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[farcepositive]

The Girl Who Liked Coffee and Sandwiches (and Sex)

(Apologies to the late Stieg Larsson)

[Scene: Old Man's house, Sweden.]

Old Man: Michael, I need you to solve a family mystery. My niece disappeared 30 years ago from this shithole of a town we all used to live in. She's prolly dead, but nobody knows who did it or why. Here's a bunch of pictures and shit that might help.

Michael: Sure, why not. I'll need a place to stay while I'm there.

Old Man: You'll have to stay in our shitty little cabin down the street from my brother when you're in town cuz the town's small AF and there's no hotel.

Michael: Fuck.

[Scene: Compter Security Company in an actual city]

Michael: I'm looking for a short, emo/goth, bisexual biker chick who's also good with computers.

Boss: You're in luck, we've got one. LISBETH!!!

Lisbeth: WTF?

Michael: Can you...

Lisbeth: Shit yeah! Do I have a choice?

Boss: Nope.

Lisbeth: Fuck. Ok, let's go.

Michael: I can't pay you yet.

Lisbeth: Fuck. Gimme a couple days, bro.

[Scene: Lisbeth's apartment]

Lisbeth's Female Roommate: Wanna fuck?

Lisbeth: Sure.

Roommate: I'm broke AF.

Lisbeth: Fuck.

[Scene: the home of Lizbeth's pervert guardian, appointed by the government to handle her money]

Lisbeth: Gimme my money!

Guardian: Blow me for it.

Lisbeth: Do I have a choice?

Guardian: Nope.

Lisbeth: Fuck. [blows dude, gets money] I'll be back.

[Scene: Cabin in shithole town]

Michael: I got these photos and shit we could look at.

Lisbeth: Wanna fuck?

Michael: Sure.

[later]

Lisbeth: I'm hungry AF.

Michael: How bout some coffee and sandwiches?

Lisbeth: Sure.

[later]

Lisbeth: WTF are these photos about?

Michael: Some girl disappeared in this town 30 years ago. These pics were shot the day she went missing.

Lisbeth: Disappeared? From this shithole town? Fuck me!

Michael: But we just...

Lisbeth: [rolls eyes] Later, dude. [heads back to city]

[Scene: Guardian's house, a month later.]

Lisbeth: Gimme my money!

Guardian: Fuck m-

Lisbeth: Nope. [tasers his ass, ties him up, turns on video camera, shoves dildo up his ass, rolls tape] Gimme my money or I'll send this video to the papers!

Guardian: Ok.

[Scene: Cabin, next day]

Lisbeth: My guardian's sick AF. Let's see those pictures.

Michael: Wanna fuck?

Lisbeth: Sure.

[later]

Lisbeth: I'm hungry AF.

Michael: I've got coffee and sandwiches.

Lisbeth: [sighs] Got anything else?

Michael: Nope.

Lisbeth: Fuck. Ok. We gotta go shopping.

[after solving mystery]

Lisbeth: Damn, them Germans is twisted AF.

Michael: No shit.

[farcepositive]

Uncle Waldo

Whenever I visit my Uncle Waldo and Aunt Maggie, I never know what's going to happen. That's because Uncle Waldo has an odd way of communicating and does things that no one would predict.

When I was in school, I used to visit them during summer break. One particularly hot day, Uncle Waldo came home from work and announced that we were all going swimming. And that doesn't really sound unusual, except for the fact that Uncle Waldo can't swim and has an unnatural fear of water. Nevertheless, Aunt Maggie and I put on our bathing suits (Uncle Waldo wore gym shorts), and we piled into the family car and drove to the city pool. Once we arrived, Uncle Waldo just sat in the car and read his newspaper while Aunt Maggie and I swam.

