A Buncha Stuff I Posted to Talk.Bizarre

In 1995, when I was living in Atlanta, I posted a whole bunch of short stories, essays, and whatnot to the Usenet newsgroup talk.bizarre. Here's a collection of the ones that, for whatever reason, I personally kinda like.

Last night I dreamt I was abducted by UltraVixens from another planet. They tore off all of my clothes and threw me onto a heart- shaped examination table. They were fascinated by my penis, and they poked at it and giggled and tugged on it and said "wooo wooo."

One of the UltraVixens demanded to know how this thing worked, so I showed her. Then another came forward, demanding to be shown, so I showed her as well. Then another. And another. Well, I could only pee so many times, and by the fifth UltraVixen I was no longer able to demonstrate.

The fifth UltraVixen was clearly disappointed, as evidenced by a pronounced pout. She asked if this penis thing was used for anything else, something that I could demonstrate for her. Hmmm, I thought, should I tell them about the sex bit? How do you judge maturity in their race? I looked into her eyes, and down at her exposed breasts, one of which she was caressing, and back into her eyes. "Well," I said, "when a man and woman love each other very much--"

Suddenly an explosion rocked the ship. "Captain," an UltraVixen shouted, "we're under Romulan attack!"

The UltraVixens quickly cut off my penis and jettisoned my body into space. Then I woke up.

I'm getting to know more of my neighbors now. Not by name, though. I've seen my next-door neighbor, "Classic Rock Guy," a couple of times now. He's a little, long-haired troll. He's pretty predictable; usually around 10 p.m. he cranks up the local classic rock station, and occasionally I'll awaken around 1 a.m. to hear him shouting "Freebird". Then sometime around 4 a.m. he cranks up the nekkid channel on the TV, and that plays until I leave for work at 8 a.m. I don't think he hears so good.

Then there's "Interesting Breakfast Girl," a young lady who works at the hospital directly across the street. I usually see her at the elevator in the morning. She frequently eats her breakfast on the ride down. Things like cold pizza, Pop-Tarts, and Hot-Pocket sandwiches. "Interesting Breakfast Girl" is cool.

I met "She Thinks I'm a Moron" a couple of days ago. On the way home from work I had stopped into Computer City and purchased a new monitor. I was anxious to hook it up and try it out. So I got it home, hooked it up, and spent the rest of the evening playing Doom. About 9:30, my doorbell rang. It was "She Thinks I'm A Moron," who lives directly across the hall from me. "Sorry to bother you," she said, laughing a giggly schoolgirl kind of laugh. I puffed up my chest, brushed back my hair and sucked in my gut, and was about to say, "oh, it's no bother at all, I know why you've come," when she pointed to the doorknob and continued, "but you left your keys in your door."

I picked up a copy of Star Trek: Generations from my local Blockbuster and had stopped into the A&P to pick up a sixpack o' beer My needs are simple, I admit that.

No express lanes were open, so I got into what appeared to be the least objectionable line. The guy in front of me had a couple of roses, a sixpack of caffeine-free Coke, and a quart of milk. The guy in front of him had... fruit, mostly. Fruit spread out all over the goddamned counter, as far as the eye could see. Gotta weigh this, check the list for that, let's see, lemons are three for a dollar, but ya only got one... what to do with that odd third of a cent... round up or round down?

So after for-friggin-ever, the cashier tells him the total. Oh, wait! He's got a coupon. Where did he put it, let's see, hmmm, he just had it... And I'm thinking, a coupon for fruit? What, is it issued by God Himself? Printed on papyrus? Is it perhaps one of those recently discovered Dead Sea Coupons? No, turns out the coupon is for the one non-perishable item he bought, a tube of toothpaste. Oh, but, gee whiz, sorry sir, the coupon clearly states, as any moron would reasonably assume, you can't use it on a trial-sized tube... Would you care to get a real tube instead? You would? Oh that's splendid! No problem, take your time, the other customers can read all about the amazing Bat Boy....

Toward the end of "Seinfeld," I started hearing a beeping, but it didn't register as anything to be alarmed about. And as I watched "Friends," the beeping continued, and eventually my brain tuned it out completely. Midway through "Friends" I heard someone knocking on a door, several times. Later, when I started hearing sirens, I began to put the pieces together, and went out into the hall, where most of my neighbors were already gathered.

