Revelatory Quickie

Once upon a time, there was an old man who was confused by walnuts. Daily he would pace in front of his picture window holding one pinched between his gnarled thumb and pinky finger and scowl at the nut.

"What the hell?" he would grunt. Sometimes he would also say "These things is hardly natural!" Often he could even be heard to remark, if you were secreted away in his house somewhere within hearing range, "I just don't get it. Why do the llamas love you so?"

Of course the old man could be forgiven for not realizing that llamas didn't really much care for walnuts. The llamas, in their infinite wisdom, prefer linoleum.

One day while the man was pacing and interrogating his daily walnut, he noticed a duck outside on his lawn. He put the walnut down on the sill and approached the duck.

"What's all this?" he inquired sweetly, waving a fist.

"Wonk," stated the duck in the brilliant simplicity his species is known for.

"Seriously. I demand to know the meaning of this. It's February and this is Canada. Shouldn't you be in Barbados or someplace?"

"Wonk," replied the duck, cocking an eyebrow.

"Foolishness!" squeaked the old man, taken aback. He glared stolidly at the impertinent fowl. By golly, he wasn't going to be outmaneuvered by a duck in his own yard! He pointed at the picture window in the front of his house, the walnut clearly visible on the sill.

"That right there's some kinda nut thing, duck. I demand you tell me all you know of it, or I'll boot-kick you right outta my yard."

The duck thought deeply.

The duck scratched at the grass with a webbed foot.

The duck frowned thoughtfully.

Then the duck looked back up at the old man, his face alight with the wisdom of the ages.

"Wonk!" he said.

"Sweet peanut-butter filled Pope cookies!" yelped the old man, as all became clear to him. He patted the duck on the head and scooted back into his house. He picked the walnut up, and using his fist against the solid kitchen table, broke the nut open. He took the pieces out to the duck and gave them to him.

"Wonk," said the appreciative duck, and ate the walnut pieces.

"Now I shall call my family and explain to them this revelatory experience! Perhaps I shall even go on talk shows. You may be in my grass all you want, ducky my lad. If you need me, I'll be inside, being enlightened."

The old man went inside his house and became famous the very next day.

Life Goals Quickie

Once upon a time, there was a little purple squirrel who lived in your ear.

“I want to grow up to be a spaceman!” the little squirrel said one day and set out on a journey. After a few miles, he came upon a magic sparrow.

“I can give you the power of flight if you eat this little pile of twigs and wash my car,” the sparrow promised.

“That's a bunch of duck hockey,” said the squirrel. “Why must you patronize me?”

“Because I'm a hateful, disease-riddled sky pest. So do we have a deal?”

“We sure do!” the squirrel said, stuffing his mouth with twigs and reaching for a bucket of soapy water. After he had completed his tasks, he approached the sparrow and asked for his flight. The sparrow handed him a cheese doodle he'd been chewing on and flew away.

“Yay!” said the squirrel, putting the doodle in his backpack. “Now all I have to do is find NASA headquarters!” He set his tail on fire, and learned an important lesson about trusting sparrows. His parents were very proud.

When he got to NASA headquarters, he went to the front desk and asked for an application. Under the Previous Experience section, he wrote that he had once flown to Saturn and buried some acorns in the rings. The NASA people were very impressed. They had been trying to do that for decades.

"You're hired!" said a chunky man in a space suit. He gave the little squirrel a badge and told him where the bathrooms were. The squirrel went to bed that night in your ear a very happy squirrel indeed.

Reform Story Quickie

Once upon a time, there was this bastard who liked to swear at the elderly. Man, he was a putz. Everybody hated him, the elderly in particular.

So one day they banded together and sold him to the gypsies. He vowed revenge.

“I vow revenge!” he hollered at the crowd.

“Go boil your knuckles!” the elderly hollered back as the gypsies carried the bastard away.

Months went by, and the bastard never returned to the town of the elderly, and they were happy. There were parties and parades and dances with a lot of yelling. The elderly celebrated by eating many beans and drinking many ounces of decaf.

One day, however, the bastard returned. He was dressed in corduroy slacks and was wearing an ascot.

“Hey! What're you doing back here?” pooted an old man.

“Explain yourself, young man!” seconded an old lady.

“I'm reformed,” the bastard explained. “Can I have some beans?”

So the elderly gave him some beans and he danced with them, and everybody lived gassily ever after.

The Pants

Before I get to the subject at hand--perhaps I should say, "at leg." Ha! You can already see how amusing this article is going to be, can't you? I hope your body will be able to handle the physical stress of the fetal position in which you will soon find yourself, as a result of reading this piece of literary hysteria.

Ahem. Before I get to the subject at *snort* hand, I'd like to draw your attention to the included photo. That is a picture of me and a large, mindless object. I'm the one on the right with the quizzical expression. The object to your left is a balloon that was presented to me by my former co-workers.

You see, today was my last day at my old job. Knowing how much use I get out of large, rubber objects, my friends at the old place decided to present this to me as a going-away gift, on the top of which they had scrawled "For Craig: A man-sized balloon." I'm not sure if they were saying I was worthy of a man-sized balloon or if they were referring to me as a man-sized balloon.

Either way, I have to admit that I really like the goofy thing, although it was something of a challenge getting it home. It just fit into the back of my car, after the passenger seat had been scooted all the way up.

The odd looks I got on my trek home were entertaining, as well. The classic double-take: a casual glance in my direction and then the head snaps back around for a second look.

"What the--? Look, honey! A balloon the size of Massachusetts!"

Now about my pants.