Then there was the time when Aunt Maggie came home from the store with two extra cases of soft drinks. When Uncle Waldo learned that the drinks wouldn’t all fit in their refrigerator, he had a brand new refrigerator delivered from one of those rent-to-own outfits and installed it in the garage. He told Aunt Maggie and me to put the extra cases of drinks in it and said that we had to drink all of those before we could take any drinks from the kitchen refrigerator. Then as soon as we freed up enough space in the old fridge, he sent the new one back. One week later, Uncle Waldo installed custom cabinets in the garage where the temporary fridge had been. Aunt Maggie never bought extra drinks again.

[farcepositive]

Mostly Perfect

"Well, Jamal won't like it anyway," slurred Marcus. "It has to be just right or he'll bail." The dark highway continued to be a bother. He tried to play it cool. "It's the night sweats, that's all."

But we all knew it was the alcohol. He'd downed four shots of Irish whisky, attempting to calm his nerves before the big meet-up. He probably should have just taken the deal. He most definitely should not have taken the wheel.

Jeremy chimed in, "I think this is it, boss. Turn here." Marcus eased the Cadillac off the main road and onto the makeshift trail leftover from previous encounters. They drove another hundred yards or so and cut off the headlights.

"Now we wait." Marcus's thoughts drifted to the day before, when everything had been mostly perfect. He could have stopped then and there. What did he have to prove? There was nothing to gain by pressing the issue, but Marcus pressed. Marcus always pressed.

An hour passed. Two hours. Then three. Marcus saw a pair of headlights flash in the distance before going dark. "That's got to be Jamal." Marcus got out of the Cadillac slowly, as if he knew what was coming. Jeremy followed.

Two large men emerged from the bushes on either side of Marcus and Jeremy, flanking them, as a much smaller man approached.

"You got a lot of nerve, Marcus. You better do some explaining, and it'd better be good!" Jamal was fuming.

Marcus bit his lip, tasting his own blood, worrying over what he could say that might temper Jamal's anger. "Hey, Jamal, I know you're a busy guy, and I don't mean no disrespect. I just ain't sure about the deal. I mean, I'm takin' a big risk and all, and I gotta say, I think I oughta be compensated better."

Jamal thought for a minute, turned to look at Jeremy, then turned back to Marcus. "Is that what this is all about, Marcus? The money? I can find a half dozen other guys to do the deal for me, you know? Hell, even Jeremy here, he'd do it for free. Ain't that right, Jeremy?"

Jeremy hesitated, then spoke nervously. "Sure, Mr. Batson sir, but I mean, Marcus -- he knows way more about the game than me."

"Relax, Jeremy, nobody's asking you to be a hero here." Jamal continued. "You keep bustin' your ass for Marcus here, and who knows, I might just have a job for you one day."

"Yes sir, Mr. Batson, sir!" Jeremy had always been a good soldier.

Jamal turned back towards Marcus and shot him dead.

"Alright, Jeremy, here's the deal..."

[farcepositive]

Diddly Squat

It was the summer of 2002, and Doug had recently been dismissed from his construction job, where he'd been apprentice to a demolition specialist, for clumsily hitting his supervisor. In the face. With a sledgehammer.

Doug didn't know much about anything. In fact, his wife, Janine, often told him that he didn't know “diddly”. But that was about to change.

Doug took a part-time job as a janitor at a recording studio. It was boring work, but it helped pay the bills. He'd been cleaning the spit off the microphones in Recording Booth B following a particularly lengthy, sweaty, soul-wrenching session featuring Bluesy Quartz, an up-and-coming blues quartet out of East Chicago, when he caught sight of something bright and shiny on the floor.

He reached down and picked up the object to examine it, and although its flat and roughly triangular shape seemed somehow familiar, he wasn't quite sure what it was. On one side of the object were the faded and now illegible remains of what appeared to have been an inscription in what was once bright gold lettering on a tortoise-shell background. The other contained only the initials "BD" similarly etched in faded gold print.