The beeping was coming from Classic Rock Guy's apartment next door. You could barely hear it over the loud music. And smoke, there was smoke coming from under the door.

By the time I joined the crowd in the hall a representative from the building management was arriving, as were several firemen. They opened the door and managed to rouse Classic Rock Guy, who had apparently passed out shortly after putting some munchies in the oven.

The firemen made him sit out in the hall against his apartment wall so that we all could stare at him for a while and talk about him amongst ourselves. Classic Rock Guy didn't pay us much attention; rather, he vented anger at the firemen for the way they were treating him like a child.



One positive note: She Thinks I'm A Moron, my neighbor directly across the hall, apparently doesn't think I'm quite as dumb as Classic Rock Guy now.

someone@somewhere.com writes:
>
> Ok folks. I used to have a garden, only some of it's left. I
>am entertaining serious solutions to our chipmunk problem. Small
>arms and similar only. (We also have field mice in the house.)

The first step is admitting you *have* a chipmunk problem.

You might try traps, baited with whatever it is chipmunks like. Christmas presents, probably.

"Santa Claus?"

"Naw, man," he laughed, "it's ME, Jerry Garcia!"

"Oh wow!" I sat up in bed, now fully awake. "Hey, I've got one of your albums! The one with the skeleton on it. But... what are you doing here?"

His expression grew somber. "My time on this earth is done. But my mission is not. I need someone to carry on my work, to lead my people."

I swallowed hard. "And... you want... me... to be that person."

"No, but you used to work in the entertainment business, right? What's the name of the fat guy in Blues Traveler?"

"I double-dog-dare ya!"

Jerry looked around nervously at the group of boys. He wanted to fit in, he really did. The hot sun was almost unbearable, and he hadn't had a drink of water in days.

Mbungo held the moist toad in his extended hand. Jerry looked at it, and then looked into Mbungo's eyes. Mbungo was giggling.

Jerry took the toad, and the boys burst into spontaneous whoops.

"Go! Go! Go! Go!" they chanted, as Jerry shakily brought the bloated creature to his mouth. He closed his eyes, and carefully began to squeeze. Cool water met his parched lips.

Mbungo laughed loudly. "He's drinking it! He's drinking the frog water! Dude!"

Jerry swallowed the last few drops and tossed the toad back into the hole from where the Aborigines had unearthed it.

He missed his old school.

"Do you know about this?"

There were two elderly women in the laundry room as I went to collect my clothes. One of them asked me this question and pointed to one of the washers.

"Uh, that particular machine, or the washers in general?"

"In general."

These were brand-spankin'-new machines. The building management had replaced the old wood-burning machines with state-of-the-art, digital LED display, 32-bit true-multitasking models.

"Well, yeah," I said, "I've used them."

"Oh good! Then maybe you can help us." She hooked her arm through mine and led me down the aisle. We stopped at a machine and she demonstrated how she had been inserting the coins but they just kept rolling right back out of the slot. "These machines won't take our quarters. The same thing keeps happening to Mabel, too. We put them in the slot, and they come right back out."

"Well, that's the Coin Return slot, see. You need to put the quarters in the slot right above it." In my mind I continued, "The implied Coin Take slot. When you place a quarter into a slot marked Coin Return and it returns your coin, then I would think you'd be happy. Place your coin in the Coin Return slot. If it comes back to you, it's yours. If it doesn't, then it never was."

"Hey Mabel, he says we need to put the quarters in this other slot."

"The one that doesn't say 'Coin Return?'"

"Exactly. See, look! My machine is running now."

"Well I'll be horn-swaggled."

"Thank you so much, young man."

"Oh no problem, glad I could help."

"How can we ever repay you?" She caressed her right breast.

September 7, 1995

someone@somewhere.com writes:
>
>Getting bald, need help !
>You , assholes, help me, I'm getting bald.
>
>P.A.

Okay, okay, stay calm. Assess the situation. Is it due to fire?

"Mom! Mom! Look what followed me home! Can we keep him? Oh please, please can we keep him?"

"Oh now Billy, you know your father would have a fit."

"I call him 'Rags.' He's real smart. Watch this. Rags! Speak! Speak, Rags! Speak!"

Rags smiled and held up his little cardboard sign.

