Kindly, old lazer pointer repair-man

When Janet’s laser pointer broke during her big presentation, she ran from the meeting room crying. She knew her power point was weak on the standard special effects of text sliding in, and dissolving into the next screen but it didn’t matter. She had purchased an inexpensive laser pointer at Target and planned on carrying her presentation with that. She had spent the night before practicing her ‘wristing’ and figure eights on her bedroom wall. She was certain that her flair for pointing would wow the execs, and cause them to instantly approve her project. But only 30 seconds into the presentation it stopped working. She thought she jarred the batteries loose, so she slapped it a few times but it flew from her hand and landed on the floor lifeless. Scooping it up, she began to cry. She looked to the others, but was met with a dissaproving scowl, which made her frantic to repair the situation. But she quickly realized that there was nothing she could do to reverse it. That’s why she was now seated outside the building on the front steps weeping.



Then a shadow fell over her. It was the shadow of an old man with a push-cart. He was gray haired and wearing worn, bib overalls. He had thick glasses magnified his eyes to ridiculous proportions, and his two enormous pupils smiled down on her. “Now, what is a sweet girl like you doing crying on such a beautiful day like this?” He cooed.
“My… My presentation… My… Laser pointer…” She managed to spit out before bursting into tears again.
“Now, now. Let’s not get all excited.” He said, leaning down to get a better look at the pointer. “Oh well, that’s nothing big! I think we can fix it up good as new.”
“You really think so? You think you can fix it?”
“Sure we can.” He said, gently taking it from her hands. After opening it up to peer into it’s battery carriage, then scratching his head, he finally lit up. “I know!” He whispered excitedly as if to himself. Then he opened up his push-cart and pulled out a tiny spring. “There we go!” He announced, “Good as new.”
“Gee, thanks mister!” Janet squealed as she jumped up and down in excitement.
“Nothin’ doin’. Why don’t you go back in there, and I bet you everything will be all right now.” He said, a smile peeking out from his large, silver mustache. After a moment, Janet quickly gave him a smooch on his cheek and dashed, embarrassed, into the building.

The old man stood on the sidewalk in front of the steps looking after her. Then, he turned toward the sun contemplating the cloudless, blue sky. Opening his cart again, he pulled out a soda and took a careful, and deliberate swig, “Mmmmm… Cracklin’ good.” He said to himself, then pushed on to the next office building.

The soul of Sir Winston Churchill in my cellphone

At first I thought it was all in my head. That I was hallucinating what I heard, but when other people heard it too I knew it was for real. You’d think it would be cool to have Winston Churchill’s soul taking residence in your cell phone, but actually it’s pretty annoying.

It first started when I was making out with my girlfriend on her couch. I heard a voice softly mumble, “All great things are simple, and many can be expressed in single words: freedom, justice, honor, duty, mercy, hope.” We both stopped. It seemed to emanate from my pocket. When I pulled my cellphone out from it, the screen said ‘W.C.’. I stared at it blankly trying to figure out who I know with those initials, and why it pulled that up instead of a phone number, until my girlfriend said that I probably dialed some strange number by accident from all the dry humping we were doing. I hung up and continued with my work.



The next incident was when I was in the grocery store. I was digging through the row of kipper snacks when I heard, “I like pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.” My initial shock quickly turned to joy when I realized that I had the soul of one of the greatest leaders of the 20th century at my disposal. I held the phone up to my ear and listened. I could hear his labored breathing on the other end. “Mr. Churchill, sir?” I said hesitantly. “Is that you?”
“Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing ever happened.” He replied with slurred speech.
“This is great!” I bleated loud enough for a lady down the isle to hear. “Hey, maybe you can help me with something. My coworkers don’t respect me…”
“Never hold discussions with the monkey when the organ grinder is in the room.” He interrupted, his voice raising with bravado.
“What? No, I was wondering how I can instill a sense of respect…”
“Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm.” He said seriously. I tried to digest what he said, apply it to my situation, but I could make no connection.
“No sir, I don’t think you understand…”
“When the eagles are silent, the parrots begin to jabber.”
“That doesn’t even make sense!”
“The price of greatness is responsibility.”
“You’re not listening. I’m trying to tell you that I want to gain the respect of my coworkers. There’s this one guy, Steve, he doesn’t finish his reports on time, and I keep looking bad because…”
“An appeaser is one who feeds a crocodile - hoping it will eat him last.”
I waited a moment, trying to understand why he was so disconnected from my end of the conversation, then I asked, “Wait. Are you talking about Hitler?”
“It is a mistake to try to look too far ahead. The chain of destiny can only be grasped one link at a time.”
I didn’t respond. I heard a stifled gasp on his end, as if he were about to say something. Then he added, “Don’t talk to me about naval tradition. It’s nothing but rum, sodomy and the lash?”
“Oh Jesus, I’ve heard that one before!” I yelled. “You’re not even saying anything original, you’re just regurgitating your old lines!”

We were both silent for a while. I began to feel a little guilty that I had yelled at him, and was about to tell him so until he interrupted again to say in a meek tone, “Although prepared for martyrdom, I preferred that it be postponed.”
Then I understood. Here I had a man’s soul in my phone who was used to saying great things, and having people hang on his every word, but now in death there’s no one to talk to. He didn’t have the opportunity to hone his word-smithing skills with anyone so all he could do was spit up old, memorable quotes from his glory days. He was trying to be helpful, but was at a loss to offer any help. “I see.” I added softly. “Look, don’t call here anymore.”
There was a click on his end, and I never heard from him again.