Doug scratched his head, pondering the meaning of these letters. He repeated the letters out loud, "BD, BD, BD," as he paced around the studio. After only twenty minutes, he had a thought. He recalled a girl in school named Barbara Daniels and mused that it must have been hers (it wasn't a high-quality thought). He still didn't know what the thing was or how it had gotten there. He tried to think some more, but no actual thoughts came to his conscious mind, so he quickly finished his shift, stashed the item in his locker, and took the bus home.

A month passed, and Doug forgot about the trinket in his locker, until one day when Bluesy Quartz was back in the studio to record a song with an elderly-looking guitarist who wore big sunglasses.

Several hours later, the recording wasn't going so well, and the musicians were clearly frustrated. Doug was listening in from across the hallway when he heard the elder gentleman exclaim in a loud voice, "Dammit, I just haven't been the same since I lost my favorite pick last month! I don't know where it could be! Sorry, boys. You'll just have to finish this set without me!" And the man stormed out of the studio.

Just then, Doug had another thought. "Guitar pick!" He ran to his locker, retrieved the shiny triangular object he'd found on the studio floor a month earlier, and ran outside after the downtrodden musician.

"Excuse me, sir, but I overheard what you said in the studio about losing your favorite pick. Does this belong to you? I found it last month while cleaning up after the band."

The elder man stared in disbelief, then shouted with joy: "Eureka! Son, you just made one old man very happy! My name's Diddley — Bo Diddley. What's yours?"

Doug thought a moment or two before finally blurting out, "Doug! My name is Doug."

"Well, Doug, I have a session to finish up back inside the studio, but after we're done, I'd like to buy you a steak dinner!"

Mr. Diddley and Bluesy Quartz finished recording their song, and Bo took Doug out to dinner as promised. Each ordered the porterhouse and a half rack of ribs. After dinner, they were driving back toward the studio when Doug had yet another thought: that it was  past midnight, and he'd missed the last bus.

"Mr. Diddley," Doug started. "Do you think you could give me a ride home? There won't be any more buses tonight. I live about five miles from the studio."

Diddley responded, "Of course, Doug! Anything for my new friend!" So they drove to Doug's house, where Janine was up and waiting for her husband. She was furious.

"Douglas Bradford Mims, where on earth have you been? I've been worried sick! I called the studio, and your boss said you'd left hours ago!"

Doug thought again, and this time he finally had a good response. "Janine, you're always saying that I don't know diddly. Well, now I do. Janine, I'd like to introduce you to my new friend, Mr. Bo Diddley. I found his lucky pick at the studio, and as a reward, he treated me to a steak dinner!"

Janine just stared back at him. Not to be outdone, she nonchalantly retorted, "Well, Doug, you may know Bo Diddley, but you still don't know diddly squat."

[farcepositive]

Microscopic Penguins

One midsummer’s day, Franco and Al were frequenting a downtown delicatessen and laundromat when, suddenly, an overwhelming sense of anger engulfed them. It seems that several customers had ordered pastrami and swiss on rye, only to discover that the cheese had been replaced with shreds of brightly colored fabric. Just when things were coming to a head, Flo and Joe, the proprietors, were quickly rescued from the angry mob by Franco and Al, the microscopic penguins. One by one, the penguins maneuvered the frustrated diners into the neighboring potato bar and pajama factory, where each was greeted with a spud and satin undergarments. The patrons finished their lunch, thanked the penguins, and returned to work.

[farcepositive]

The Bulletin Fish

The time has come for the annual Festival of Bulletins. Traditionally, the winning entries have been printed on some sort of paper or card stock, but this year is different — now that the bulletin fish have arrived. That’s right! Five pages of live fish are in the studio, waiting to be judged. Even if they don’t win, they’ve certainly expanded the field of competition; everyone will remember the year the bulletin fish shook off their scales to be laid bare and have their layouts analyzed, their font choices scrutinized. (Comic Sans? Give me a break!) Theirs is the sort of breakout performance that makes you wonder what the next big thing might be. Whatever it is, it’s sure to be exciting.

