The Old Guitarist

I was rather impressed with the old guitarist I met the other day. He was at a bonfire in the park at night, playing some old Woodie Guthrie songs. It was just him and his guitar, the melodies drifted into the soft cool night, a perfect blend of human voice and guitar string.

He was selling tapes. But no CD's. Nothing digital. Being 2008, I was shocked to see that. I wasn't even sure if cassette decks still existed in stores anywhere.

I told him he should burn his music onto a CD.

He asked me why he'd want to burn a CD? He asked me, is it better than firewood?

I looked at him odd. I then explained to him that burning a CD is the act of putting music onto one.

He nodded as if he understood. I handed him a blank CD and was about to tell him how it worked, but suddenly, he threw the disk into the fire. He pulled out his guitar and started singing into the fire.

Maidenform

You'd think I'd be embarrassed by working at a store like Maidenform and being a guy, but it was the only job available in town and I have college bills. It actually isn't so bad, I run the counter and stock the shelves. They obviously don't let me in the changing rooms. If a girl needs to try something on, there's another female employee around to help out.

So one day I'm behind the counter bored as hell. I'd listen to my iPod but the manager's a bit of prick and doesn't allow such amenities, even though it's a Thursday morning and there hasn't been a customer in thirty minutes. She was out back busy with paperwork. The door chimed and a large fat man came in. He wore a plain black tee-shirt and jeans. Paul Bunyan could have poked three holes in him and used him as a bowling ball. He went over to the racks where the large bras were. Not the Pamela Anderson large, but the fat opera singer large. He picked out several bras, some of them pink and frilly and then came up to me at the counter.

"Those for the wife?" I asked genially, making small talk.
"No," he said in all seriousness and without an ounce of shame, "I'd like to try these on."
I paused.
"Fitting rooms are behind the um . . . what?"
"I'd like to try these on."
"Behind the racks over there," I pointed. I wanted to laugh or cry but couldn't.
"I'd like your assistance," he said.
I no longer wanted to laugh. Just cry.
"It's uh, against policy for uh, male employees to go into the fitting rooms. Yeah, policy."
"Oh cut that out," the man replied. "You made that up."
"Look man, I wouldn't know how to put on a bra! Take one off, yeah sure, but . . . why me?"
"I just need someone who can see that they'll fit."
"I uh . . . there are mirrors."
"But I need to know how they look."
"How they look . . . not to be mean but . . . you're a guy . . . in a bra. . . Shannon?"
The manager came out.
"Whats the problem?" she asked.
"This gentlemen would like to try on some bras, but needs assistance."
"Look in the policies, only members of the same sex can share stalls, you go with him."

This job sucks.

The Five Pointed Condom

"Holy crap!" Jeff cried out, pointing to a pile of latex that sat on the counter. "Look at that there condom! Man, I didn't know a feller could come equiped like that! You could do five girls simultaneously! Five! Holy Jesus, havin' five peckers!"
"Uh that's a latex glove . . ." I muttered.
Jeff was silent a moment.
"Oh. Well shoot."

***********

I was headed down the street when I ran into Sarah.
"Hi! You missed me at the supermarket!" she gushed.
"Missed? More like, 'narrowly avoided'" I replied.
Somehow, that upset her.

***********

FAR 91.15 states that no pilot in command of a civil aircraft may drop an object from an aircraft in flight that can cause a hazard. However, this section does not prohibit the dropping of objects if reasonable precaution is taken to avoid injury or damage.

So I shouted "Look out below" from my Skyhawk before I dropped the toilet paper rolls.

That's a reasonable precaution.

Isn't it?

***********

"Bob bob bob. Bob bob and Ann. Bob bob bob. Bob bob and Ann. Bob and Ann! Don't eat my ham! Bob bob bob, Bob and Ann, don't take my ham!" He was singing.

"Those aren't the words!" I said.

Brian Wilson rolled in his grave.

And he isn't even dead yet.

The Fall of Caledor

Orissa Darksoul stood at the end of the white stone bridge, looking across it. It spanned from the shrine to the hills beyond, crossing a deep gorge where a river flowed. The lush green hills were rent with screams of agony and grey billowing smoke rising from the fortress beyond. The keep was lost and already hundreds were racing across the bridge, the last defense before the hated forces of Order crossed en mass, a final rallying point before the whole of Caledor was lost.