Farmers and the internet

Buck was drawn to the farmers life after reading about the murdered man from “In Cold Blood”. It wasn’t the part about being murdered that he found attractive, but how stoic and rugged he seemed. In his darkest moments while working late at the office, he found him self overtaken with a vision of himself rising up from the center of a cornfield, scythe in hand, and wiping sweat from his brow while peering pensively into the sunset. He considered it a sign when he was turned down for his quarterly bonus due to being a “flibbity gibbet” and a “dreamer”. He went to the courthouse, legally changed his name to Buck McTibbits, purchased an old Ford truck, purchased a dog with a bandanna tied around it’s neck that could sit in the back, and headed for Iowa.

Since non-corporate farming was a dying art, he was able to purchase a farm for practically nothing. He moved in, and drove the truck and his dog Bucky into town to purchase supplies. But the sight of Buck and Bucky rolling in to Ted’s Feed and Supply brought awkward stares from the locals. He was dressed much like Henry Fonda was in “Grapes of Wrath”. He didn’t help their souring opinion since his social skills were hampered by not being able to discern between stoic and creepy. He treated how he wanted the locals to perceive him much like one would treat their first day in prison- you find the biggest person in the prison yard and crack a chair over their head. The store clerk qualified as that big man, and when he asked Buck, “What can I do yer fer mister?” Buck simply didn’t respond, and only peered with a determined look that conveyed a sense of sadness over the clerk’s shoulder to the window behind him.



The clerk, having seen this all before simply nodded to Phil, the man delivering the Budd Light to the stock room. Phil, taking the hint, casually walked up to the counter and stuck up a conversation while eyeing the ball game playing on the small, black and white television mounted above the restroom doors. “Mornin’ Lou.”
“Mornin’ Phil.” the clerk answered back, sucking his teeth.
“Storms-a-brewin.” Phil added. Leaning one elbow on the counter so that his shoulder nearly touched his ear, while turning his back to Buck and Lou to see the game. Though Buck never changed his gaze or expression, Lou could tell he was trying to see Phil from the corner of his eye.
“Helen’s knees acting up are they?”
“Yep. Yep they are… Doc Hoffman said she should take one of them, what you call, HER-bal remedies for her arthritis.”
“Hmm.. whelp, where you guessin’ you goin’ to buy that?”
“IN-ner-net.” Phil added, his pose becoming a little more tense at the deliverary of this last line. Buck’s expression changes a little. Though common sense would tell him that the internet is common all over the world, he couldn’t help but feel a little upset that his vision of the farmers life was tarnished. There was a silence as the tinny sound of a croud cheering eminated from the ball game. Lou broke the silence once he felt that Phils comment had sunk in.
“You doin much huntin’ there Phil?”
“No sir.”
“How so? Thought you loved ta hunt.”
“Din’ think it was humane Lou. Just din’ seem right to make animals suffer like that for sport. Could just as easily provide for my family by goin’ to the grocery store.” Phil said. Buck took a few glances at Phil. Lou sensed that he would crack soon.
“Goin’ vegi-TEAR-eean are ya Phil?”
“No sir, veegan.”
“That right?”
“Yep. Don’t think it’s right to force animals to provide milk and such, when they should be grazin the lan’ like God wanted em’.”
“You’re a good Christian Phil. My wife and I went Veegan many years ago, and don’t regret a thing. But I couldn’t help but noticed the leather boots you’re a-wearin’.”
“Oh, they’re not leather. No good veegan worth their salt would wear leather. No, I purchased these from a shop out in Greenwich Village.”
“You talkin’ about New York City there Phil?”
“Yep I am.”
“Now, when you get the money to fly out to the Big Apple on your pay Phil?”
“Hell, fly nothin’. I just bought em’.”
“IN-ner-net?”
“Thas right.”

The two of them hadn’t even noticed that Buck was gone. In his haste he left Bucky behind, and had actually shed his depression area bib overalls as he bolted out the door. “Better send the dog to the humane society Phil. I don’t think a naked, city boy is going to come back for this scruffy little thing.”
“What about the clothes Lou?”
“Burn ‘em.”

Bob quit

Bob wasn’t well liked around the office. He was pretty quiet and kept to him self. No one really disliked him so much as they didn’t have anything to say to him. He wasn’t invited to the happy hour’s and everyone dreaded having to sit next to him at the holiday parties. Eventually he quit his job and put in his two weeks. On his last day, everyone in the office took him out for drinks to celebrate- really just celebrating that they didn’t have to put up with awkward conversation in the break room. But they knew he didn’t have many friends so they thought they would give him a send off to make him feel good.

They went to the local bar and got him drunk, he was more chatty than he’s ever been and some in the group actually found him funny. They made the mistake of telling him so, and in moments of bitter-sweet, self importance some told him that they were sad to see him go. It was a mistake because Bob took it personally, and kept coming back into work when he wasn’t an employee anymore.

First it was because he had to drop off his key, then it was because he left a few things in a drawer at his old desk. But after he had run out of excuses to talk to the H.R. department he just plain showed up to stand around people’s cubes and make them feel uncomfortable. Most put up a good front- trying to make him feel that they really meant all they had said at his going away party, but others began to plot ways of cutting him off.