[farcepositive]

The Absinthe-Minded Professor

Professor Strong was the kind of man who always wore a long-sleeved shirt, khakis, brown shoes and brown socks, even on the warmest of summer days. In the spring time, he wore a cardigan to keep warm. In the fall, he sported a corduroy blazer, the kind with big patches on the elbows, and in winter he donned his trench coat and felt fedora. When it rained, he carried an umbrella, and when it got really cold, he threw on a plaid scarf. Each day, he brought a sack lunch consisting of a ham-and-cheese sandwich with mayonnaise on white bread, a bag of plain potato chips, carrot sticks, and an apple. On bitter cold days, he substituted a thermos of soup for the carrots. If the weather was agreeable, he took his lunch outside, where he would sit and watch the squirrels and sparrows. After work, he'd stop at the pub for a quick bite and a pint before heading towards his cottage by the river. Once inside, he put on one of his jazz records, sat in his favorite chair, and worked the New York Times crossword puzzle while sipping his absinthe. At nine-thirty, he put on his pajamas, brushed and flossed his teeth, and put himself to bed. He was asleep by ten and up again at six the next morning. You might say that Professor Strong was entirely predictable. You'd be almost right. The classroom was his stage, the students his foils. For if there was one thing Professor Strong couldn't stomach, it was absences. And that was ironic, because he spoke with a slight speech impediment, so that whenever he said “absences”, it came out sounding like “absinthes,” and we've already established that the professor can and does, in fact, stomach absinthe. Whenever a student was absent from class three times in a semester, the professor assigned him or her to write a two thousand word essay comparing and contrasting three varieties of absinthes and espousing their health benefits. And that's how Professor Strong came to be known around campus as the absinthe-minded professor.

[farcepositive]

A Weird Number of Pencils

Hannah loved her pencils. She carried them with her everywhere she went. In fact, she loved them so much that she had come to be known at school as "that girl with the weird number of pencils." And it's not as if she had an odd number of pencils — far from it! She had exactly 42 which, bordering two primes, is as even a number as any other multiple of two under the sun. It's just that most students carried one, two, maybe up to three pencils, and no more. Carrying a weird number of pencils was simply unheard of until Hannah came along. And then a strange thing happened. Some of the other students began to follow her example. The week after Thanksgiving, Randall started carrying 19 pens in his backpack. Returning from the Christmas holidays, Caitlin packed 28 felt-tipped markers into her handbag. And just before Spring Break, Juan was spotted stuffing 37 map pencils and a Mont Blanc into his soccer bag! Pretty soon all the kids were carrying around an unprecedented number of writing instruments. At first, Hannah was flattered. She had started a trend. But she soon realized that the weird number of pencils was the one thing that had set her apart from her classmates. It had made her unique. Now she was just like everyone else. She withdrew into her thoughts and roamed the hallways gloomily for several weeks. Then one day shortly before Junior Prom, Hannah left the school supply kiosk next to the gym with her arms full of Pink Pearls. She was sure no one had seen her. Later that day, while walking to her Algebra class with a spring in her step, she overheard Chelsea say, "There goes that girl with the bizarre number of erasers!"

[farcepositive]

Once Upon a Telephone

Jake was always fiddling with numbers. He particularly idolized the primes, and also enjoyed the irrationals, sorting them in descending order of insanity. Then one day, while calculating reciprocal cube roots to ten significant digits, Jake decided to dial his results on the telephone, explaining his methods to each person who answered, and asking their opinions about the impact of the Mean Value Theorem on modern society. Most of them were cooperative, and the general feeling was that although society has changed dramatically since the introduction of this controversial theorem, it is still unclear whether these changes can be directly attributed to the mathematical revelation. But one particularly irate gentleman, apparently still upset about the breakup of the telephone monopoly, shouted obscenities at Jake, saying that he had failed trigonometry in high school and was definitely not switching back to AT&T. Later that evening, Jake, still disturbed by the incident, decided to recheck his calculations. And sure enough, just as he suspected, he had forgotten to carry a two in the seventh column on page four, thus dialing the wrong number by mistake. Jake called the man back and apologized for his mathematical blunder. He then dialed the corrected number, and had a nice, long chat with his Great Aunt Rose.