September 12, 1995

So I was peeing at a Chick-Fil-A today (or Chick-A-Fil, if you're one of those people who just can't seem to read the sign from left to right), and I noticed that the little rubber mat in the urinal had a slightly larger hole in the center so that if you actually aimed the urine stream carefully you wouldn't end up with tiny splatter droplets all over your pants.

And as I was standing there testing my own skill I was suddenly struck by an idea. (Hey, I'm an idea man. These things just come to me.)

You've seen them at carnivals and amusement parks. You take a water pistol and shoot a stream at a little target, and it inflates a little balloon. Or it moves a car up a vertical track. It's a race to see who can pop their balloon first, or who's car makes it to the finish line.

How difficult would it be to incorporate this technology into a urinal?

You put a quarter in, and you're eligible to race.

Put these in bars, and people will be drinking more beer specifically so they can pump more quarters into the urinals.

Move over, Dart Leagues.

someone@somewhere.com writes:

>
>Today I wandered into a bookstore, and passed by the "Sex" section.
>A flash of banana yellow caught my eye. I turned. It was "Sex for
>Dummies". No, I thought. It must be a joke, I thought. I picked
>it up and flipped through it. It doesn't look like a joke, I thought.
>I looked at the cover. By Doctor Ruth. It isn't a joke, I thought.
>I hope there's a long section on birth control, I thought. But I
>did not check.

"Is anyone sitting here?"

I looked up and gazed into the eyes of the most beautiful girl in the world. "Uh, no," I said, and gestured to the chair.

She laid her book on the table and sat down, smiling.

"Ah!" I said, catching sight of her book. "Marxism for Dummies!"

"Have you read it?" she asked.

"No, but I'm a big fan of the 'For Dummies' series."

"I see," she said. "So what are you reading?"

"Oh, uh," I coughed, "nothing really." I glanced at page 72, then looked her right in the eye and said, "So do you come here often..." I glanced at page 73, and continued, "Baby?"

Where were you when you heard the news? I was in bed, my body being buffeted biologically as the pro- and anti-histamine forces battled within. CNN was on, and at some point I became aware that something was wrong. Where was OJ? I sat up and tried to focus on the television. The news anchor looked flustered as she read.

"Orville Redenbacher died today...."

I threw on some clothes and headed for the A&P. I wanted to be with others who shared my grief.

When I arrived I headed straight for the popcorn aisle. I snatched up the last two boxes of Movie Theater Butter Light. All of the customers in the store reminded me of him. They all seemed to have a little bit of Orville in them. The significance of that observation was diminished later when I found out that Tuesday is Senior Citizen's Discount Day at the A&P, but still....

Before I left I picked up a rose from the floral department and "misplaced" it somewhere on the popcorn aisle.

Back at home, standing by the microwave, listening to the popping, my mind wandered. I could picture little Orville Junior, standing by the family microwave, his little clip-on tie barely clearing the countertop, anxiously counting the seconds between pops. "One-alligator, two-alligator..."

Orville Junior! "You must be devastated," I said in a sort of telepathic-prayer-type-thing. "I mean, I loved my father," I said, "but I never once even considered dressing like him. Be strong, good man. Our prayers are with you."

I noticed that the popping had slowed. Typically I would have removed the bag at this point, but today I felt compelled to leave it in until the popping stopped. The Day The Popping Stopped.

"I hope you'll carry on the family business," I continued. "I think Pop would've wanted it that way."

"Excuse me, would you be interested in giving blood today?"

Truthfully, no. I came to K-Mart for socks and underwear.

"You'll get this free tee-shirt."

"Free tee-shirt? Get the bag ready, I'm opening up a vein right now!"

I entered the bloodmobile and filled out my paperwork.

"Have a seat Mr. Porter. Now, I just have to go over these routine questions with you. They're kinda personal."

I nodded, giggling. I had already checked the answers on my worksheet, so I knew what was coming.

"Okay then." Suddenly I was listening to an auctioneer: "Do you use intravenous drugs have you had sex with anyone who has used intravenous drugs in the past year have you traded sex for drugs have you had sex with a prostitute in the past year have you had sex with a man since 1977 have you had sex with anyone since 1977 are you saying you haven't or you simply don't recall what do women find you repulsive or something, SOLD to the nerd in flannel!"

"I, uh, could you repeat the part about 1977?"