The fact that no one would go out to lunch with him should of been the most obvious hint, but he kept coming back. Then the woman at the front desk told him he wasn’t allowed in the building unless he was there on business, but he just hung around the parking lot. When the police were called to tell him he couldn’t spend his days waiting in his car for the employees to come out for a smoke, he just showed up in the morning with coffee for all the people who were pulling in to start their day. Something had to be done.

One day, when he was parked across the street trying to shout jokes about being a newbie to the new receptionist who was putting mail out for the UPS carrier, a small group of employees walked to his car. They asked how he was doing, and what happened to his new job. He was vague in his answers which lead them to believe he must of quit, or never showed up. He brought up the idea of applying for a position within the old company, which is when they brought out the big guns. They disbanded from the tight circle they had formed and revealed Kevin, Bob’s replacement.

Bob’s face flushed. “When did this happen?” he almost whispered.
“Yesterday. We pushed for them to hire for your position as soon as possible.”
“You guys were that screwed without me there?”
“Sure Bob.” Another replied. There was an awkward silence as passing cars hissed in the distance.
“Do you need me to train him in?” Bob chirped, suddenly perking up.
“We’re going to have to put him down.” One employee muttered to another.
“I can start right now, I’ll even share my old desk with him! It will be like old times!”
There was a click, and then the two barrels of a shot gun emerged from within the group.

Neutral Rabbit

The idea of carrying around a rabbit’s foot for luck has always been a frightening concept for him. But he needed good luck now more than ever. The community center he has started to give distraction to the trouble teens in his small, mid western suburb was going to shut down. It turns out that you cant legally run a community center without a license from the city. And, no matter how many fliers or ‘on the street recruiting’ he did, none of the trouble teens in his area were actually coming to the center he was running out of his basement. This only served to weaken his argument of the importance of having a community center in his neighborhood. Sure, the kids were all hanging out at the center down the block, but there’s no love there, no sense of bonding or ‘talkin’ straight’ with a peer.

So he decided to take all his savings and bet it on horse racing. Something he’s seen work on many, many television shows without fail. All that’s needed is faith and a good cause. He figured that if he threw caution to the wind and dump his money on the underdog horse, Luck would smile down on him from heaven -or where ever luck lives. But he wanted to make sure that he covered every angle. Research proved that the rabbits foot was the best way to go. But something about the dried, gnarled little foot with the silver cap on the severed end made his skin crawl. He needed the rabbit’s foot, but he couldn’t imagine carrying that decaying thing around in his pocket so he considered buying a whole rabbit. Buying a rabbit didn’t play into his ideas of fate. He needed a good story to back up why he had the rabbit, a story he could tell all the pimply teens in his basement when they asked him to repeat the story of how he saved the community center. He decided he was going to go out and capture one himself.

Many nights were spent in a near by park scouting for bunnies. But any time he saw one, there was a second. Guilt weighed down on him when he contemplated destroying a rabbit family for his financial dreams, which prevented him from trying to capture one. Then one night, when he couldn’t sleep, he gazed despondently out his bedroom window until he saw the answer to his prayers. A single bunny that lived under his porch. It occurred to him that he could capture the bunny, keep it in a cage until the day he went to the race track, and bring it home again as if nothing happened. He would get the money he needed, and the bunny would continue to receive free housing under his porch; Everyone wins. Dashing outside in his underwear, he captured it with a butterfly net and put it in a cardboard box. It was quick and effortless since the bunny didn’t move, or show any fear of being captured. He chalked it up to it’s being ‘meant to be’ and went to bed.


The next morning he pulled the rabbit out of the box and stuffed it in his backpack. Again, the rabbit made no effort to escape, and limply dropped into his bag. He jumped on his ten speed and made his way to the track. He bet on the worst horse he could find in the listings and took a seat in the stands next to a group of nuns and a well dressed gentleman who was nervously fingering a violin case. Just as the horses were positioned into their stalls he pulled out the bunny. It sat quietly on his lap twitching it’s nose. One of the nuns noticed him petting it anxiously, so she asked what it’s name was.
“He doesn’t have a name. I captured him last night.”
“You captured him? So it’s wild? Why did you do that?” She asked, and he proceeded to tell her his story. When he was finished the nun leaned in close and said, “We’re here betting on a horse to raise money for our orphanage. An orphanage for children with gastro-intestinal disorders. The building burned down…”
“How did it burn down?” He asked. The nun only looked at him with a sense of sadness before replying, “Fires happen there more often than you’d realize.”
“Oh.”
“My point is, we’re trying to save an orphanage, and we have God on our side. You should of brought more bunnies, and it doesn’t help that you stole that one.”

His heart started racing. They were right, his back story sucked compared to theirs. He needed an edge, and his rabbit which sat complacently on his lap wasn’t cutting it. The horses bursted from the stalls and dashed around the track. His horse, “Liberty Melting Pot”, ran halfway around the track before simply walking off to graze in the center island of grass. He turned to the nun, “You mother fucker…”
“I’ll see you in hell before you beat a nun to run a perverted boys home in your basement.”
“You haven’t won yet bitch.”
“The money’s practically mine now faggot!” She squealed, clapping her little hands together. Her small stature, and wrinkled hands reminded him of his grandmother, another in a long line of controlling women he’s met in his life. But soon the race was over, and the nun’s horse came in a distant 5th.
“What the fuck!?” One of them stood up to scream to the field. “I totally pwned that shit! Martha- You didn’t prey hard enough did you?!”
“No Janice, I did. I prayed until dawn like you asked!”
“You’ve always been the weakest among us!” Another screeched. Then suddenly, as if acting as one, they all dived in toward Martha with nails drawn from under their little robes. Next to him was the well dressed man with his hand in the violin case. He was laughing quietly to himself with his eyes glued to the field.
“Did you win?” He asked, holding the bunny steady on his lap to protect it from the bumping and jostling of the rabid nuns.
“Yep, yep I did.” The man said, closing the case and standing up. “I couldn’t help but overhear your sad stories, but I’m afraid that mine is even sadder than yours.”
“What’s your story?” He asked the man.
“No.” the man cut him off. “That’s just for me.”
“What’s in the violin case.”
“Does it matter? You just didn’t need it as badly as I did. The good luck charm is irrelevant, it’s the good luck charm you keep in here” He beat his chest, “that matters most. And now, I will say good day to you sir.”

