Tongue Twister for Alcoholics

Say it ten times fast!

Beginner: The alabaster bastard plastered on the floor mastered faster ways of plastering than ever before.

Intermediate: The plastered alabaster bastard mastered faster ways of plastering than when McMaster asked her.

Advanced: The alabaster bastard was plastered.

An Excerpt from How to Adopt a Child without Parental Consent, Chapter 1

[…] Make sure that the child you’ve picked out is under three years old. The younger the better. Why, you ask? This is an important step for those looking to adopt because child will not begin forming long-term memories until roughly three years of age. Adopting a child who remembers his parents will feel like kidnapping to your child, especially when he gets to those tough teen years. While early bonding with your child is important, don’t fret if someone else has done the paternal bonding with the baby. When the child is transferred into your hands, you’ll have plenty of time for him to bond with you.

Even so, adopting a baby is much easier than adopting a budding toddler. By the time a child is 7 to 9 months old, she will begin to feel uncomfortable around strangers. As a result, the adoption process can go very wrong at these later ages. Being gentle with the child will always help, but it can never help a brand-new parent if the child cries for her old parents when adopted by their new one. This may lead to jail time, which, as explained earlier, is the “universal faux pas” of new parents. After all, you’ll never make a good parent if you can’t be a constant presence in the child’s upbringing […]

Uncle Malcolm

Uncle Malcolm does a magic trick where he snorts spaghetti up his nose and eats it. He pulls out the rest and asks us if we we’re hungry. It’s gross.

Uncle Malcolm used to be in prison but he isn’t anymore. When he got out, my family had a party. I played with my cousins. They weren’t fun that day.

Uncle Malcolm talks with one side of his mouth because he had a stroke. Mommy says that’s what people with strokes do because their brains can’t make their mouths talk right. He’s funny, though. I still love him.

Uncle Malcolm cries sometimes.

Uncle Malcolm says bad words a lot. Mommy doesn’t like it when he does, but he always winks and gives us candy. He has Dum Dums in his pocket so we don’t tell on him. I’m not a tattle-tale but Josie is. One time, Josie told on me when I was saying bad words. I don’t like Josie. She’s always tattling on me. Uncle Malcolm says I’m like a grownup when I don’t tell.

Uncle Malcolm says not to be like him. He says to listen to Mommy and Daddy, but I like him better.

The Quiet Death of a Pair of Boots

A pair of tan work boots lies on the floor, still muddy and dripping, the laces tangled on the floor. The right shoe stands closest to the front door; the left, a little further and tipped over. They wait in silence.

Final Frontier

Gene Rodenberry’s ashes went hurtling through the empty vacuum, as they were wont to do given the laws of physics. But then, tens of thousands of years later, the ashes were suddenly acted upon by an unbalanced force! Gene Roddenberry’s airtight capsule shattered upon impact, exploding into the ground. The bacteria within the ashes grew and flourished in its alien environment. Roughly a trillion years or so later, Gene Roddenberry’s bacteria has sparked the life of hundreds of thousands of creatures, evolved from what may have been a piece of Roddenberry’s brain (or not… but wouldn’t that be cool and ironic?!). People walk the surface of this planet, though white and green and bumpy-foreheaded races tend to wage war from time to time. Maybe someday, they will live in harmony among the stars in cool-looking spaceships. One can only hope. I’m sure the shattered remains of his wife, broken apart in an asteroid field over a trillion years ago, is smiling down (metaphorically speaking—space has no “down,” of course!) on her husband and saying, “Good for you, Gene. You did it. Good for you.”

Life in a Hole

Life in a hole ain’t so bad. There’s four walls and a floor. No ceiling, but you can get a bath. It’s a mud bath, but why should I complain. There are kids starving in China who are too poor to take a bath. In my hole, there’s all sorts of little grubs to eat and bugs and really there’s a lot of things down here that I don’t even know if they have a name. I’m not big on names. I just eat ‘em. Living in a hole has it’s perks. Everything in here’s climate controlled. I keep cool in the summer and in the winter, I just dig myself a little nook and I’m as warm as can be. Not too many people can just add extensions onto their home just by clawing through the walls. Well, I can. It’s easy living, livin’ in a hole.