"And finally, Mr. Porter, just in case you haven't been totally honest with me, we'll give you one final chance to bow out gracefully and spare your victims with these bar-code stickers." She handed me a sheet. "I'm going to turn my head, and you just pull off one of those bar-codes and we'll place it on your donation. Select this one if you think your blood is safe for use in humans, or select this one if we should dump it down the sink."

"Okay, Mr. Porter," the nurse said, having just painted most of my left arm yellow. "You might want to turn your head now."

This was true. She continued, "So do you live nearby, do you come here often, how about them Braves, do you think Colin Powell has a real chance, hey look it's the Pope!" She jabbed the needle into me. "There, that wasn't so bad, now was it?"

"No, not really" I said, covering my wet pants with my K-Mart bag. I looked at my left arm. There were drops of blood all over it. "I hope that's mine," I said.

"Well now, it looks like you made a bit of a mess, didn't you?"

I looked at her. "Yeah, clumsy me."

"Gosh," one nurse said to another, "everyone is so quiet today."

Might be because we're all having a sizable amount of precious life-giving fluid sucked out of us.

"So... what kind of mileage does this baby get?" I asked.

"Here's your tee-shirt, Mr. Porter. Thank you again for donating. And remember, no smoking, drinking alcohol, or masturbating for a half an hour."

[addendum embellishment]

"May I help you, Sir?"

"Yes, I was here yesterday to get one of these teeshirts, and I guess I didn't examine it too closely at the time, but the one the nurse gave me is way too large. I'd like to exchange it for the next smaller size."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Sir, but the shirts only come in that one size. One size fits all."

"Well it doesn't fit me. Unless you mean one size fits all at once. In either case, I have no need for it, and I'd like a refund."

"A refund?"

"I'd like my blood back."

[Editur'z note: This was the night the O.J. criminal trial jury returned  its verdict, which was to be read in court the next day...]

Lance brushed his teeth. He looked at himself in the mirror, his mouth covered in white foam. "Grrrr…. Ruff! Ruff!"

"Honey? What's going on in there?"

He spit a mouthful of foam into the sink. "Nothing, Dear." He rinsed his mouth.

Lance slipped out of his robe and tossed it onto a chair. He sat on the edge of the bed and removed his glasses, folding them carefully. He moved to set them on the nightstand, and then suddenly stopped, unfolding them and putting them on again.

He picked up the envelope, and turned it over in his hands.

"Uh, Sweetums," he said, gently shaking his wife's leg through the covers.

"Hmm?" she said.

"Did you… did you open this envelope?"

She mumbled and nuzzled her pillow.

"Honey, wake up." He shook her leg again. "Did you look at the Simpson verdict?"

She rolled over to look at her husband. "What are you talking about?"

"This envelope." He waved it in front of her face. "Did you mess with this envelope?"

She sat up. "The… THE Simpson verdict? THAT's the Simpson verdict?"

"You looked at it, didn't you?"

"No!" she said. "No, I didn't! Absolutely not! I had no idea…."

"Well somebody looked at it. This envelope has been steamed open and re-sealed." He noticed a red smear near the flap. "And it looks like whoever did it left some behind some evidence. A paper cut, perhaps?" Lance grabbed his wife's right hand. "Aha! What's this?" He held her index finger.

She stammered, "I- I got that this aftternoon... I heard the jury had returned a verdict, and, startled, I slammed my daily planner down onto my desk…."

Deth Musings. Here's the obligatory slacker GenX angst. I was in my semi-annual death-funk for a couple of days, and posted a lot of potentially depressing spewage. It's all lumped together in one file now, under its own link. Enter at your own risk.

The motion-sensitive "Fraidy Cats" had been marked 50%-off. I had to have one.

$9.99 plus tax. That comes to... let's see, carry the one... invert the divisor... That comes to a bit more than the seven dollars I had in my wallet. But most supermarkets these days take credit cards, right? Winn-Dixie is a decent-sized chain, right?

The express lane appeared deserted. There was a scarecrow behind the register. She didn't speak, she simply raised a gnarled finger and curled it in toward her palm.

"Hi," I said. "Do you take credit cards?"

She grabbed the Fraidy Cat by the scruff of the neck.

"Hi," I repeated, "Do you take credit cards?"

