little stories · Proud to be an American · writing

Four American Icons Walk Into a Bar…

National Anthem, American Flag and the Unknown Soldier sat quietly at the bar nursing their beers.

Flo, the sassy high-haired waitress, cracked her gum and placed a gigantic appetizer platter in front of them.

“There ya go, boys,” she said. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Would you mind turning up that tv for us?” Flag asked.

“Sure thing, honey,” she answered and then she grabbed a remote and pointed it at the big screen television.

“Should we wait?” Anthem asked the others. A friend of theirs was in the latrine.

“Nah, he’ll be out in a second,” Flag answered, then they all started to dig into the potato skins, chicken fingers, cheese sticks, buffalo wings, pizza rolls, brownie bites and fun-sized candy bars.

A Sunday afternoon football game was coming on. All the patrons in the place turned their attention to the tv and watched, as they stayed seated over their wings-n-things, as the NFL players kneeled on the field instead of standing for the National Anthem.

National Anthem kept watching the show while putting a blob of sour cream on a potato skin and then ate the whole thing in one bite.

“These are good,” he told his friends with his mouth full, reaching for another.

Suddenly, a table full of dudes behind the American icons started flipping their shit. There were lots of cuss words and peanut shells flying all around them.

One guy was especially vocal.

He walked over to the bar, and put his beer down while holding it with white knuckles.

“Look at them millionaire sons-a-bitches. I’d like to kick their asses, disrespecting our country,” he said.

A puff of heated anger streamed from the guy’s nostrils like dragon fire, but, you know, not as cool. His face was as red as his ball cap.

“Ain’t you guys pissed about that,” he snapped at the trio.

Flag, Anthem and Unknown looked at him and then each other exasperated. They had grown tired over the years of people who could never grasp one of the true freedoms of being an American.

“Them millionaires got rich here and now they’re dissing you,” hot-head guy said loudly.

Everyone in the bar was watching and listening now.

Unknown Soldier took a long swig of his delicious craft beer, put it down on the counter, dragged his sleeve across his chin, turned on his bar stool and looked at the guy.

“They’re exercising their freedom of speech,” he explained calmly.

HotHead sneered.

“Don’t get all fancy on me with that educated opinion shit,” he said, moving closer.

“Freedom of speech is what you guys should be concerned about respecting,” Flag explained, starting to flap a little. He was agitated. He had come here for some beer, some grub and a little relaxation. Now he had to deal with this bs.

“You know what y’all are beginning to sound like to me?” Hotheaded guy asked.

“Let me guess,” Anthem replied. “Snowflakes?”

The pissed off guy’s mouth dropped open a little, disappointed because he didn’t get to say it.

Suddenly, the door to the men’s restroom swung open and the 4th friend from the American icon group came out buckling up his pants.

He was a yuge guy—strong, muscular, longish grey-hair, good-looking and wearing little round spectacles that made him look handsomely intelligent.

He looked up to see what was waiting for him at the bar.

And he winced.

“US Constitution!”, the Unknown Soldier hooted. “Finally, dude.”

“We got a live one for ya here,” Anthem said. “Come over here and explain some things to this guy.”

Constitution walked over and stood at least a foot taller than the dude in the red ball cap. That guy looked up at him and gulped.

Constitution’s bicep with the tattooed bald eagle flexed as he snapped up his beer. He held out his hand and shook hands with the other guy and introduced himself. Then he put his arm around the guy and turned with him to go sit at his table with his friends.

Anthem, Flag and Unknown heard him say as they walked away:

“Now, I’m going to be using some big words and explaining some big ideas here for a little bit. I want you to try and listen real good, okay?”

And the trio smiled a little, feeling good about the prevalence of common sense and enlightenment, then turned back to their appetizer platter and 3 fresh beers placed in front of them, on the house, by that snappy little gum-crackin’, big-smilin’ waitress Flo.