Preparing herself, the Dark Elf began grasping at the Winds of Chaos, building up her Dhar and absorbing its energies. Orissa stood tall, like most elves. Her robes, if you could call them that, were a dark purple and made of rich silk, embroidered with dark designs of Chaos. The warm wind brushed against her skin, the robes did little for modesty. She was almost nude, but for the skirt and loincloth around her legs, and the ornate vest around her chest. She wore knee-high leather boots and above her flowing black hair, she wore a crown encrusted in jewels. Orissa was pale. What little warmth was left in her was her passion for power, her lust for magic and her hate for self-righteous High Elves who stole the throne of Ulthuan from Malekith, the Witch King and the rightful heir.

Beside her, the Witch Elves sharpened their deadly, blood and poison encrusted daggers. Standing tall and beautiful, the brides of Khaine wore even less than Orissa, only the bare minimums of modesty were met for the Witch Elves used their alluring beauty as their most potent weapon. Around her, the Greenskins of the Bloody Sun Boyz and the agents of Chaos, the dubious allies of the Druchii (the Dark Elves) were also preparing. The imposing green monsters, the Black Orcs, sharpened their choppas while the Chaos zealots prepared their dark rituals.

The storm was coming. The braying of horns sounded. Orissa could barely see them as they came charging down the hill towards the bridge to the shrine. Order was here. Dwarves, Humans and High Elves mixed together. Behind her, Black Orcs and goblins banged their shields and cried out "WAAAGH!" Orcs, Chaos and Druchii alike crashed into the forces of Order upon the bridge, the sounds of swords and axes and shields renting the air. Orissa released her Dhar, blowing several Order off the span, into the gorge below. But the enemy kept coming.

Arrows rained across the gorge. The hated Shadow Warriors fired arrow after arrow. Orissa jumped to the ground, the wooden shaft narrowly missing her. She unleashed her magic upon them and threw them to the ground. Chaos continued to hold the bridge, a steady line of defense. Orissa wove threads of chaos around a troublesome Bright Wizard. He responded by sending a flaming fireball at her, but she brushed it aside and tore him into pieces. But the forces of Order were numerous and Chaos was falling behind.

A Chosen took off the head of a warrior priest and then sunk his claymore into a stunty's chest but then he went down as sword and spear alike penetrated his thick armor. The Witch Elves, the lithe brides of Khaine, left their sacrifices dead on the battlefield, but arrows, bullets and Aqshy's fire were too much. The ranks on the bridge broke and a great melee broke out around the shrine.

Orissa continued to rip through the ranks of Order, tearing at the threads of chaotic magic, but slowly she felt her control of magic slip and it began to tear at her. Very painfully, she kept control over her dhar, lest it rip her apart. She unleashed the pent up magic on a dwarf, blowing his broken body into the gorge. Still, the Order crossed the bridge in great strength.

A sharp hot pain hit her shoulder and she collapsed with a cry. Ahead of her a crafty dwarf engineer was shooting at everything he could with a well built blunderbuss. With a wave of her hand, she destroyed him.

But the shrine, she could tell was lost. The grass was soaked with blood and bodies and for every dead chaos, lie ten dead Order. Chaos was losing ground. A Witch Hunter, the inquisitorial men of the Empire who hunted and destroyed Chaos with a feared zealotry, chased towards Orissa. She froze him in spot and ran, her control over her Dhar diminishing. The Witch Hunter caught her. She cried out in agony as his blade struck through her back and plunged out of her chest. She collapsed to the ground in a heap. Order carelessly trampled her lifeless body as they charged across the shrine. Caledor had fallen.

The Respawn Screen came up on the computer. I looked at the clock. 6:00 PM. My character had died and it was about time for dinner. So I logged off and went to the caf.

Oscar Christopher Duvall

Oscar was busy. He stood perplexed in a hallway, staring at a wall of family photographs which stretched back five generations. On the left were the Duvalls, his father's family, and on the right were the Duponts, his mother's family. The french-american man looked on in frusteration and he gave Olivia Catherine Dupont's portrait (his grandmother) a tiny nudge, a slight adjustment.

And then he felt rage boil up with him. After fixing his grandmother's portrait, he realized, his father's brother's portrait, one Oliver Constantine Duvall, was off kilter. He gave it a slight push. But then, Olivia Catherine Dupont somehow slipped to a slight degree. Oscar angrily pushed it in place.

He stepped back and looked at the wall. Octavio Charles Duvall was off-center. And much too high for Oscar to reach. Oscar got a step stool and gave the picture the slightest nudge.

And it fell. With a resounding shatter, the picture hit the floor, sending shards of glass all over and breaking the wooden frame.

Oscar swore loudly. Then he apologized to himself. Oscar always apologized after he swore. Even though no one was there to hear him. Oscar was alone for the week, his wife, Ottie Charlene Duvall (previously DePaul) was off at a teacher's conference in Amsterdam. Oscar had no kids. Oscar didn't like germs and he did not wish to sit on a dirty airplane seat for several hours so he elected to stay home.