[farcepositive]

Rusty Shadows

He never quite got used to the desert air. Working mostly outside year-round had been far easier for Russell back home in Texas, where the humidity inspired sweat glands to perform their natural function: cooling the body. Out here in Nevada, it was a different story. Summer afternoon temperatures at the ranch often peaked in the low 110's, although the air was so dry that relief was often found only in a canteen or in one of the few shady spots near the main house. That's where the nickname originated, under the shade of the old barn and various cacti that dotted the lawn of The Lazy Lariat ranch. They called him Rusty Shadows. Although Rusty was rather handy with a branding iron and a lasso, he honed his greatest skills primarily in the privacy of his bedroom — he had received the guitar for his sixteenth birthday while most of his friends had gotten cars. Rusty made the most of his transportation-impaired situation by practicing every evening and weekend rather than going into town to hang out at the Lonesome Rambler Bar and Grill with the other ranch hands. Rusty couldn't read music — he didn't have to. His ears and hands were so finely trained that he could play back any melody or chord progression after a single hearing. With only the faint sound of Honky-Tonk music coming from the tavern up the river through his bedroom window every night, Rusty learned to pick his way through the timeless choruses of Ernest Tubb, Tex Ritter, and Hank Williams Sr. With a lot of practice and a little bit of luck, Rusty soon made a name for himself playing at county fairs, church socials, and community picnics. Before long, he was able to save up enough money from ranching and his guitar-playing gigs to buy and restore a rusted old 1979 Chevy pickup. Rusty loved that truck. He named her "Charlotte." No longer bound to the ranch on weekends, Rusty drove Charlotte through creeks, up and down hills and valleys, and all over the prairie on Saturdays. He drove her to church every Sunday. And he drove her to gigs all over the state most Saturday nights. One particular Saturday night in early June, Rusty found himself playing a gig at the Lonesome Rambler in front of the other ranch hands and a burly talent scout named "Big Bo" Baumgartner. After the show, Big Bo introduced himself to Rusty and invited him to come to Nashville for a chance to audition for the Grand Ole Opry. Rusty was speechless. His lifelong dream was to perform on the Opry stage where so many country music legends had gone before him. He thanked Big Bo, shook his hand, and left the saloon. Rusty drove back to the ranch, quietly packed up all his earthly belongings, piled them into Charlotte's bed, and headed east, never to return to The Lazy Lariat.

[farcepositive]

That Old Bat-Shaped Patch Thing

The very moment Albert walked into the room, she knew it. She didn't have to say anything. And he knew that she knew. "Albert Ray Dobbs!" he heard her say, "Of all the shirts you have to choose from, you pick the one with that old bat-shaped patch thing!" And she was right. He had literally dozens of shirts that would have been suitable for the town council meeting. There was the chartreuse rugby shirt (the one with the hole under the left arm) that was a Christmas present from Uncle Roy in 1964. And the tie-dyed shirt that Billy brought back from Vietnam. Or the one with the spaghetti stain that almost blends in with the polka dots. Any of these would have been fine. He just wouldn't listen. "But...it's my favorite shirt!" he claimed. He has claimed this since three of the buttons fell off after the '69 Mets won the World Series.

[farcepositive]

Jonathan's Prison Sentence

Roberta waited nervously as Jonathan emerged from the prisoners holding area. He’d been sentenced to fifty years in maximum security for knocking over a phone booth. And that may sound stiff, but the phone booth just happened to be in a bar, where it had landed on top of Sonny Montrose, a small-time gangster who didn’t take it all that well, and although it was Roberta who’d actually pulled the trigger, Jonathan grabbed the gun as soon as it hit the floor, and the rest was history.