The End

eclipse · God · Goddess · little stories · messages

Eclipse

God sat at his desk with his “Mondays Suck” mug full of Sanka. His heart palpitations had started to freak him out lately and he decided to try to go caffeine-free for a week to see if that helped his ticker calm down. Otherwise, he knew he’d have to make an appointment with his cardiologist and he dreaded the thought. That guy was a pretentious pain in the ass, constantly bragging about his luxurious vacations and adrenaline junkie shenanigans.

As if God had never experienced any of those things since the creation went down.

God’s chest began to hurt a little from the stress of thinking about it. He rubbed a spot on his chest, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and focused.

He had a big event to pull off today. It was time to get to work.

Just then, the door to his space office opened and he turned to see his gorgeous wife the Goddess coming into the room holding a tray.

“Hi babe,” she said, sliding the tray in front of him and then slipping herself into his lap.

God looked at the big bowls of Grape Nuts and fresh fruit she brought him. Next to the food sat his Lipitor, Prilosec and a multivitamin.

He gave his girl a kiss.

“You taste like Sanka,” she said as he rolled his eyes and she stood up.

He took a really good look at her then. She had on yoga pants and a tattered Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt.

“You are the cutest thing, I swear to…me,” he said.

The Goddess laughed a little and picked up the bowl of fruit and started eating. She had heard that joke about a million times, but it was still kinda funny.

“So, are we going to screw with the humans today?” she asked looking out the giant space window at planet Earth.

“Nah,” God replied. “I don’t really like to mess with them too much anymore. They’re so goofy down there now, they don’t need any more problems. Know what I mean?”

“So you’re just going to press the solar eclipse button and leave it at that?”

God nodded taking a sip of his beverage.

The Goddess stood quietly next to him, her wheels turning.

“Hey,” she said, bending over the keyboard in front of him. Her long wavy brown hair spilled over her shoulders onto his desk. She tucked a wisp behind her ear. 

God admired her big time. He might have smelled like Sanka, but she smelled like summertime. And patchouli.

Delicious.

“Let’s stencil a big message out of the moon for the sun to spill through during the eclipse for the humans,” the Goddess suggested.

She started typing away. 

“Do you want them all to have heart attacks?” God asked, picking up his Lipitor and slugging it down with a spot of decaf.

She leaned back to show him the message she came up with.

In capital letters she typed out 

SURRENDER DONALD

God laughed out loud. 

“You are bad,” he said. “I like the little witch flying on the broom at the bottom.”

His wife smiled bigly.

“Can we do it?” she asked.

God thought about it for a second and said,

“Yeah. What the hell. Let’s have some fun. They’re going to poop their pants down there.”

“Especially Donald!”

“Right?!”

The two laughed out loud as God entered code to carve out messages through the moon.

“All right,” she said as she gave him one more kiss. “Finish up here and come down to the meditation garden. Buddha and some of the others are coming over for an eclipse meditation. I think it’ll do you some good.”

“Hey, were you able to get everyone those special glasses?”

The Goddess stood in the doorway and smiled.

“Duh,” she said. “NASA sent us a boxful last week.”

“Cool beans,” God said as she bounced away. He picked up his bowl of Grape Nuts as he hit the enter button for the special message and the moon started chipping away at itself.

God admired all the heavenly bodies quietly dangling out in outer space. A sense of calm and wonder overwhelmed him.

“It’s going to be a good day,” he thought to himself as he took a big bite of cereal. He sorta missed and a bunch of milk and Grape Nuts spilled all down his shirt.

“Yep, a good day,” he sighed, rubbing at the spill located over that certain spot on his chest.

This time, the pain was gone.

4th of July · fireworks · humor · karma is a bitch · little stories · writing

Independence Judgment Day

Suburban Neighbor Guy pulled the ginormous box of artillery from the flatbed of his truck.