The bike ride home was less comfortable than before, since the rabbit was squirrely and clawing from inside the bag. When he finally got home, he pulled the rabbit out and had to practically throw it onto his lawn to keep from getting bitten. It ran out to the oak tree that grew from the corner of his yard to crouch and watch him cautiously. He then realized that the rabbit wouldn’t of offered him any more luck than if he had gone alone. Nothing in his life would change, except that he wouldn’t be able to make his bills this month and his faith in television’s mythologies was forever damaged. But the rabbit, the rabbit learned something today that would normally be outside it’s scope of understanding. It had seen the darker side of man, it’s desires and despair. It learned more about the people that it quietly existed with than any other animal would ever learn, and he could see in it’s beety little eyes that it was plotting. It had seen man’s weakness, and behind that little red eye, and twitchy nose it was plotting man’s overthrow. He never saw the rabbit again, or any other rabbit in his yard for years after. Neighbors complained of rabbits swarming their houses and crawling through cracks into their basements to hiss at their children. But he never had a problem. And when the news reported how rabbits were driving people out of small towns to gather in larger cities for protection, it never effected him. Even when he was the last human to remain in his suburb, he never saw a rabbit.

Finally, one night he heard a knock on his door. It wasn’t a normal knock of knuckles against the wood. It was more like something soft scraping across it. When he opened it he saw the figure of a 6 foot tall man in a long overcoat, but where the head should of been, was a rabbits. From the way that the coat swayed and bulged, he could tell that there were many rabbits balancing on top of each other to support the one rabbit that served as the head, and the head was of the rabbit he took to the race track. It turned to a profile so as to look squarely at him with one eye. After a moment, it opened it’s mouth and squeaked, “Lucky… Talk… Man…”
“My god. What have I done.” He said, bracing himself against the door to keep from collapsing. “What have I done…”

Predecessor to a Listener

Steve had spent months learning how to become a ‘listener’ under Rory’s teachings. It began when they met on the day they moved into their campus dorm together. Rory said their being roommates was meant to be, and how he would show Steve the way of the ‘sensitive campus guy’. Steve wasn’t much interested until Rory convinced him to hide in the top bunk while he brought a woman in to their room. She was a freshman, and suffering from the prospect of losing her high school sweetheart forever. Rory artfully convinced her that her ties to her boyfriend back home were really ties to her childhood that she was reluctant to sever now that she’s becoming independant in college. Listening from under the covers of his top bunk, he nearly gave himself away as he fought back tears thinking back to his own breakup of his girlfriend back home. Rory convinced her that she needed to act symbolically to move on with her life. Then they made out. Steve found it inspiring, and he jumped at the chance to learn Rory’s trade.

First Rory made him learn all the self help classics, telling Steve that he needed to ground himself in a solid base of affirmation theory and symbolic activities. Then he taught Steve how to scope out a room full of people and find the most emotionally vulnerable. He then taught him the art of conversation, and how to present himself as intelligent, thoughtful, and most of all sensitive. Once bringing a woman back to his dorm was an easy task, he jumped through the hoops of how to direct the conversation- to help him learn how to be more agile when road blocks were thrown up. Soon he could convince a woman to skip her mothers funeral because she was ‘too controlling, and this is just one last way she can make you feel bad’. Lastly, Rory instructed Steve on how to dress, telling him that outward appearances go a long way to fool women into believing you’re the type of man that they wish they could of claimed as their own boyfriend. He dressed in collared shirts that were only partially tucked into strategically worn-out jeans. That way he looked conservative, but not in a creepy way like the young republicans on campus. Top it off with a fashionable sport coat solidifies the idea that you’re a successful lawyer just waiting to blossom. But there needs to be something else to soften the look. And that’s when Steve was told to grow his hair out, so it could permanently be pulled into a pony tail. Since that takes time, he wore a false pony tail which was weaved into his existing hair.



Soon there were two men on campus that were considered “really great guys”, even if they were victims of they guys one night stand and never spoke to again. Steve was even given ‘the final test’. When Rory had a woman in his room, and was right on the cusp of claiming his victory, he would slip out giving some excuse. Then Steve would enter with the job of trying to convince the woman that Rory was no good at helping her, and get her to listen to him instead. He did it. He had successfully turned that woman against Rory when he returned. But as a twist, Steve had convinced her to invite Rory up to her cabin next weekend for a romantic get-away. “Amazing.” Rory said, squinting as he looked into Steve’s eyes. “Your skills have surpassed my own. I think you’re ready to meet the master, and receive your name.”