She turned the cat over a few times, looking for the barcode.

I tried rephrasing the question. "You do take credit cards, don't you?"

She found the tag and scanned the cat. The register beeped. "That'll be tay-un forty nahn."

"Fine. What kind of payment do you accept?"

"Paper or plastic?"

"Ah, yes, plastic, please." I handed her my Visa card.

She looked at it. Then she looked at me. "We don't take credit cards."

I'm not angry. I figure it's possible she could have had a hearing disability. I merely said, "Whoops, I'm afraid I don't have enough cash."

She looked at me like a redneck looking at a Simpson juror. She huffed, and grabbed the microphone as if to call for backup. I spotted an ATM machine about 30 feet away, in the front entryway. I said, "Oh! Hey! I see you have an ATM machine. I can get the cash."

"Ah still have tuh take it off!" she said, dumping the cat out of the bag.

"Okay, fine." I really wanted this damned stupid 50%-off cat, so much so that I would willingly endure the abuse of an overly attitudinal Winn-Dixie checkout drone. "Hang onto the cat; I'll be back through in a minute."

A minute and a half later, I was back at the register with my wallet out. The cashier recognized me. I smiled and pointed to the cat below the counter. "I'd like that cat now," I said.

She picked it up. She shook it in my face, scowled, and said, "Are yuh SHORE yuh really wannit this time?"

Stunned, I blurted out the best retort I could come up with. "Yes."

She scanned the barcode, and said "That'll be tay-un forty nahn."

I was tempted, God, I was tempted... to hand her my Discover Card... to hand her my seven dollars and ask if there would be enough change left for a gumball... to accidentally roll several rolls of Certs over the scanner. I considered the options.

But I really... really wanted that goddamned stupid 50%-off motion-sensitive Fraidy Cat.

October 17, 1995

SweeTarts 'N Kids Club
9730 Reavis Park Dr.
St. Louis, MO 63123

Dear Sirs:

As a long-devoted consumer of SweeTarts in all their various incarnations, I was pleasantly surprised to learn of the existence of the SweeTarts ‘N Kids Club.

I understand that your annual membership dues are $1.00. I am enclosing a check for double that amount. Why? Because (1.) Technically I am not a kid, and (2.) I lack the required proofs of purchase to show that I have, in fact, eaten the required minimum amount of SweeTarts.

I am, however, also enclosing a sworn statement signed by ten of my co-workers who can attest to the fact that I have eaten substantially more SweeTarts in the last six months than the 3.6 oz. minimum requirement. Additionally I am enclosing one proof-of-purchase from a 6 oz. box (the 6 oz. box was not listed as fulfilling the Kids Club membership requirements, but I include it, just in case).

I do not require the neon colored wallet. I already own a wallet. I’m merely requesting a subscription to the newsletter, eligibility for the monthly drawings, and any of the "fun surprises" that aren’t geared totally toward children (i.e., I don’t need pogs).

Sincerely,
James M. Porter

"Sit still, Billy."

Billy shrieked.

"Shhhh! You hush right now! You're disturbing the other people!" She looked nervously around the restaurant, but none of the other diners seemed to be paying any attention. "How's your steak? Do you need me to cut your steak?"

Billy whined and rocked from side to side.

"You haven't touched your vegetables. Don't you like squash?"

"I hate squash!"

"You haven't tried it, here, let me just..." she stabbed a bit with her fork and brought it toward Billy's face.

He scowled and violently shook his head no.

"Come on, Billy, just try a piece."

"No! I hate squash! I hate squash! No! Noooooooo!" He squealed over the din of the restaurant.

"Shhhhh! Stop that!" she said. "Stop it right now!"

Billy continued to squeal. She set down the fork.

"I've had enough of this. And I'd appreciate it if you'd just take me home right now."

"Truth or dare!"

"What?"

"Truth or dare," the kids shouted again.

"You mean 'trick or treat,'" I said.

"No, we're not doing that this year. Too dangerous."

"Ah," I said. "I see. Okay, uh, truth."

The kids giggled. "When was the last time you made love to a woman?"

I stood, stunned. "Okay, dare."



"Trick or philosophy!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Trick or philosophy. This year we're collecting bits of wisdom instead of candy. It's safer."

"Ah," I said. "I see. Okay, uh, every star in the universe will eventually burn out or supernova, and we can't do a damned thing about it."

