Mini-Story #1: The Chipmunk

Once upon a time there was a tiny chipmunk who wanted to drive a car, so he went to Driver's Training to get a license. Sadly, he failed the test and was mocked by all his classmates. The chipmunk was furious and, stalking from the room, stuck chewing gum in the lock so no one could get out. The chipmunk then made a fake license and stole a Lexus. Today the chipmunk lives in Hollywood and makes movies for a living. The moral of this story is that chipmunks are evil creatures and should be locked away before they manage to accomplish their ultimate goal of destroying modern civilization.

Your Characters Hate You

The Writer was eating his typewriter. Lest you think this disturbing, let me hasten to assure you that all was being done to ensure decorum. He was using a knife and fork, as well as a bib, which was tied neatly about his pale, fragile neck. His spectacles rode low on his long nose and his eyes, watering with the strain of many hours’ labor, flitted about, as if expecting some attack and not wishing to be caught unawares. Sweat beaded on his forehead, rolled down the length of his nose, and dripped onto the mangled remains of the typewriter. The writer took no notice of the defiling sweat, only continued eating.

He was, of course, quite insane.

Six hours before you and I began conversing, The Writer had been as rational as we and, as small a consolation as that might be, presented nary a threat. He had come to his established place of creativity brimming with ideas and eager to begin the day’s work. The opening paragraph went well, as did the entireties of pages one and two. Then everything came to a screeching halt. It wasn’t writer’s block, no...something far more sinister was afoot. His characters had come alive.

The story had been a mystery and The Writer had just reached the point where the ridiculously studly and cunning detective had finished compiling his list of suspects.

“I have finished compiling my list of suspects,” The Writer wrote (although it was actually the detective speaking!). “I shall now gather them in the drawing room and, through a process of brilliant deduction, force the murderer to confess before the assembly! Then I shall handcuff him to the water pipes and wait for this dreadful, but very mood-setting storm to blow over. Then I shall haul him before the magistrate, who will reward me with riches and gumdrops.”

The Writer looked back over the paragraph. He shook his head violently and looked again. That wasn’t what he had intended to write at all! It was far too early in the story to assemble the suspects. There were no clues, no hint of the murderer’s identity. There was no way the detective, Smoot by name, would be able to point out the guilty party.

“Don’t be so sure of that,” said a rough and nasally voice. The voice was surly and undeniably British.

The Writer looked down and saw a tiny figure relaxing against the side of the typewriter. “What?” The Writer’s voice sounded very dry and wavered humorously.

“You thought ill of me,” the little man said.

“Smoot?”

“In the ink. Ha!” The detective withdrew a pipe from his pocket and was on the verge of smoking it when he remembered that The Writer had written him out of the habit several stories ago. “A pity,” he said. “I rather enjoyed the stuff.”

“It was bad for your health,” said The Writer, who was beginning to recover from the initial shock. “What are you doing here?”

“I was bored living in the paper. Nothing to do, except remain as flat as possible and try to dodge those vicious hammers. Tricky business, that, especially when you’ve got a brilliant idea and start typing away like mad. Fortunately, you don’t get them often.”

“Well, I thought of you,” The Writer countered.

“Right, right. I’ll give you that. But then you made me forget my pistol in the last story. Otherwise, I’d have had the criminal long before the end.”

“That was the point,” The Writer said. “The story would have been a hundred words long.”

“Well, it would have saved me a lot of legwork, wouldn’t it? Always thinking of yourself, that’s what your problem is. Here I am, running down various indulgers in crimey things, getting all dirty and sweaty, while you sit smugly at a desk and tap away with your wretched fingertips. It’s not fair, I tell you!”

(to be continued, if Smoot allows it.)

Dad's Prose or Where It Comes From

Well, time wasters, it's been awhile since your old FooDaddy done posted on The Blog. I have to come clear with you and admit something that may, at first, seem shocking. I know most of you look to me as your moral leader; someone whose shining platinum example can be used as a yardstick to measure the yard of your own life, but try to keep in mind that I am only human. An exceptionally strange human, but one nonetheless.

There was once a time when I thought this would never happen to me. *takes microphone from stand and wanders meaningfully through the crowd* I was all like "pfft! That'll nebber happen to me! I's immortal, like the Easta Bunneh!". And folks? I said it just like that too. *grabs random person about the biceps and, vibrating with emotion, directs laser of pure mental anguish into their nostrils* Just. Like. That.

*scampers lightly back to podium, replaces microphone* But I'm proud of it now! No longer must I shuffle through the darkest and backest of alleys, with my head between my knees and my feet in my pockets! No more will I shy away from conversation at parties I've somehow sneaked into!

I speak of joining an elite social group, time-wasters! I am one of Them! Of They! I'm a member of The Washed, of The Bathed! Of the No Longer A Stinky Man with a Personal Cloud of Flies!