Frown Wrinkles: a Conversation with Grandma

“Do my wrinkles look ugly to you?”

“No, Grandma. Of course not.”

“You’ll get them too.” She raised a trembling finger and began tracing the lines of her face. “These wrinkles around my eyes are my smile wrinkles and these wrinkles along my forehead are my worry wrinkles. But the mouth—” she frowned then, absent for a moment.

“Grandma…”

“You know, I used to practice frowning when I was younger. I’d look in a mirror and frown so my husband and my children knew I meant business. But I never got frown wrinkles, not ever. Do you know why?”

“No, grandma. Why?”

“Because I never frowned in earnest until I got old. All of my family, my friends, my husband…”

We both sat silent. I stared at her shriveled lips as they quivered.

“You don’t want to hear this,” Grandma said, then smiled.

I thought about the pictures of her when she was younger. Her smiles were different than they were now. She never had to fake a smile back then. She never had to fake worrying either. Now, I think only her frowns are genuine.

“It’s okay, Grandma. Go on.”

“No. No, dear. You’ve still got quite a few wrinkles to go before you have to start worrying about such things.”

It made my skin itch to think that Grandma was suffering alone. I let the matter drop, of course, but I still consider that the best conversation we almost had.

Like a Crazy Person

Been runnin’ around like a crazy person this last week tryin’ to find these guys. Twelve hours on a red eye and I barely slept a wink. Ate Chinese on the layover. Fortune cookie said: “You will find happiness in the near future” with a smiley face. Bullshit. Today’s gonna rain hellfire. I’ll see those fuckers in body bags for fucking with me.

* * *

They’ve probably warned the hotel security about me, at least they did if they know what’s good for them. Best thing to do on such short notice is to call ahead and find the room and get a distraction. Before I can do that, though, I get a call from Marco. He’s asking about the duck fights. I dip my toes in all sorts of animal fights. Gets good money with the bored celebrity types. Ducks can be vicious, let me tell you, but they’re for novelty. No money there.

As I’m talking to the bastard, I almost run into this little Mexican kid, right at wallet level. Got to watch out for that shit.

“You want to buy a Chiclet?” he says, pushing a box of gum at me.

“Huh?”

“Chiclet!”

“Yeah. Uh, yeah. Don’t want my breath smelling bad, eh?” The kid doesn’t understand, or he doesn’t care. It’s all about the money. Well, I can get behind that. “Hey, kid. You want to make some money?” The kid nods. “Good boy. All right. Here’s a twenty to start. I’m good for the money, see? Now, I want you to follow me to a hotel and sell your gum. Then I’ll meet you on the beach and give you another forty bucks. How does that sound. You understand. Forty dollars? Capiche? Comprehendo?” The kid nods. “Good.”

I get on my cellular phone to call the hotel. “Yeah, I need a room number for an Alex Stamos. Yeah, Alexandros. I need to send a fax. It’s very important. Thank you.” The kid’s still walking a step behind. He’s just staring at my phone.

“Here,” I say, “it’s for you.”

He tries to answer it and I can’t help myself but laugh at the little bastard. I kinda like this kid.

* * *

The security is all over the little bastard like he’s got a bomb strapped to his chest. Good news for me. I walk right in and head up to the room and knock on the door. Too easy. Now comes the hard part.

One of Alex’s bruisers opens the door. He’s got a gone pointed at my nose. Must be jealous. His looks like someone beat it into his face. “Why hello, fellas. Fancy meeting you here.”

Alex hasn’t shown his face. He shouts from the bedroom. “Is he armed? Check him.”

Meaty-fingers holsters his gun to fondle me. Bad move. I’m what the Chinese call a long-armed monkey. Whootcha!