They scribbled in their notepads.

"That kinda goes with the one the Kowalski's gave us."

"And what was that?"

"Life's a bitch and then you die."

"Well, personally I wouldn't attach such a negative connotation to life itself. I think life is miraculous and wonderful. I was just trying to point out our relative insignificance in the grander scheme of things."

"Oh. In that case, I guess it goes more with the one your neighbor, Classic Rock Guy, gave us."

"And what was that?"

"All we are is dust in the wind."

"Okay, well, Happy Halloween kids."

"Thanks mister!"

"And be sure and have your parents go through all of those before you assimilate them!"

Are you currently taking any prescription medication? No.
Do you have any of the following medical conditions: high blood pressure? no. diabetes? no. cancer? no. flesh-eating virus? no....
DO YOU FEAR THE DENTIST?

The last sentence stood out, partially because it was in all-caps, and partially because of the word "fear." I chuckled, and wrote "I think 'fear' is a bit harsh. I prefer 'dislike.'"

"Mr. Porter!"

"Gaaaah!" I replied.

"Mr. Porter, you may come in now."

I followed her.

"Have a seat, " she said. "Now, what seems to be the problem?"

"Well," I said, pointing to the left side of my face, "it feels like I have a cavity in one of these upper teeth."

"I see. And how long has it been since your last checkup?"

"About four years."

"Four years! Oh my. And why have you stayed away so long?"

"I don't know. Call it a crisis of faith, I guess. For a while I wasn't even sure if dentists really existed."

She took a couple of x-rays, and returned with the results.

"Mr. Porter, I've got good news and bad news."

"What's the good news?"

"The good news is that you're going to get to eat lots and lots of Jell-O over the next few days."

"Yaaaay!" I said, "That's wonderful! How can there possibly be any bad news after splendid news like that?"

"Tell me if you feel my tongue in your mouth, Mr. Porter."

"Nuh uh, I doan theel a thing."

"He's ready, doctor!"

His first words to me were, "You're going to feel some pressure."

"I won't crack," I mumbled.

He took the familiar pointy-scrapey hook thing, and began to apply some pressure.

Fifteen minutes. There was no pain. Only pressure. And jolts to the head each time a chunk of the wisdom tooth was pried loose.

I've had what I thought were nightmares about this sort of thing. Now I come to find out they were premonitions.

Absolutely no pain. It was weird.

I sat dazed, chomping on a piece of gauze, staring blankly at Geraldo on the TV overhead. I realized that every muscle in my body was still tightly clenched, and I began to try to relax them. First the left buttock. Good, then the right buttock....

The dental assistant returned. "Ah, Geraldo! What's the topic?"

"Thado-mathochism."

"Darn it! I meant to tape this one! Oh well, open up and let me see your gauze."

I opened my mouth.

"Ew!" she looked away, "Close it! Close it!"

"Is it that bad?"

"Oh no, I don't think it's bleeding very much. Mostly oozing now. Here's some more gauze. When that one gets full you can change it. Keep gauze on it for at least another 45 minutes. Don't rinse or swish it for a week, or you'll be in excruciating pain. Here's a prescription for some pain medication, for when you do accidentally swish it. The painkiller sometimes causes nausea, but try not to vomit or the clot will slip right out. Now you can go on up to the desk and pay, and schedule another appointment to have the other one out."

I filled out the check.

"Would you like to schedule another appointment now?"

"No."

"Okay, Mr. Porter, you give us a call when you're ready."

"Thanks. And can I thee that information sheet I filled out when I came in? I need to change thomething."

"Sure," she said, handing it to me.

The line on the form jumped out at me: DO YOU FEAR THE DENTIST? I scratched out my previous answer, and simply put "I do now."

"Jerry Garcia?"

The jolly old elf laughed. "No Son, it's me, Santa Claus."

I sat up in my futon. "You're real. You're really here."

"Yes." He looked around my apartment. "You don't have a tree."

"I... I kinda figured I didn't have the room. Besides, I haven't really been in the Christmas spirit this year."

"I can see the bit about the room. If you were an animal, PETA would be crusading for your release. But, pray do tell, why haven't you been in the Christmas spirit?"

"I don't know. Probably in part because it's my first Christmas away from my family and most of my friends in Houston."

