Thursday, December 24, 2009
Due to a groundswell of indifference, I'm rerunning this heartwarming poem from last year in the hope that it will eventually grow into an enduring holiday classic, if only in my mind.
Twas the night before Xmas, when all through my pad
Naught was rhyming with Xmas, and this made me mad;
The TV was tuned to the Home Shopping Place
In hopes that St. Nicholas would not show his face;
To celebrate Xmas all over the globe
I opened a brewski from Ye Old Latrobe;
At length I tuned in to the Playboy Channel
And put on my PJ's, the ones in red flannel;
I sat on the couch like a russet potato
"Anna Nicole Smith was sure one hot tomato!"
I poured a martini, to warm me within
Eschewing dumb eggnog in favor of gin;
Then just when my loins were beginning to stir
I heard in the sky an incredible whir;
I zipped up and ran to my highrise balcony
The place where I practice my hobby of falconry;
And what to my bloodshot eyes should appear
But a huge flying saucer with a silver veneer;
Eight tiny green creatures climbed down on a ladder
And I became so frightened I emptied my bladder;
"What is it you want, if I'm not being nosy?"
I asked as they circled me, ring-around-the-rosy;
"We'd like to examine your brain's frontal lobe
And also the classic, the old anal probe."
"But I am no leader, no Martin Van Buren;
I'm just some poor schmuck standing in his own urine!"
I could not dissuade them, or bribe them with money
I offered them beer; they just thought that was funny;
They made me lie down on the dining room table
And did things involving a fiber optic cable;
A half hour later they boarded their craft
Was it all just a dream? Was I crazy, or daft?
Then I heard them exclaim, ere they drove out of sight
"Happy Xmas to all, and to all a good night!"
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
One night after too many Colt 45 tall boys, Jimmy had a strange dream about girly bedroom-slipper roller blades. When he awoke he took it as a sign from God that this was his ticket out of obscurity, poverty, psychosis and self-loathing. If he could make a prototype and patent the idea, maybe he could license the design to Nike, who might market the item to transvestites who were in a hurry.
He ran the idea by his wife when she caught him attaching wheels to her bedroom slippers in the shed. She had caught him doing sicker things in the past, and in the shed, and he had run crazier stories by her in return, so she actually found herself supporting the enterprise against her better judgment.
Fortunately, Jimmy and his wife shared the same shoe size, so he put on the completed prototypes and began skating to the U.S. patent office in Washington, D.C.
Unfortunately, since they live in Seattle, Jimmy is still in transit, so I can't finish this story. I wish I had known that before I began writing it.
If Jimmy gets back to me, I'll get back to you. Until then, it remains a Story Untold, and really, aren't they the best kind?