Besides, Amsterdam was full of dirty pot-smoking hippies who had more germs on them than Oscar cared to know about. Before Ottie came home, Oscar intended to make her take a long shower with plenty of disinfectant.

He stepped off the stool and picked up the picture. The photograph was now scratched, an imperfection that would mar the entire hallway. Perhaps he could fix it digitally . . .

He was pondering this when suddenly the entire collage of family photographs came crashing down on him.

He swore, and then apologized for it. Glass shards were everywhere. Oscar was glad for his steel-toed boots. He always wore them, even around the house. Going barefoot, he decided, was the quickest way to catch germs. But bacteria were no match for steel toed leather boots.

Especially after he sprayed them (three times daily) with disinfectant.

He looked at the terrifying mess. Every last photograph on the wall had fallen, leaving a bare wall with a bunch of ugly nails poking out.

Then he noticed a slight sting on his hand. Somehow, he had cut his hand! He was bleeding! In horror, he dashed to the bathroom and locked the door to wash it. He opened the cabinet. There was nothing but bar soap inside. He took out a soap, opened it. He washed his hand with it and then threw out the soap. He did this two more times, throwing out a bar of soap each time. And then applied a band aid.

The End of the Bush Dynasty

"Well Dick, its almost november and we're in deep shit," Dubya said. "The economy is takin' a dive, we're in a war that the people don't like and they're about to vote in a black man fer president. There ain't much we can do now."
"What are you suggesting?" Cheney asked.
"People hate us Dick, the history books ain't gonna say nothing good 'bout us," Dubya replied. "But what if there was no history after we leave office? Lets nuke China."
"You know I love shootin' people as much as you do Georgie, but why?"
"Think man! No one likes the You-nited States anymore and we're in a state of dee-cline, like ancient Rome. Our economy is shit, our military is rivaled by China and the oil business is runnin out on us. Why not take the world with us? Who'll remember that I was a shitty president if everyone's dead?"
"No one"
"Exactly. And lets nuke France for good measure, but make it look like them Britons did it, hee hee hee. Make sure to knock down the Empire State buildin'."
"You mean the Eiffel tower? The Empire State building is in New York."
"Yeah, yeah, the Empire tower, whatever its called."
"When do you want the nukes to be launched?"
"How about next Sunday after we come back from huntin?"

Chevy Cavalier

A man pulled up to the car fair in a red Chevy Cavalier, license plate 565 PE, year 2000 model.

"You can't park here," the traffic volunteer said.
"Why not?" the man asked
"This is for antiques or rare cars only," the other replied.
"This is an antique."
"Really?" the man said skeptically.
"Yeah, 2000 model."
"Thats not old enough."
"Not old enough? That was eight years ago! I wasn't even in high school yet!"
"Still not old enough. You can't park here unless the car is an antique or rare."
"This is a rare car."
"Yeah right."
"It is! How often do you see a Chevy Cavalier?"
"Almost every day."
"Ah! But how often do you see a red Chevy Cavalier with a dent in the side?"
"A dent doesn't make your car special."
"Oh but it was a very special incident that caused the dent."
"Tell me."
"I hit a post."
"How is that special?"
"It was a special post."
"A special post?"
"It had to be special if it was strong enough to dent a Cavalier!"
"Cavaliers aren't exactly strong armored."
"Oh really, have you ever seen one get run over by a tank?"
The man sighed. "No . . ."
"Well, how can you say that the tank would crush it? I'd bet the Cavalier would win against a tank."
"How do you know?"
"How do you know it wouldn't? I'm telling you, it was no ordinary post."
"What was it made out of?"
"Cement"
"How does cement make it extraordinary?"
"It was extraordinary cement. Look at the damage to my car!"
"Cement would do that to any car!"
"Not this car!"
"Please sir, I have to ask you to leave, you're holding up the line."
"All I need is a parking spot."
"And why can't you park in the visitor lot? I see plenty of spaces."
"Because this is a rare car, an antique even."
The man sighed.
"A dented 2000 Chevy Cavalier. It isn't every day that you see one."
"Fine, go park over there next to the hippy van and the Oscar Myer Wiener. Just keep that . . . thing . . . away from my Mustang."
"Nah, now that I think about it, I'll park in the visitor's lot."

In other news, a man was found dead at the car fair. The victim was found in his red, dented, Chevy Cavalier, apparently he was shot. Authorities say they have the suspect in custody but are not ready to release his name.

"Thats a rare car," the reporter said.
"Indeed," the anchor replied. "It isn't every day that you see a dented red Chevy Cavalier."