Steve jumped onto the back of Rory’s scooter, and they buzzed across the campus to a small, dilapidated home on the edge of the “swill block”. Inside was a man in his early 50’s, reclining in his bathrobe in a lazy boy that was pockmarked with duct tape. After a long silence, and without taking his eyes off the television he barked, “I hear you’re the new ‘listener’ on campus.”
“I suppose so.” Steve replied sheepishly.
“Rory has told me about your latest feat… very impressive.”
“Thanks.”
“I am the master of this technique, and there can only be one servant.” He hissed. Steve looked to Rory, who’s head was bowed.
“You mean he can’t be a sensitive pony tail guy anymore?” Steve asked.
“No, you have to kill him.” The man whispered, finally turning to Steve to look him dead in the eye.
“What?”
“It’s ok Steve. I’m prepared for this. The only way you can become a true listener is if you can defeat me on the field of battle” Rory added.
“I’m not going to fight you! That’s retarded!”
“Strike him down and take your rightful place by my side… Adian.” The man said, rising from his chair.
“What’s that?”
“That would be your new name.” Rory said.
“Sounds kinda gay.”
“It’s not gay!” The man yelled, his remote control falling from his lap. “It’s the final step in your new persona. But you can’t have the name until you can defeat Rory. Rory’s name was Pete until he defeated Trent, and Trent defeated Zack before him. It’s your destiny Steve, fulfill your fate and the circle will be complete.”
“Nope.”
“You can’t say ‘nope’. You have to do it.” Rory whined.
“No. This is stupid.” Steve said, removing his fake ponytail and tossing it to the floor. “I’m not going to fight anyone. Actually I’m not going to be a part of this at all. I know how to pick up chicks now, and I’m going to keep doing it and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
“This means war of course.” The man said, “There is not a day from this moment on where you won’t fear for your life. You’ll constantly look over your shoulder wondering when we will destroy you.”
“Whatever. I don’t think that two guys who don’t even own a car are capable of war. Dorks.”
“Allow me to slay him master.” Rory said, never taking his eyes off Steve.
“No, no. I see great things in Adian. If we had him in our group, we would be unstoppable. With our combined strength, we could finally destroy the frat army and all those fly honey’s will be ours!”
“Is that what this is about? You’re just pissed off because you weren’t invited to frat parties?”
“No. Shut up!” The man snapped.
“Shit, I know some guys. If that was all this was about, I could of got you in a few parties you loser.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. But screw that now.”
“No wait! I’m cool. We could just go and hang out. We can hold off on the campus domination thing!”
“Nope. I’m out of here.” Steve said as he opened the door to leave.
“Hey, we’ll call you.” Rory chimed. “Or I’ll see you back at the dorm!”
“I’ll stay with someone else until I can transfer to another dorm room.” Steve said as he closed the door behind him. There was a silence as both men stood motionless, looking toward the door. Steve’s footsteps faded away into the commotion of traffic on the street outside. Slowly, the man raised his clenched fists up to his face. The skin on his cheeks quivering from pent up rage. He bared his teeth and his face turned red as he turned to Rory, “You’ve failed me for the last time… Rory.”

Encourage Startling Prostitute

She wasn’t necessarily unattractive, so much as startling. One couldn’t really define what was wrong with her when her looks were broken down to it’s elements. But as a whole she was alarming to look at. Her eyes were small and placed tightly together, but that style of eye has been seen on others who could still be considered attractive. Her nose was thin and long so that the ball of it looked to touch her upper lip. But it didn’t really. Her lips were thin and stretched from one cheek to the other, but that alone wasn’t unattractive either. Her hair was frizzy, with strays that floated up to catch the light, but frizzy haired women were a dime a dozen. She slumped over when she walked and when she sat, she kept the same position so that her back was practically on the seat of the chair. No combination of things made her unnerving to look at, but as a whole her visage was abrasive. Which is a hard obstacle to over come when you’re a prostitute. And her defeated personality was painted all over.

That’s the first thing that he noticed when she sat down in a booth across from him at Arbys. Though separated by two tables and a double sided bench, they were facing each other. She couldn’t help but look directly in his eyes, and he did to her as well. His eyes were so soft and caring, that she didn’t feel self conscious when she looked at him. Finally, he spoke. A soft, almost french accent. What he said was flat and without passion, “You’re hideous.”
“I…” She replied softly, still entranced by his loving gaze, unable to spew back the venomous buck-shot of insults she had on hand for moments just like this. It wasn’t the first time she’s heard this. Whether it was from “john’s”, or just random people she’d meet in a department store. But this was different. She didn’t feel anger. She almost felt relieved that he could speak so openly to her, and without malice.
“Are you a whore?” He asked. His smooth, french accent soothing her.
“Yes.” She replied. The urge to open up and tell him all the feelings she’s had, all the embarrassments and the shame she’s felt up until this day.


“I find you repulsive- I could never make love to you.” He added. Suddenly his gaze could no longer hold her and protect her from her own shame. He rose from his seat and rushed over to sit across the table from her. Holding her hands in his he whispered, “Seriously, you couldn’t pay me to throw one up you.” She lifted her eyes to meet his.
“I know.”
“Your head looks like your neck threw up, and your body has the shape of a stocking filled with feces.” He began caressing her cheek. She leaned her face in to meet his palm. It was the first time she’s been insulted where it didn’t effect her, it was the kind of conversation you’d have with an old friend, where you can embrace the honesty without any reserve. “More…” She said softly.
“You do not understand women as you have never successfully depicted one.” He chimed sweetly. A thin tear rolled down her cheek.
“Do you enjoy camping?”
“Yes.”
“Is it because you enjoy nature.”
“Yes, being in nature is the only time I don’t feel like people are judging me.” She said, weeping into his hand.
“How can you love nature, when it did that to you?”
“It’s true.”
“I wouldn’t even screw you with your dick.”
“It’s true.” She said, trying to hold back the tears.

