Month: November 2013

funny stuff!

A new guy in town walks into a bar and notices a large jar filled to the brim with $10 bills. The man approaches the bartender and asks, “What’s up with the jar?”

“Well, you pay $10, and if you pass three tests, then you get all the money.”

“What are the three tests?” asks the man

“Gotta pay first.”

So the guy gives him the $10 bucks, and the bartender adds it to the jar.

“OK, here’s what you have to do. First, you have to drink that whole bottle of pepper tequila — the WHOLE thing at once — and you can’t make a face while doing it. Second, there’s a pit bull chained up out back with a sore tooth. You have to remove the tooth with your bare hands. Third, there is a 90-year-old woman upstairs who’s never had an orgasm in her life. You gotta make things right for her.”

“Well, I know I’ve paid my $10 bucks,” says the man, “but I’m not an idiot. No wonder you’ve collected so much money — that’s impossible!”

The new guy proceeds to drink several whiskeys, and eventually, he gets up his nerve.

“Wherez zat teeqeelah?” he slurs.

He grabs the bottle of pepper tequila with both hands and downs it, gulp by gulp. Tears are streaming down his cheeks, but he doesn’t make a face. Next, he staggers out back. Everyone in the bar hears a huge scuffle outside — barking, yelping and growling, then silence.

Just when they think the man must be dead, he staggers back into the bar with his shirt ripped and gashes across his body.

“NOW,” he says, “wherez at ol’ lady with the sore tooth?”

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Toothbrush hunting

I had to break loose and buy a new toothbrush.  The dentist gave me my last one. When I was a kid, the dentist used to give you a sucker if you were good. What a scam! Candy to rot your teeth, and then pay a fortune to have it fixed. I had an even worst dentist. When I was eight, the idiot actually drilled my GOOD teeth, and then billed my parents for the filling. My brother and sister suffered the same fate. Now neither of us have molars. The guy is a rich man, and we can’t chew!

I went to the local pharmacy figuring to find a toothbrush right away. Nothing fancy. I don’t like the powered toothbrushes. I always figured that it was lazy to use an electric toothbrush when I have a perfectly good arm (well two actually!).

I cruised down the toothbrush aisle (there are actually enough different toothbrushes to have their own aisle at Walmart!) figuring to grab the first one I seen and go home, but no such luck. There were literally hundreds of different brushes on the shelf. Some were made to reach deep in your mouth, some had two or more heads that moved independently (like the rear axle on my truck), some had nylon  bristles, some plastic, some were battery powered, some glowed in the dark (why I don’t know), one even played music so that you could brush to the beat (almost like sweatin’ to the oldies).

The selection of colours were endless, brand names were numerous; Oral-B and Crest, Colgate and Equate, No-name, even Listerine had a toothbrush (bet it tasted terrible)!

You could buy a two pack, a three pack, a family pack and even a few with replaceable ends. Some had stripes, some had polka dots, a few were see-through! My mind was dazzled at the selection. When I finally reached  the end of the aisle, I settled on a three dollar Colgate with nylon  bristles and no features.

Until I got home. Apparently this particular toothbrush had a knobby end that served as a ‘tongue’ brush. Since when did we brush out tongues? The thing was actually quite bothersome, as it tore at the inside of my mouth instead of cleaning my tongue. I fixed that though, using my trusty pocket knife, I shaved the gummy rubber off and sanded the head so that it was smooth. Hey, maybe I just invented yet another toothbrush variety. I should email Colgate!

What a piece of work  to have clean  teeth. Did I mention the package also had a coupon for a new mouthwash? The mouthwash comes in fifteen different flavours, ten  different colours, ten different sizes? Oh God! Decisions, Decisions!

Letting go of the seat

I wrote this a few years back, and reading it tonight brought a tear to my eye. He is growing up so fast. I do however, still hold on to the seat from time to time!

SightsnBytes

I have a nine year old son. Well, actually,  his mother and I share him with a dad who is never in the picture, so I guess that makes him my son. At 40, he became my first child. (I know, late bloomer)

When I got into the picture, he was just two and a half, using a pacifier and traveling in a stroller wherever we went. Those were the easy days, when we were the teachers and we taught him important things like how to use the bathroom on his own (When we noticed that he would simply stand in front of the toilet and let it go, over the wall and shower curtain, I had to give him some pointers on how to control where the pee went. He was grossed out when I told him that he actually had to hold the thing on, and aim it…

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Hit and Run

It happened so fast. Dark night, wet road, Bang! I didn’t see the guy. Honest.

As I stand over his still body, all I can think of is how his life is over, and mine is practically ruined.

Wait! There’s nobody here on this highway. Who knows how he died? Tire tracks? I don’t see any!