"Houston? Uh, what's your name, Son?"

"Jim Porter."

"Porter." Santa checked his list. "Oh shit."

"What's the matter?"

"Your present is in Houston. At the Timmons Lane address."

"Ah. Great. So what were you bringing here?"

"An inflatable woman for a Mr. David Rhodes."

"Previous tenant. I still get some of his junk mail."

"Is it so difficult to take a few minutes and fill out one of those little cards at the post office?"

"I filled out two of them! One for Jim and one for James."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Look, my night will go a lot more smoothly if we just pretend you were sound asleep when I got here. And pretend you had a tree. Where should I put this?"

"I'm getting the inflatable woman?"

Santa grunted.

"But I wanted—"

"A Pentium 133. I know. But look at it this way... A computer is so impersonal, so cold. And besides, you've already got a nice looking computer over there."

"That old 486 DX-4 100 MHz clunker."

"But I'm giving you a much greater gift... the gift of companionship. I'm giving you a friend!"

"An inflatable friend."

"Meanwhile, thanks to your Christmas wish, someone on Timmons Lane will have a whole new educational opportunity!"

"They were probably hoping for a crack pipe."

Santa sighed. "All right. I don't usually do this, but since things kinda got botched up, I'll make an exception. I've got some magical powers, you may have heard about them, finger upside the nose, that sorta thing. Minor miracles. I usually prefer to use them for the greater good of all mankind... in fact, this year I was going to make a star shine brilliantly over Bosnia, to provide a unifying symbol of peace to touch the hearts of Serbs, Croats and Muslims alike. But if it will make you feel better, I'll use that one to give life to your inflatable woman."

"You mean—"

"That's right. Your very own love slave."

"Oh God. Let me think about this."

"Think fast. I've got a lot of homes yet to visit. You have any snacks?"

"Uh... there's summer sausage and Killian's Red in the fridge. Oh God, this is deep."

The light from the refrigerator illuminated the front of the apartment. Santa called out from the kitchen. "You realize you'll need to keep more food in the house. She's going to have to eat. And she'll probably need clothing... eventually. Ho ho ho."

"Santa," I said.

He emerged, sausage in one hand, beer in the other.

"Santa, I appreciate the offer, but I think it would probably be better if you just go ahead and unite Bosnia."

He chuckled, and bit off a hunk of sausage. "Jim," he said with his mouth full, a twinkle in his eye which I could see even from my bed, "I'm proud of you. You're doing the right thing." He swallowed. "And I'll bet you've even regained some of that elusive Christmas spirit in the process."

"Hey, you know, I think you're right!" I sat up. "Christmas isn't about love at all, is it? And being with family and friends isn't what's important. What's really important is that we don't make waves when those in power screw up. If nobody made waves, why, what a wonderful and peaceful world it would be!"

Santa threw down his sausage. "Fucking asshole." He laid his middle finger aside his nose and gave with a nod.

"How's the eulogy coming, Dear?"

Ted rubbed his eyes. "I can't do this. I cannot do this."

"You can do it. You were his best friend. He'll be happy with whatever you say."

"No, see, I think of him, I think of the plane crash, and I can see his face, and hear his voice. Then I see him frozen in the snow. And then I can taste him. I can fucking taste him. I can't do this."

She set down the plate and the glass of milk. "You just need a break. I brought you... a plate."

"Thanks."

"You wanna talk?"

"No. Thanks."

She left the room. Ted looked at the plate. Chicken.

Dave had tasted like chicken.

someone@somewhere.com writes:
>
>I was on the net the other day and came across a site that is a club for
>people that enjoy shaving mice and coating them in vasiline and inserting
>them into their anus untill they die for pleasure. Now i think i have
>seen everything on the net. I'll try everything once just about. But
>sticking live mice in my ass is where i draw the line !!!!

"Pledges! Present your mice for inspection!"

The pledges all stood at attention, their right hands extended, holding their mice.

"Very nice Kowalski. Good job, Smithers. Porter!"

Porter flinched, nearly dropping his mouse. "Sir, yes sir!" he shouted.

The president lifted the mouse by the tail. "What the hell is this?"

"My mouse, Sir," he shouted.

"Did you shave it or is this just a really bad case of mange?"

"I...," he hung his head, "I used Nair, Sir."

I Wanna Go Home