He cautiously approached the back row of telephone carrells, making sure they were firmly attached to the floor before finally sitting down. In his left hand, he held a notebook; in his right, a worn number two pencil with only aluminum left for an eraser that he’d borrowed from the guard who led him into the visitor’s area. Roberta picked up her receiver first. Jonathan studied her for five or six seconds before picking up his own receiver.

“It’s been a while, Roberta. What brings you here now, after all this time? Forget how to gloat?” Jonathan always did have a sharp tongue, and a wit to match. “Why don’t you just leave me in here to rot, like you planned all along.”

Roberta didn’t miss a beat. “That’s my prerogative, Jonny. But since you asked, I heard you’re up for parole next week. Thought we could talk about a strategy for getting you out early.”

Jonathan opened his notebook and started scribbling. Roberta couldn’t quite make out his words through the plexiglass window that separated them. He paused for a moment, looked up at Roberta, and then looked back down at his notebook.

“I don’t know, Roberta. I’ve been locked up in here for twenty years. We were just kids when I took the rap for you. I wouldn’t know how to live on the outside. Besides, I’ve got friends in here, and I’ve got my journal to keep me busy. Keeps me out of trouble.” He continued writing.

“Don’t be a putz, Jonny!” she sneered. “Do you really want to spend the next thirty years behind bars, scribbling in a little book? You got a chance to start over. You can be anything you want. Why, you could even be a bartender.” The irony escaped her.

“No! That’s just a bunch of nonsense. Nobody’s gonna give an old guy like me a chance out there. I’m better off in here. It’s where I belong!” Jonathan was writing feverishly now.

There was no reasoning with him, she thought, but Roberta was not one to give up so easily. “Okay, Jonny. But I’ll be back next Tuesday for the hearing. You’ll see.“ She looked so smug, so sure of herself.

“Would you just get the hell out of here and let me finish my friggin’ prison sentence?” demanded Jonathan.

Roberta swallowed hard, hung up her receiver, stood up, and turned towards the door.

Jonathan wrote in his journal, “… and then the bitch exited the prison gates, never to return.” He closed the notebook, handed the pencil back to the guard, and returned to his cell.

[farcepositive]

Once Upon a Microphone

Once upon a microphone, there was a terrible singer. His name was Lefty Fingers. Actually his name was Benjamin Wright, but everyone called him Lefty because he had lost all the fingers – but not the thumb – on his right hand in a most unusual fishing accident, and he had changed his last name to “Fingers” because “Lefty Wright” just didn’t sound right.

On the piano was Shorty McGee. His given name was Francis, and his three older brothers had all gone to college on basketball scholarships. But at only six-feet-two, Francis was the smallest of the four McGee brothers by a good three inches.

On lead guitar was Stan “Shooter” Williams, who at sixteen had gained his fame and his nickname after fending off two knife-wielding would-be robbers using only a Colt 45 (can of malt liquor – not the gun) at the nearby Quickie Mart where he worked after school.

On the bass was “Captain” Lou Baker. The oldest of seven children, Lou was always left in charge of his younger brothers and sisters when their parents went out alone, and they (his siblings, not his parents) mockingly called him “Captain” on those occasions.

And on drums was Clyde Porter.

[farcepositive]

Almost a Chair

Eddie loves to dance and sing, but his real joy is in wood — that is, he tries to build things. But somehow, things never turn out as planned.

I can remember one winter when Eddie was building a chair. He had papers and nails and glue and branches scattered from one end of the car (originally meant to be a house) to the other. When he finished, I told him that it was the craziest piano I’d ever seen.

“Piano?” Eddie paused for a moment, giving a quizzical look. “Well, it was almost a chair.”