It's exhilarating, although I miss my flies. Especially Edward.

So that's why the posts have been few and far between. I promise I'll crank it up as soon as I learn how to do this whole "showering" thing quicker (it's always hard to condense a brand-new routine).

Who planted this heretical idea in my head, you might ask? Why, my father! He leaned across the table, into his curry chicken, and swatting flies and apologizing to the other diners, said:

"Boy. There is a way..."

And he said it all mysteriously, too, which got my attention. He told of the wonders of "soap" and how the almost magical "surfactant" properties of this wonder goo turn water from something that one squirts at one's cats to keep them from destroying things into something that greatly curbs one's odor emission. I listened raptly and stinkily, and when he was done, I was a changed blogger...

Dad's a beardy man. Always has been. As a child, I can remember it being full of candy. That probably says more about my current state of mind than it does about my upbringing...we'll come back to that later, maybe.

Candy-bearded or not, my father was always telling me things.

"Don't sneeze or cough on your hands--do it in the elbow of your shirt. You wouldn't believe how many people think that spewing evil microbes all over the hands they use to touch other people and their possessions is somehow polite. If I catch you doing it, I'mma grumble at you."

And...

"Always make sure there's a nightlight on in the bathroom. You cannot achieve lock-on in the dark, so you'll wee all over the floor. If you turn on the big light, you'll get blinded, and then you'll wee all over the floor. Here's a replacement bulb and some paper towels."

Then there's the writing advice I've had occasion to satirize. This was not his first piece of writing advice, though.

He found this email he'd sent back in 2004 for some reason, and I doubt I gave it the attention it deserved. I post it here because it is (a.) interesting, and (b.) informative. Anyone who knows me well enough will be nodding and making some form of "mm hmm!" noise when they've finished reading.


As I was peeing, getting ready to go home, my body, ever up for humiliating comedy, did one of those "dying duck" farts-- you know, the kind that musically does a descending third, from E down to middle C, or maybe farther (heh). You never can tell with farts; it would be difficult to notate them. Anyway, this fart sounded so sad, so resigned to its fate, that a phrase popped into my head, which could be the ending of a short story:

As she said this, he realized it was the end of the world, and he'd have to start facing it immediately. No one spoke. All the happy yellowness that had been part of the day suddenly drained from it. Again there was a crushing suffocating pause where neither of them could think of anything encouraging to say.

Then, he farted.

It was a dying duck, it was Shakespeare's "dying fall", it was the ultimate Oh Darn, it was the horn call from a Requiem Mass; it sounded like nothing so much as the Fart of Utter Despair, or perhaps the angel Gabriel, astride the planets, blowing the Fart For The End of Time.

It stank like it, too.

She ran away, and was never seen again. A stunned owl fell out of the sky.

'Why am I still standing here like a stunned owl?', he thought. And he took off his glasses."

That's it. Based on a true fart.


True story? I'd bet my cats on it. There's owls in that library, I have no doubts.

Domesticated and Dangerous

Ever since I’ve started working part-time at my real job and full-time at home, I’ve been doing some of the more domestic chores myself, since my wife now works more hours away from home, thereby having less time to wait on me hand and foot. Not only is this lack of service annoying, but it’s turned out to be scary, since I have little experience in truly “domestic” ventures. Read and see...

From the moment I walked through the doors, I could feel the atmosphere change. The regulars of this establishment had a unique ability to smell fear and, although I tried hard to disguise my nervousness, it was plain to anyone that I was out of my element. No one spoke to me as I took a few steps farther inside and then stopped, glancing around in an attempt to regain my composure and plan my next move.

I looked forward again just in time to see a large, metal beast bearing down upon me, its latticed maw eager to dine upon my flesh. Exhibiting the agility of a gazelle, I leaped to one side, narrowly escaping a thorough trampling, and watched the monster trundle past. The beast’s master, who apparently guided his charge using a primitive, rear-attached steering mechanism, turned and fixed me with a disgusted stare.

“Outta the way, ya big bum!”

I whimpered and scooted back into a darkened recess of the wall, intending to gather my wits and possibly flee for my life. My eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness and I realized, panic welling in my throat, that I was surrounded by the metal beasts! Hundreds of them, all lined up neatly, no doubt awaiting a command to charge and eat me.

After a second or two, however, it became clear that the monsters, as hideous as they appeared, were harmless without someone at the helm and none of these were so occupied. Perhaps this little recess was the monsters’ sleeping cave or maybe they were in for repair. Either way, it was obvious they posed no threat to me, so I turned my attention back to the bustling world outside my haven.

There were many more beasts out there, most of which being guided along by their masters. I would have thought that being given the ownership of a dangerous creature would require membership in an elite club, but the owners I saw fit no set description. Some were young, old, large, small, male, and female. I even saw a child pushing one, probably a trainee, as she kept running into things and incurring the wrath of her instructor.