I throw the body in the back of the truck. He weighs a ton! Dressed in black, hell, he was asking to get hit.

Now what to do with the body. If the cops stop me now I am screwed! I am the only person on this highway. Maybe I look for a steep bank, and roll the fat slob over the edge. Who will know? I don’t know the guy, so who cares?

As I struggle to dispose of the body, I cut my hand on a sharp rock.  Great! DNA. I have to wash, maybe leave town. Maybe leave the country. Oh God, what a mess I am in. I did’t mean to hit him, never seen him. Who will believe me now that I moved the body? As I watch his fat carcass roll down the steep cliff, I reach out, maybe stop him. Maybe put him back where I hit him. Too late. He’s gone!

I get back to my apartment. I throw a few pieces of clothing into a bag. I gotta get outta here! Where do I go? My job? Do I quit or just disappear? What about my kids? God I am in a mess!

It is Three a.m. and I am half way down the cliff, dangling from a rope that I tied to the truck. I am almost down the cliff. I see the body,  its caught up in a tree. I fumble to flash my light to his face and…..

a damn mannequin.

I killed a mannequin. Who left  this damn  thing on the highway? I never  killed anything. God, things just got better!

Suddenly my body begins to drop. My rope  is breaking, unraveling! My body begins to fall, missing the tree and on down a steep cliff. I catch a branch and  hold myself  from  falling the remainder of the drop, which looks to be at least two hundred  feet or more.

Here I am, hanging from a tree branch over the edge of a cliff. The body I came to retrieve is about ten or so feet above me. My truck is parked on  the highway, keys in the ignition. I pass out from  exhaustion.

I hear a sound above. Someone found me. Someone is going to rescue me!

“He must have broke  down  and left on foot!”  said one of the voices!

“No, I am down here” I holler, but nobody hears me. The branch I am holding creaked and then broke. I continue down the cliff, onto the rocks. It’s over. Damn, why did I hit that body? Why didn’t I call someone, or why didn’t I look at the body and discover it was’t a body at all? Too late, my body hurts everywhere, I am losing blood. I am weak. I am dizzy. I am gone.

Trifecta 103: The Triple T Killer


As I listened to the old man, I was amazed how he recalled specific details of each of his murders. He told me stories that made my skin crawl. If given the chance, there wasn’t a minute that I wouldn’t have ended his miserable life.

His craggy old face was filled with wrinkles, each with a story of their own, not an ounce of guilt or remorse for any of them. He  recited from memory horror story after horror story, each more graphic than the last.

It was as if his murders were trophies, as if the stories were told so that we would remember all the things he had done, and somehow  I was helping him do just that.

The one that stood out the most was the story of Samuel Smith. Sam was a family man who made  the ultimate sacrifice. Triple T told how he held Sam’s wife and kids captive for fifty days, and how on the last  days, he denied them both food and water. He laughed when he told of how desperate Sam was, how he offered himself in exchange for his family.

Terrance T. Tompkins explained how it all played out, how at first Sam actually believed that he would make the exchange, and how the father of four then watched each of his beloved suffer an untimely death, and how Sam would be left to live on without them. This made Terrance proud. Plagued with guilt, Sam later took his own life. “He didn’t deserve to live, the worthless coward, offering his pathetic life for theirs. He should have upped the ante, maybe offer up a few more victims.” With that, he burst into laughter.

I almost felt guilty publishing his words. The book hit the best sellers list the minute it was published. Thanks to me, the world will never forget The Triple T Killer; some will even honor him as a hero.

This fictional story is my entry into this week’s Trifecta Challenge. the word is Remember (to keep in mind for attention or consideration)

Honing His Craft: Part II

Jack Jennings was a quiet man, set in his ways. He was a bible toting, church going Catholic who appreciated the old ways. A carpenter by trade, Jack made his living working in and around the small community where he grew up.

Jack’s wife and companion for most of his fifty years was Bessie. Bessie grew up in a neighbouring community where farming was the staple. Bessie met Jack at a fundraiser dance, the two of them have been together ever since.

Jack and Bessie raised three children. Thomas, the oldest, was always kind of strange. Rather than join the school  football team,  Thomas chose to bury himself in the old library books at school. He didn’t have much of a social life, preferring to read about sorcerers and witchcraft. His behaviour didn’t bother Jack and Bessie. They figured it was something he was going through and  he would eventually work things out. Their other children were ‘normal’, and didn’t give either Jack or Bessie any concerns to worry about.