I attended a super-conservative Bible college in Illinois for a couple of years. This college required the students to clad themselves daily in dress clothes. For the men, it was dress slacks, dress shirt, and tie. Even a suit was encouraged.

Unlike a lot of people, guys in particular, I've always liked to don the finer apparel. Sadly, at the time this story occurred, I had no clue about the proper clothing etiquette. Frankly, my wardrobe did not consist of any real dress clothes. I had a couple of white shirts for Sundays, but that was about it. So about a week before my departure from home, it was necessary to make a trip to a local department store and stock up.

As I said, I had no working knowledge of dress garments at that time, so I was useless in the selection process. It was thus that I ended up with The Pants.

The Pants were made of some ungodly material closely related to felt. They were fuzzy to the touch and refused to relinquish their hold on wrinkles, no matter how much I ironed them. Sadly, they made up about 50% of my leggings wardrobe, so it was a cinch that I'd have to wear them eventually.

They were uncomfortable. They were itchy. If I'd had a loom and the proper skills, I could have woven a suitable pair of pants from the amount of dust and lint they attracted. They served as a magnet for anything I brushed against. I would leave my dorm room, pants relatively clean of debris, and arrive at class with my legs covered in dirt, twigs, rocks, and even an elderly squirrel that had been too weak to escape The Pants' clutches.

The Pants were really bad for my ego, too. My self-esteem, which at that time was nil, took a quick dive for cover when it saw me haul The Pants out of my closet.

"Oh, good," my self-esteem would say. "He's wearing The Pants. It looks like I'll be able to sleep in today. He won't need me."

Girls would pass me in the hall. No, I mean pass me in the hall...not stopping to chat or ask directions to their next class, because I was wearing The Pants. The closest I got to a girl while wearing The Pants was when I was standing in the Administration Building, engrossed in reading my page of notes from the previous class. After a few minutes, I felt something splashing about my feet and, looking down, saw the cleaning woman pouring water on The Pants. Apparently, they were so covered in leaves and other foliage that she had mistaken me for one of the potted palms.

Needless to say, Christmas Break couldn't come soon enough and, while at home, I was able to communicate the problem to my parents. We arranged for another trip to the local department store and it was at that time I purchased The Shirt. But that's another story.

I'm Officially Old!

For a long time now, I've been telling myself that when I get old, I'm going to be a miserable bastard with a duck-head cane.

As of March 19, I'm one step closer! (wild cheers; dentures tossed skyward in fits of glee)

You see, according to the marketing people, those geniuses who keep track of who buys what, I have exited the "young person" demographic of 18 to 24. I know marketing is a science in and of itself, having college courses and everything, but it seems to me it's only a matter of reading product registrations (for those of you who actually register your products) or following people around in stores.

"So! Whatcha buying?"

"..."

"You getting young person stuff? iPods? How about a bag of hair elastics?"

"I'm a dude."

"I see! And what age bracket do you fit into? You gonna go buy some water-soluble fiber powder? Or how about this genuine cowhide baseball?"

"Get away from me."

I'd have fun being a Marketing Person. Especially once I'm really old and crusty.

I'll creep up on people in department stores and begin a period of strategic wheezing. I'll keep this up until they turn around. There they will find me, a stooped and bearded septuagenarian with a homburg hat holding a clipboard. I'll have a bent-up old cigar behind one fuzzy ear, and I will look at them like they were the biggest wad of monkey-leavings I'd ever seen.

"Gimme a minnit'a yer time," I'll demand in that petulant old man voice of mine.

"Excuse me?" the confused shopper will say, dropping an article of clothing.

"You heard me. Close yer mouth 'afore the hummingbirds get in. I'm a Marketing Person, and I hate you."

"That makes sense, because--"

"That's enougha yer backsass! What the hell you buying today? And how the hell old are you?" I will say, jabbing them with a piece of bamboo I found in the gardening section.

"I'm 34," the stunned person will say. They will give me a truthful answer before they even know they mean to, because I am an old man with a forceful personality and a piece of pointy bamboo.

"But--"

"Less of it, stumpy," I'll growl, trading my stick for a rusty old fountain pen. I'll scribble some nonsense on my clipboard, and look back up at them with my mistrustful old eyes. "What's that usless poo you're stuffin' in yer shoppin' cart?"

Without waiting for a response, I'll start pawing through their accumulated shoppings. "Crap. Useless. Ooh, got a rash, do ya? More crap. Junk. This stuff'll give ya gas. Even more crap..."

"Hey! Now, wait a--!"

"Cool it. I got what I need, Rashy. You may git."

And then I will shuffle away, laughing dirtily to myself under my breath, as I will invariably execute most of my exits.


Yes, being old is going to be fun. I'm not really looking forward to getting there, but arrival is going to be a party. A slow-motion party with a lot of wheezing.

In order to prepare, I'm having a few medical procedures taken care of on a preemptive basis. I'm having two new carbon-fiber and titanium hips installed. I've taken to wearing ear-hair toupees, and I'm going in next weekend for an operation that is supposed to detect and remove nose polyps, whatever those are. So far my most elaborate project is a big lighted signboard I've mounted on my garage door that keeps track of my...regularity. I'm eating plenty of orange fiber powder straight from the container with a big ol' wooden spoon, too, so my sign feels needed.

I consider any band formed after the year 2000 to consist of "whiny kids" capable of producing nothing but "unarranged clatter" and "barfing sounds".

I still want a faster car and computer and videogame console, but I doubt if I'll ever outgrow my toys. It's more of a cultural thing, my aging. Pretty soon, I'll be totally unbearable! Yay!