He starts flailing around like a circus elephant. “Don’t struggle! Don’t struggle!” I shout, driving his pistol into his cheek. Goomba #2 is looking for a headshot, so I drive the gone into #1’s chin. He straightens out, giving me more than enough cover to shoot his friend. My cover starts falling on me, though, and I shove him out of the way, ducking into the kitchen area. “Is that what we’re down to, Alex? Shooting our own guys?”

“Fuck you!”

Shouldn’t have answered. He’s in the room now, trying to get a drop on me, the idiot. I reach for a dish on the counter—dirty fuckers—and toss it, then I pop out the side to use #1 for cover, may he rest in piece. Alex eats it. A quick sweep and the rest of the place is clear. I can hear sirens. I find the documents in a suitcase. All his books, everyone’s bets. What’s more, all the documents and photographs to bury the mob, too. What the Hell? What were the Greeks trying to do with all this, anyway? Get us out of the picture? Well, fuck that. I scram out the door and I can already hear sirens. Oh, man. I’m boned.

* * *

The kid is waiting there at the beach, trying to skip rocks. I tap him on the shoulder and he jumps. Kid needs better reflexes. I give him ten extra dollars, tell him it’s his if he finds me a good rock to throw. Soon as I know he’s not looking, I chuck the gun out into the water, then all the documents. Can’t have any proof of anything. Kid comes back with the rock. It actually skips. “Safe,” I say, using my best umpire voice. My dad used to like baseball. Wonder what he’s up to now. Wonder what he’d think of me. I light a cigarette and watch the sun set. I’m boned. I know it. Not much use in running now. Maybe something will come to me at the end of this cigarette. Something that’s not sirens and handcuffs. I can hear a thump in the sand. The kid left the Chiclets for me. Good boy. Maybe he’ll grow up to be better ‘n all of us. What am I saying? I sound like a crazy person. He’s a poor kid in Mexico. What are the chances he’ll be any different? I stuff the cigarette in the sand and call a cab to get as far as I can out of the city. Maybe I’ll get lucky. Never was one for plannin’.

Como Una Persona Loca

When the string to my coin snapped, I knew it would be a bad day. I had only been stealing Coca-cola for a few days now and already the string had snapped. Bad day.

* * *

I first meet this man when he buys chiclets from me. He is on the phone. He says, “Well, the duck-fighting specials are bullshit!” I remember this because it is strange. Is this duck fighting like the cock fights, I wonder? He hangs up his phone and asks me if I want to make some money? I am not trusting him, but the truth is “yes.” I follow and he is talking on the phone. He is talking very loudly and everyone is moving out of his way.

I ask him later, “Are you an important man, like Bill Clinton?”

He laughs at me. His teeth are big and white like chiclets. “Here. It’s for you.”

I answer it. “Hello?” I say. “Hola?” There is no one. He is talking to himself, como una persona loca. Is this how Americans get respected? I do not understand this.

* * *

I wait outside of the hotel, like the man tells me, and sell my chiclets. He gave me twenty dollars to do it, even though I will be chased away by security. He told me he would pay me another forty after he comes out. I do not trust him, but mi papa always told me to expect anything of una persona loca. So I wait for this crazy man, selling my chiclets to angry people in suits. As I expect, I am thrown out by angry hotel workers. I see crazy man walk in before I turn and run and I wait by the beach, throwing stones in the water. Even if I just waste the whole day, the twenty dollars is enough.

* * *

I am surprised when crazy man taps me on the shoulder. He has a new suitcase and I wonder if it is his. “Thanks, kid. Those guys wouldn’t let me in if they saw me coming.” He gives me fifty dollars if I find a good stone for him. I do and come back. He has opened the case and all the papers inside are now floating in the ocean. He takes the rock and skips it after the next wave falls. “Safe,” he says. He sits down and lights a cigarette, watching the sunset. He looks a little less crazy, but not much. I leave the chiclets with him and I plan on hiding most of the money from papa. He would probably think I did something bad to get it.