On the morning of September 3, Jack was on his way to work. Just like every other day, he ate breakfast, the same breakfast he ate every day. His oatmeal was prepared just right, the way Bessie had lovingly prepared it for him. When he went to eat it, it tasted horrible. In fact, everything Jack ate that day had the same taste. This went on  for two days. At first, Jack worried enough to make an appointment with his family doctor, but given the heavy schedule of Dr. Hastings, it would be Thursday before he could see Jack. The effects of whatever was bothering Jack faded away the day before the appointment, so he canceled it and  went on with his business.

Two days later, Bessie noticed that her bed sheets had a strange odour. She stripped the bed and washed everything. Even her clothing smelled bad. When she washed every piece of clothing, including her favorite hat, the one that she wore faithfully at church every Sunday morning, the smell went away. She never thought anything of it and went on with her day.

On Thursday, Thomas went to school only to find  that all his classmates were fast asleep in the hallways. Some  were standing, leaning against the walls and lockers, while others were face down on the floor, unconscious to the world outside. As he walked among his fallen  comrades, he gave a chuckle. “This will teach them to mess with me!” he bragged to himself. Thomas headed to his first class, only to be joined by his very sleepy classmates soon after.

“Huh? What are the doing awake? This was supposed to be permanent!” He muttered. As his classmates entered the room, they called out to ‘Meathead’, their nickname for Thomas.

Back at the parish, Father Bellamy worked hard to light the candles.  No matter how hard he tried, the candles would not stay lit. At first he figured it may have been a prank, as many of the younger kids often visited the parish after school, but after replacing all the candles and then trying to light them, he still had no success.

“Think I will do something else, and come back to this later” he thought, as he poured wine from one  bottle to a few smaller containers. When he finished this and had a moment  to  rest, he went back to the candles, which lit exactly like they were intended to.

Thomas visited the church on his way home from school. He asked Father Bellamy if anything seemed strange to him. “Hmmm, not that I can say. I had a bit of trouble lighting the candles, but you know me, old age is creeping up on me every day. Nothing that the good Lord won’t take  care  of” he said, much to the dismay of Thomas, who figured he had punished the old minister.

When Thomas got home, he was greeted by his mom. “What you doing home so late? Got your homework with you? Your teacher called and said that you were acting strange at school again; is everything alright?”

Thomas gave his mom a sneer and headed for his  room. On the way,he turned and  asked if anything  seemed strange for his mom. “Not that I can recall. The sheets had a strange smell, but you know me, always trying to find  a cheaper  detergent.That one  I tried last week left a strange odour on  everything.  All fixed now  though!” she said.

Fuming,Thomas headed for his room. Before he reached his bedroom, he noticed that his  dad was lying on the bed in his parent’s room. “You okay Dad” Thomas asked.

“Sure, everything is great. I had a problem with my taste buds this morning, but given that I recently stopped smoking,  that can be accepted. I am okay son. How about you? Are you doing okay?”

Thomas was  pissed with his father’s  sentiment. “Why would  he care how I am  feeling? He doesn’t love  me, he loves the other  kids more!”

That night, Thomas headed for the garage once again. When he got to the garage,  he noticed that things were moved. His dad had pulled the  car  into the bay and parked it over the star he had drawn  on the floor.  The candles were all tipped, some crushed by the tires. On the counter lay what was left of the old book. Just a few pages, some torn, and the cover. Next to the counter, Thomas noticed that the small potbelly stove was lit recently, a few singed pages sat on  the floor next to the stove door. On  the shelf there sat a  small package,  wrapped in gold foil  with a note attached.

“We all love you Thomas. We didn’t forget your birthday.  Please take this gift and value it.  It contains readings from long ago.  It tells  stories about a special man and the miracles that he did. This book can  help you reach your goals. Sorry about that tattered  old book you were reading. Dad  and I lit the stove so that we could work  on our birthday surprise  for you. It is parked here, next to the bench. Your dad’s first car. We restored it while you were at school. It’s  all yours. Go out  and enjoy yourself. Maybe take  some friends with you. We love you”  Signed Mom and Dad.

“Damn, no wonder my spells  didn’t  last.  Mom  and  Dad burned  the book. Damn them.  But wait,  they  loved me  enough  to plan all this without me knowing. They must love me after all. I know my friends at school would love a ride in this  old car, maybe I should take a ride and see what happens.”

With  that, Thomas went for a cruise in his car. When he got to the hangout at the edge of town, many of the people  who poked fun at Thomas came over to marvel  at his beautiful car. “1969 Camaro? Is she yours?” they asked?

“Yep,all mine. Like a ride?” he returned. the car quickly filled up, and in no time, Thomas and the others became the best of friends.

Sometimes all it takes is a bit of love  and understanding, and a once bitter and very confused person can be transformed into a happy, productive individual. If you don’t believe it, just ask Thomas.