Then, he got up. “My work is done… Go out into the world with your new found love for your self. Because no one else will love you.” She still clung to his hands as he walked away. Slipping from her grasp, he whisked through the metal doors and faded into the parking lot. She never learned his name, but he had changed her life forever. She didn’t carry the lead feeling that lived in her stomach for the last 20 years. She was free, and the world was her playground. She only wished she was in the presence of mind to thank him for what he had done. She knew, deep down that he must travel from town to town helping destitute people regain their sense of self worth. Helping others from the gutter of life. She was in awe even of his very memory, she decided that she would go back to school and continue her education as an administration assistant. She would marry, have children and live in a nice little house in a nice, quiet suburb. And all this was thanks to the mysterious man she knew she’s never see again. That is, until she ran into him while he was filling up his Chevy Lumina at the Conaco gas station. And later, when she saw him at Applebees with some friends from the local softball league. He made nervous eye contact with her, but they never spoke.

Convenience Store Uprising

It was a morning just like any other at the Pretty Flippin’ Fast convenience store. People stumbled in groggy to purchase coffee, Mountain Dew or Twinkies for their morning commute. No one spoke or looked each other in the eye and the man behind the counter completed each transaction with as few words as possible. But there was something different in the air this time, something looming over the heads of everyone in the cramped building. It had a smell to it, like sulphur. It was the smell of revolution.

It was sparked by someone who didn’t prepay at the pump. The clerk leaned into his thin, silver mic and announced, “You have to pre-pay sir…. You have to pre-pay… Sir… Sir…” But the old man at the pump continued to push the button for unleaded repeatedly until he began pounding on the keypad with his large hand. “Sir, please stop punching that. Sir… Sir… Oh for fucks sake.” He muttered to himself before finally turning on the pump so the man could get his gas. That was his first mistake, he showed weakness to the others. The people in line shifted their weight from one leg to the other, their patience growing short. Finally the old man came in, and the clerk berated him for not pre-paying.
“What the hell is this?” The man yelled. “I pay my taxes! I don’t have to put up with this abuse. Don’t you understand that I have rights as a consumer?”
“I know sir, but..”
“I’m sick and tired of being treated like a second class citizen by the companies that I give my money to!” He interrupted. The others groaned, the line that had begun to grow to the point where it snaked through the cramped isles of windshield wipers, snickers bars and Folders Coffee packets. This show was holding them back from their morning routine, but still something stirred from deep within them.


“I have the right to refuse to give you my money!” He bleated. The others perked up. Each suddenly creating their own check list of annoyances they’ve experienced themselves. Being charged twice for a Butterfinger, not having their brand of cigarette in stock and waiting for the clerk to come out of the bathroom. Fists were beginning to clench.
“Sir, if you don’t pay I’ll be forced to call the cops.” Their annoyance began to turn into anger at those words. Another hold up from getting back on the road.
“I’ve done nothing wrong! I’m just here to get gas! I served in the war! I’ve done my part for my country, and I demand respect!” All eyes slid back to the clerk who hesitated before turning bitterly toward the phone.
“This is a rail road! I am not a criminal! I’m here to offer you my money, and you’re treating me like criminal!” The old man bellowed. The others began to group around the counter, shrugging off the rule of staying in line. “Yeah!” One of them shouted, “Yesterday I was four cents short to pay for my box of Triscuts, and you wouldn’t let me have it! It’s not my fault you didn’t have any change in the penny dish!”
“I had to wait for ever while you changed the roll on the receipt printer!” Another chimed in.
“You wouldn’t let me use your bathroom because you said it was for employees only!”
“Your ATM is busted!” Another man screamed, flailing his useless bank card over his head.
“Hitler!” The old man yelled as he pointed at the clerk.
“Lets get him!” A well dressed business woman shrieked. The crowd pushed in and pulled the clerk out from behind the bullet proof glass. They raised him over their heads while chanting “Revolution!” Someone opened up the refrigerator door and pulled out all the lite beer and sodas, and the mob threw the clerk in. Then the looting began. Twinkies were hastily snatched up and stuffed into pockets, Little Debbi Snack Cakes were greedily eaten and lottery tickets were pulled from the spindle.

“People! People! This store is ours now. Everything will he handed out equally! There is no need for panic!” The old man yelled while standing on the counter. Everyone stopped to look at their new leader, the man who guided them through the waters of corruption and into freedom. “Lead us El Guapo!” The business woman sang from deep within the crowd. And as he began to tell them his well thought out plan on how their new society would live, a plan he had been developing while tinkering with model cars in his basement to avoid his wife, there was an explosion. One of the rebels had lit a gas pump on fire. The shock wave blew out all the store front windows. The whole west side of the little square building was covered in flaming gas. The old man ushered everyone out so that they filled service road which lead up to the Pretty Flippin’ Fast store. They all watched speechlessly as it crumbled before them.

Soon there were wales of despair emanating from the group. A baby could be heard crying among the din, and someone in a torn shirt picked up the remains of melted window scraper before falling to their knees weeping. The business woman walked up to the old man who looked at the blaze stoically. “What do we do now great leader?” She put one hand on his broad shoulder. He turned to her with deep compassion in his eyes, then grabbed her by her waist and dramatically pulled her in toward him. They looked into each others eyes, which glistened in the fire light before replying, “We rebuild.” Then he kissed her hard, and deeply.