Panhandling Peter and the Anvil of Inspiration

Peter lived in an old shoe in an alley, nustled next to his ma and pop.

“Ma!” he cried one day. “Why do we have to live with this bottle of pop?”

“’Cause I said so,” replied his mother. “Now go do your panhandlin’ exercises! It’s only a week t’ your 13^th birthday and then you’ll be a real panhandler. How excitin’!” She shook both fists in the air as she left. Ma did that sometimes when she was really fired up over something or when she was having one of her fits. Peter usually had the right to be worried on either occasion.

But Peter didn’t want to be a panhandler. He wanted to be an explorer or a giant monster with seven heads that breathed fire and crushed cities. He wasn’t sure which one yet. The monster had been a long-time dream of his, ever since he was little. But now Peter had been punched with the realism in life, and he was thinking exploring the world might be a little closer in his reach. It’s rather depressing to give up on one’s dreams, but Peter’s family didn’t have any money to dream big. More than likely, he’d have to go into the family trade.

When Ma had left for work, Peter talked to the only one who listened in these situations: his pop.

“Pop,” he said, “I know you got no ears, but I’m going ta tell you—I’m not happy here. I wouldn’t be any better a panhandler than you would, and at least you got a flashy label.”

Pop didn’t say a thing.

“Fine. I guess I’ll do what I have ta. Maybe I’ll start today, make Ma proud. What d’you think?”

Pop didn’t say a thing.

Peter sighed. Pop was just this cold presence in his life. He was always there, watching him, but he never did any real parenting or nothing.

“Later, Pop. I’m off to work, be man and all that.”

Peter left his alley, and when he rounded the corner, he saw an anvil falling down on his head. Peter had always been taught that in situations like these, he should look at things realistically. So Peter did just that. “Well,” he thought, “this is the end of me.” And the anvil came crashing down.

Peter woke up in a room with an old man, sitting in a rocking chair. He had a rabbit as a butler, except the rabbit stood on two legs, twitching its whiskers its little butler outfit. The rabbit really creeped Peter out.

“Am I dead?” Peter asked.

“No, boy. Mild concussion. You’ve got a thick skull, there.”

“Who are you?” Peter asked.

“I’m your pop. Don’t you recognize me?” Peter couldn’t see any of the distinguishing glass features in the man’s droopy face, but he nodded anyway. He didn’t want to make this man feel bad, especially if he was his pop. The rabbit cocked its head and Peter felt like he had sour stomach. He tried to focus on a mole on the man’s chin so he wouldn’t have to look at the rabbit butler.

“Peter, what’s the problem.” His rocking chair creaked slowly, back and forth. When he leaned forward, Peter could see his liver spots.

“I want to be a explorer, or a city-eatin’ monster, but the only thing I can do is panhandle.”

“Habberdashery!” the man exclaimed, and Peter jumped. “Just because you only know how to panhandle, doesn’t mean you can’t do that and explore, too! What was the other thing?”

“A city-eatin’ monster, sir.”

“Oh. Give that up. That’s stupid.”

Peter frowned and nodded.

“Now I want you to go back and run away from home.”

“Really? What about my mom?”

“Well, what about her? I’ll take care of her.”

“But you’re just a—!” The old man stopped rocking and the rabbit’s whiskers twitched violently. “Okay, sir. I’ll run away from home.”

“Good lad!”

“But how do I get back?”

“Well, Flopkins here has to put his magic teeth back into your anvil wound.”

“What?”

Flopkins sprang over and started hissing. Peter screamed as the rabbit sunk its teeth into his skull.

Peter woke up in a cold sweat on the side of the street. He had some money in his coat pocket, though the change had fell through the hole. Even more, he didn’t have a head wound at all! Had he never been hit by an anvil in the first place? Or can rabbit teeth really heal broken skulls? He wasn’t sure, but he figured he had to get moving. He wanted to be in the next city by his birthday.