 

 

Trifecta week 102: Honing his craft: Part I

he was a quiet one, they are always the worst; at least that’s what his momma used to say. He spent many a night in the garage, sometimes as late as four a.m., honing his craft while his peers were out drinking and whooping it up. They called him names like geek and nerd, but he didn’t care. Someday they would pay, he was certain of that.

The floor of his dad’s garage was once cluttered with garbage, but he seen that it was all cleaned up. When he finished, he checked the old book, and traced out the five point star with an old piece of chalk. On each point of the star, he placed a candle, and once all five were lit, he sat in the middle. Holding the book and sitting with his legs crossed, he recited the words of the ancients.

As he recited the words, he thought of every person who made him feel small. In his relatively short life, he had been hurt by practically everyone he trusted. On this night, they would all pay dearly. The ones who would be first attacked by the demons would be his parents, who had given up on him a long time ago. The next would be his classmates. God how he hated their constant bullying. The parish priest would be next. What right did he have to say that witchcraft was evil? The list was long, but in the end, everyone would soon realize the error of their ways, and come to worship the one who damned them to hell.

To Be Continued….

this is my entry into this week’s Trifecta Challenge. the prompt is

:  skill in planning, making, or executing :  dexterity

2 a :  an occupation or trade requiring manual dexterity or artistic skill <the carpenter’s craft> <the craft of writing plays> <crafts such as pottery, carpentry, and sewing>

plural :  articles made by craftspeople <a store selling crafts> <a crafts fair>

:  skill in deceiving to gain an end <used craft and guile to close the deal>

Stay tuned for the next part in the series…

escape from darkness

it was the darkness that got to me the most. In daylight, you could read people’s faces, see what they are thinking, but at night, everything was silent.

The silence, a torture in a man’s mind that doesn’t end. No right or wrong, just silence. A pin dropping, a thought, even a dream hurt like hell. The silence brought pain, and the darkness amplified it.

I am in pain now, standing in a room with them. The darkness doesn’t allow me to count the numbers of them. How many are standing next to me, waiting to kill me? Nobody knows. How do they know I won’t take them down  first? I don’t even know that.

It wasn’t always dark. I remember when I was but a child,  the sun  shone brightly, heating up this God  forsaken  world, making everything beautiful. Take away the sun, take away the heat, and you are left with a damp, dingy world where it is kill or be killed.

Maybe I am better off dead, like the rest of the people  I cared about and who cared about me.  Now  it is just me. Me against the world, fighting for a clean breath of air or a bite to eat. They fight too, swinging blindly in  the darkness, hoping  to hit something that is still breathing. That’s how they eat. They don’t even wait for the bodies to go cold, once the knife strikes, they devour whatever is in front of them. I’ve been lucky so far.

Luck? Is that what they are calling this life? Is this even a life? What makes me  want to continue is beyond me. What makes me swing my blade? What makes me eat? What makes me want to continue?

Maybe it is the hope that someday the sun will shine once again.  Maybe someone out there, someone smarter than I am, someone with  the means to repair this world from what our greed has done  to it will find a way to unblock  the sun. Maybe things can return to what they once were.

Maybe that someone will convince others not to be so greedy. Maybe he will teach the world of the dangers that power brings. Maybe, just maybe. But not now. Right now I have to leave this dark place and search for light. Even a tiny flicker of light would be better than this. I will continue on until I cannot gasp even a breath of the filthy air I am trying to inhale.

As I move slowly to the right, my shoulder touches something. It is warm and soft to the touch. I move my hands up and I find soft, silky hair. I move my hand across a face. It is warm to touch and even in the silence, I can ‘hear’ it breathe. I attempt to communicate, fully knowing that by uttering even a word, it will alert the hungry ones to my location. I let out a soft ‘hi’, and it returns my words with a soft ‘hi’, a womanly voice that sets my heart beating. Could there be another who is trying to survive as I am? Could I find someone and not be alone  in this struggle to survive?

And then I feel it. The coldness of the blade as it slices my neck. The cut was not perfect, if it was I would cease to exist. I feel hot breath on  my skin as it feeds from what is left of me. And then it is over. I see a light. Finally, a light. The light is bright and beckons me to follow. I am happy to follow, and get out of this treacherous place that I have considered life.

I follow the light and I am led to a room where the light is bright and warm. There are others here as well. I see  my father and mother. They are young, but I recognize them. They don’t have the cuts. I remember watching them go, as the intruders with the soldier suits on ended their lives with but a slash from a sharp sword. Now they are here. They rush to see me, to hold me. Now I understand. I am finished with the darkness. I am with the light. I am happy.