I couldn’t much blame the child’s poor driving skills. This would, after all, be an extremely difficult area in which to train in the use of monster-guiding. Obstacles of varying sizes dotted the area, while the more experienced users pushed their monsters to the limit, darting in and out of obstacles, tearing around blind corners...it was a miracle I hadn’t yet witnessed a fatality.

By now, I had gathered most of my mental faculties and was dismayed at the tiny pile they made. But no matter! I was here on a mission and I would mission my mission or my name isn’t...I’ll get back to you on that.

Reaching into my pocket, I withdrew the secret papers that outlined the objectives for the mission. It was a long list, full of things I recognized, although I had never known they came from a place as dangerous and scary as this. I read part of the list: corn, lunch meat, cheese, eggs, bread, Sasquatch tenderloin... The list went on for pages. There was no way I’d be able to carry all these items out to my car. I’d need a basket or, better yet, a dump truck.

Another beast rumbled past and for the first time I noticed it had a transparent stomach. As unbelievable and disgusting as this may seem, it was true. There, in the innards of the monster, I could make out various objects. A whole head of lettuce, a bag of apples, doughnuts...many of the items I was here to pick up myself! It was then that my pile of mental faculty shavings, stirred by a small breeze of inspiration, suggested an idea to me. Perhaps the monsters weren’t so terrible after all. What if they were provided, hopefully free of charge, as a method of transporting one’s objectives?

With this thought in mind, I tugged one of the metal beasts out of the darkened recess where I’d been hiding and was pleased when it didn’t bite or snap at me. It was, in fact, a rather quiet and pleasant monster, except for the insistent squeak made by one of its oval, rotating legs as I propelled it along and the fact that it had a tendency to pull suddenly to one side, throwing me into the path of an oncoming threat. Obviously, I had chosen a young monster, one still languishing in the immaturity of youth.

I began wandering around the premises, searching for the objectives on my list. Oh, the joy I felt when at last I would successfully seek out an item and feed it to the monster. I soon learned, by rudely listening in on the conversations of others, that the monsters were actually called “shopping carts” and they were, in fact, generally harmless.

The beasts’ masters, however, were less genial and turned out to be the worst part of the venture. They were loud, impatient, stinky, and stupid. Parking their monsters in the middle of an area I soon learned to call an “aisle,” they would wander to and fro, apparently unaware I was attempting to get through. Even when I would politely say, “Move it, swine,” they would ignore me and continue wandering.
...to be continued at my leisure.

I Too Am Also Mad!

The things that smurf me off are many and numerous. They are plentiful enough, were they flecks of dandruff, to shingle a barn. In short, I am a very annoyed individual.

And I'll get to them as soon as I can think of some good ones.

Ahh, here we go...

Being given too few ketchups at fast food places, being given too many ketchups at fast food places, that weird way one of my fingernails seems to grow faster than the rest, chunky kids who won't share their Skittles, old men who are cultured and patient, gassy cats, people who get mad at you for laughing during funerals, people who DO continue to tell themselves that after you tell them to keep telling themselves that.

Man, this is harder than I thought. Could it be that I'm really not as bitter and crotchety as I thought? I'm losing my edge? This cannot be. Just have to prime myself.

Disney.

That did it! On with the list.

Mary Poppins, singing dwarves, singing pirates, singing furniture, singing animals, singing children. (Whew!) Desks with one drawer built to look like two, showers with weak spraying heads, soap that smells like candy, soap that doesn't TASTE like candy, forgetfulness, chunky kids who won't share their Skittles. People who don't understand sarcasm, people who proudly announce things that would get them slapped if there were any justice in the world, anyone who touches me and enjoys it too much. Anyone who merges onto the highway at a blistering 30 MPH, anyone who doesn't bother to look for a gap before merging and has to pull off onto the shoulder and signal for upwards of four minutes. Any person who refers to themselves as "mommy" or "daddy" when talking to or about their cat. Children who smell like socks.

(Pause to allow adrenaline glands to rest up a bit.)

Video games based off of movies, "Barney and Friends" and all it stands for, iPhones, houses in the middle of cities decorated with wagon wheels and fake tumbleweeds. CPU fanboys, car fanboys, videogame console fanboys, fan fanboys. People who are too politically correct (correctness fanpersons), people who take pride in being extremely politically UNcorrect (read: morons). Leaves with slugs on them. Signs in public places with misplaced or unnecessary apostrophes. The word "unnecessary" because I always put too many Cs in. Cologne, people who wear too much cologne, people who ask why you don't wear cologne. Grown men who smell like socks and try to cover it with cologne.

And last but certainly not least, and because I am a smug bastard: anyone older than 9 who considers their, they're and there interchangeable.