Pulled Announcements

“Goooooooooood morning Alice Smith Elementary!” Greg bellowed into the microphone. His voice echoing softly through the closed classroom doors and trailing down the dark hallways. Following it snaked the hiss of children cheering from their desks.

Cheryl was pulling moist paper towels from the drain of the hand cleaning fountains, which squatted like vacant UFO’s by the lunchroom. She looked up, scowling at the gymnasium doors where children stopped running to listen to Greg’s morning announcements. “Today is half ticket days in the lunch room- so be sure to spend that extra half on something nice for the lunch ladies!” He chimed though the P.A., his toothy grin practically bulging out of the cloth-covered speaker boxes. “Because they don’t like feeding you that prison food anymore than you like eating it!” He laughed. The children responded in kind. Plump, hair netted women in aprons leaned in toward each other and giggled over their pots of sloppy joe mix. Greg had a way with words. A gift for taking the mundane and making it exciting and the children and school staff loved him for it.

Cheryl didn’t. Morning announcements used to be her job, and she believed in reporting the day’s events as serious, hard fact. She didn’t want to make light of fire drills, or rain announcements for the crossing guards. She knew that the information she was given by the Principal’s secretary was important, and reading them over the P.A. was a sacred trust. But she had become obsolete when Greg was asked to fill in for her one morning when she was late to school. Upon entering the building, she heard the unified chorus of children’s laughter emanate from every classroom. She heard Greg shower them with his bellowing laugh, and by the time she got to the office, Greg had finished reading off the announcements. He flipped the switch on the base of the gray, metal microphone and high-fived Gretchen who was standing next to him. “Yeah! I nailed it!” he yelled just before he turned to see Cheryl. There was a pause as each looked at each other. Greg with a smug smile and Cheryl with a look of shock. Then the principal walked out of his office with hands outstretched, “Great work Greg. I’ve never heard them read with such vigor… Such life!” He then wrapped both his fleshy hands around Gregs one hand outstretched. “Seriously, we would like for you to consider taking the morning announcement post.”
“I’d be honored sir!” Greg replied.
“Great-great! Oh boy! That crack you made about the janitors- Gold! Gold baby!” They both retreated into the principals office laughing and slapping each other on the back. And she thought she saw Greg look back at her from over his shoulder.



Each morning when he read the announcements, she wandered the halls listlessly. Randomly picking up a discarded pencil or piece of paper, listening to his telling of the news. Sometimes she peered though the narrow windows on the large, oak doors to see the children all leaning forward eagerly. She continued to wander the halls, delicately as if navigating through fields of glass until his delivery was over. Which was always capped with his trademark, “That’s it for me- Stay tight!”

She complained to the others, and the principal. Desperately trying to get them to acknowledge that this mornings story about Janell, the playground lady, organizing a four-square competition during recess was just a ‘fluff piece’. She’d plead with them to understand that what he’s doing isn’t delivering the solid information the children needed. It was just sensationalized story telling. But they would only respond by saying that they understand, and that she was taking all this too personally. They were all on his side, and she knew it would something extraordinary to get them to see the light. She began toying with the idea of sabotage, but never really felt like she would act on it until Thursday mornings announcement, when Greg used the word ‘flippin’ to describe how cold out it was. “He said flippin’” she barked at the principal, “I demand that you remove him from reading the announcements!”
“Now, now Cheryl. Let’s not over react. There’s no law against the word flippin’.” He said, rolling his eyes to the secretary who was just outside the door.
“Are you kidding me? Flippin is just a few words away from… you know…” She leaned in close to whisper, “The F-Bomb!”
“The what?”
“The F-Bomb! And when you drop a bomb like that, you are guaranteed to have collateral damage! If you don’t do something about his conduct, I’m going to call the superintendent, or bring it up at the next PTO meeting!”
“Ok, ok. Calm down. I’ll talk to him.” He hissed.
“Talk to him? Talking won’t do anything! Fire him!”

But nothing happened. He was still at his desk for the rest of the day, and by his jovial attitude, it was clear nothing was said to him. In fact, he was back on the P.A. system at the end of the day to remind the 4th grade students that tomorrow was their last day to turn in their permission slips for the zoo field trip. “Otherwise….” He crooned into the mic, “You’ll have to spend the day in Mrs. Phelps’ class cleaning the gum from under all the desks!” Cheryl maintained her level of anger, but was finally pushed over the edge when she overheard one student tell another that they were “going to miss the flippin’ bus”. They both giggled to each other. Cheryl felt that they were giggling at more than the use of a naughty word, they were laughing at her incompetence.

Taking the situation into her own hands, she cornered Stacy in the supply room. Reluctantly, Stacy gave her Greg’s announcement notes for the next day. Which was mostly due to the pity she felt for Cheryl, and the close working relationship they once had when she used to read the announcements. She took them home and read them over. Then read them again, and again until she found the perfect spot to alter what he wrote.

