in a row.  I make eye contact with whom I assume is their leader, nod towards the PP-19, and make the announcement:

“Terrorists, we want to be beheaded, not shot to death.”



Bombers Want to Be Beheaded, Not Shot to Death

Beer Marathoners Run, Drink, Vomit

July 28, 2008 - Leave a Response

“Hustle up, faggots!  This ain’t a circle jerk; we’re racing here!”  Brandon blasts his air horn again to let all the runners know just how much hustle he expects of them (a lot).

Brandon invented the 10K Charity Beer Run (“Get it?” he asks everyone he meets) for his Entrepreneurship class.  Dr. Klein gave it a D-, which lost Brandon his spot on the lacrosse team (“Gay ass minimum GPA”).  But seeing as he went through the trouble of having his girlfriend Kim (high school junior) make a big banner and numbers for the runners to wear, he figured he might as well go through with it.

It’s getting dark and even the best runners are only on lap 16 of 31 around the quad.  Runners started vomiting an hour ago, and having to down a beer every lap ensured the spew stream stayed pretty constant from then on.  Brandon’s lab partner Jason rounds the corner and slips on one of many puddles of ralph.  He cries out in pain, clutching his ankle, which is now caked in his own vomit and the vomit of others.

“You get your ass up and grab another beer, pussy!”

Like most projects of Brandon’s, the 10K Beer Run outlives its creator’s interest by about twenty minutes.  Never good with math, Brandon runs out of beer at lap 25 and goes home to catch the last half of Jimmy Kimmel.

A few believers continue running, out of either poorly focused enthusiasm or an impressive spirit of competition.  At precisely 2:39 AM, freshman Political Science major Timothy Drear finishes the final lap victorious and is immediately rushed to the emergency by his girlfriend Nancy.


Beer Marathoners Run, Drink, Vomit

Honey, I Cheated with Your Checkbook

July 28, 2008 - Leave a Response


I cheated with your checkbook.


I was taking a peek at your balance ledger to see if you had paid the Comcast bill yet.  I had never been so close to your checkbook before.  I felt…something—something I hadn’t felt with you in quite a while: passion.


I’m ashamed to say we made love right there in the breakfast nook.  I know you were half joking when you said that, if I ever cheated on you, I should have the decency not to do it in the bed we share, but I still thought I should uphold that agreement.


Whatever you do, don’t blame yourself.  Remember when you suggested a joint checking account, and I said we should probably wait until we both had stable careers so we wouldn’t have to deal with changing our direct deposits so many times?  See?  This is all my fault.


Honey, we’re in love.  By “we,” I, of course, mean myself and your checkbook.  You can have the house, the dog, everything.  I only ask you transfer your account to another bank, so I can be with your checkbook forever.


Oh, and pay the Comcast bill.  It’s due on the 4th.