The next morning was an anxious one, she developed a pain in her stomach from the stress- But it was worth it. Greg ran through the checklist of information, before getting to the fluff piece he had written himself. It was about the children’s field trip, and a joke he had written about the petting zoo and making sure to wash your hands after touching the dirty animals. Cheryl altered the punch line so that Greg ended by stating, “You don’t want to tell your parents about how your hands got dirty from feeling my cock!” Which he read flawlessly, grinning into the microphone. There was no echoing cheer from the class rooms. Greg’s smile slowly faded. He looked down at his notes and re-read what was there. All the children in Mrs. Flemmings 3rd grade class stared at the speaker box with open mouths. “Oh… Oh God..” The box stuttered. “Wait… I didn’t mean… I didn’t write that!” Then there was a loud click and the box was silent.

The next morning, Greg’s voice wasn’t on the P.A. system. In fact, none of Greg was in the school at all anymore. Cheryl stern voice cracked in when the mic’s switch was flipped. She read the announcements plainly and with an indignant tone. No one in the office made a sound. She listed off the days events in a staccato rhythm until she reached the end. She exhaled into the microphone, so that a low, rolling thunderous sound filled all the rooms. Her voice softened as much as she could as she read what was to become her new catch phrase, “That’s it for me… Stay out of trouble.”
“My God,” Mrs. Flemming muttered to herself as she and all the other children continued reading their papers through the announcements. “Sure we have order, but at what price?”

Your Selfish Crush on Legolas

So, you love Legolas. Worse yet you have to tell everyone about it.

It started off innocently enough when you were a child. You read Tolken’s books and came to the conclusion that Legolas, and all the other elves were your favorite. You were drawn to them because of their stoic nature, and what was described as fair good looks. When the movies came out you were a little older, and you developed a strong crush on Orlando Bloom’s portrayal of Legolas. To the point where you started writing his name with big, poofy hearts on your trapper keeper… Legolas’ name- Not Orlando. You laid around your room listening to the “Click Five” and daydreaming about how he would swoop in from a dark, and forbidden forest to rescue you from sweaty orcs by shooting three arrows at once into their chests. Then he would hold you in his arms just as you’re about to faint, and ask you softly if you were ok with warm breath that smelled faintly of lilac.

As the years pass your passions become more ‘adult’. Your fantasy no longer ended after the brief encounter where you’re protected from the writhing evils of the enchanted wood. It progressed into something more along the lines of a romance novel, but without all the ickyness of a mortal man. In your fantasy he never sweats. His skin is without defect like milky, white rice paper. And he doesn’t make the grotesque orgasm face you’ve seen your previous skinny, albino and practically hairless boyfriends make. And I want to inform you of the grave realities of the elaborate facade you’ve created for yourself.

They don’t have dicks. I’m sorry, but you know I’m right. You’ve never really imagined him with or without one. You’ve conveniently skipped past that part and jumped straight to the humping… Oh, oh- I’m sorry. I meant to say “Thrusting lustily”. But they don’t. You’ve never read about them taking a piss much less taking a crap. And if I remember correctly, I don’t remember Orlando Bloom high-five Sean Astin while saying, “Dropped a hot carl on Arwen last night!” They have no genitalia. If you won’t accept that there is a Ken doll smooth patch hidden behind his leggings, then at least accept that he only has one little hole directly between the creases where his legs meet his pelvic bone. Which occasionally emits a faint puff of talcum powder. But that’s it. Nothing else.



What were you thinking? You were going to get married? Is that how you ended your “me time” sessions on a lonely Friday night? You had to justify all that dirty touching by imagining the two of you spooning on your wedding bed? Well, he can’t get you pregnant, so that’s not going anywhere. The only way Elves have kids is when one of them sprouts from a lotus like Brahma. You think they like that? Every Time they feel emotions of ‘love’ they see another mouth to feed sprout out of a near by plant. Before you fall for Legolas’ well worn pick up line, “Your parents must be thieves, because they stole the stars and put them in your eyes” think of how many piglets he has running around the houses of other elf women. You want to be another notch on his belt? Ok. Ok. Lets say you’re the one that’s going to get him to settle down and raise your lotus kids. He’s been thinking of going to college to be an architect you know. What- you thought all that talk of building that crystal tower in Rivendell was just pillow talk? He’s been saving up gold pieces for years now to achieve that dream. You’re all over him like a cheap suit, pushing your friggin’ lotus baby on him so he’s going to have to settle for night classes at the Elf Community College to learn pipe fitting. I can tell you right now he’s not going to be happy. You’ll see him coming home from nights out with his buddies smelling like a dew hall. He’ll barely spend time with your kids, and he’ll talk down to you in front of your friends.

Then you’ll think you can change him. You think you can turn him around and make a good elf out of him. But how are you going to do that when you can’t have sex with him, we took that out of the picture. Christ, you can’t even kiss him because he thinks spit is gross. Your bodily fluids ruin his rose pedal skin. The only way you’re going to be able win him over is to be his poetic and intellectual peer. I hate to say it, but you have a lot of work to do. All those hours of ‘Gilmore Girls’ you’ve watched doesn’t make you into a mental giant. You’re going to have to read up on Shakespere, Kant, Descartes, and Sinclare Lewis. Personally, I think you should just give up. Do you really want to do that to the elf you love? Break him down into a hollow shell of what he once was? Do you really think he feels better when he overhears you telling the other elf house wives how he’s really been getting good at making clothing out of hemp? And how you keep telling him he should open up a ebay shop because he’s really talented? No. It will just cause him to reflect on all the minor compromises it took for him to reach this point. Then, one night, he’ll slip out of the quaint little home in a mound that you’re still paying the mortgage on, and leave for the Dwarf village.

Just develop a healthy obsession with a rock star like a normal person, and get on with your life.