 

The night air hung thick between the houses with the weight of hot-ass weather and patriotism. The scent of 10,000 charbroiled burgers and hot dogs bathed the night-time insects and filthy children flitting about over overgrown lawns. The gallery of adults lined in lawn chairs guzzled their economically-priced intoxicants while the vocal stylings of Toby Keith and Neil Diamond roused a sense of All-American feel good-ism.

 

Suburban Neighborhood Guy’s doughy arms flexed as he set up his array of explosives in the driveway. All the kids surrounded him, spazzed out by Mountain Dew and the desire to run with fire sticks in their hands.

 

When the prep was complete, Suburban hoisted a gigantic lighter and signaled the beginning of the pyrotechnical interpretative sky dance celebrating the nation’s struggle for freedom.

 

Then he lit loud firecracker after firecracker after firecracker after firecracker.  For like, hours.

 

When he arrived at the end of his show, he lit the tail of the biggest one of all. Much to the horror of the residents of Zippo Lane, the big ole Shock-N-Awe explosive detonated prematurely, causing the fire to ignite in Suburban’s face, blowing his body clear across the cul-de-sac.

 

He arrived at the Pearly Gates an hour later.

 

Feeling overwhelming sadness knowing he was dead, a huge sense of relief still washed over him because he had made it to Heaven. He exited the bus, checked in at the gate, and walked through the sparkling arches admiring the golden streets and puffy clouds that surrounded him.

 

Then he started noticing some weird stuff…like all the fire hydrants and bowls of water that dotted the way. There were also bowls and bowls of Milk Bones and Beggin’ Strips. And what the heck was it with all the fur-covered couches and tennis balls everywhere?

 

Suburban Neighborhood Guy forgot about the weird surroundings and felt a shiver run down his spine as he walked into a big wooden house with a nameplate across the entry that simply said

 

“GOD”

 

 

“This is it,” he said to himself. He shook like a leaf. “I’m about to come face to face with the Big Kahuna himself.”

 

He walked the golden path with tons of angel-people watching him make the journey. Suburban was nervous enough already, but these people were making it worse. The pitiful looks they gave him, the way they stared at his ripped clothing and the soot all over his body and face. What was their deal anyway? You’d think they’d all be smiling like crazy, being residents of Heaven. And what the? There were tons of winged cats and dogs in the place. He had no idea pets went to Heaven, too. Sure, he had always kinda hoped that they did. But he had heard that they didn’t from some pastor that one time Suburban went through a religious phase back when his small business was going under and he was desperate…

 

Suddenly, God’s giant gold and red velvet throne came into view.  Suburban Neighbor Guy looked up and nearly crapped his cargo shorts.

 

He wanted to turn and run, but kept moving forward until he stood at the base of the great chair upon which a giant German Shepherd sat.

 

“Welcome, Suburban Neighbor Guy,” the Dog boomed into a PA system as he sifted through paperwork on a clipboard. “In a moment, we will review your trespasses. But before we do that, your arrival here today was caused by?”

 

The German Shepherd and everyone else leaned in to hear Suburban Neighbor Guy’s reply.

 

“Unlicensed loud and obnoxious neighborhood 4th of July fireworks display accident,” he mumbled.

 

The crowd, including all the dogs and cats, gasped.

 

“Oh…so you’re one of THOSE guys,” God said, smiling sinisterly with his black lips and big snout.

 

Suburban Neighbor Guy went ahead and crapped his cargo shorts.

 

With that, the giant dog picked up a rubber stamp that read “Redirect to Hell”.

 

“It’s a good thing you like fire, dude,” God snarled.

 

And the congregation cheered as he lowered the black ink to the paper like a fresh smear of stinky ashes from dead fireworks on the ground below.

bullying · First Lady · little stories · writing

(Not So) Super Lady

Melania was bent over in her gold-plated 70’s disco-themed White House bathroom, running her hair dryer over her upside down silky brown tresses. Flipping off the switch on the dryer, she swung her torso upright and the wave of hair flew up and over and settled into a perfect “chic governmental vixen” waterfall around her face.

“Eees perfect,” she said to her reflection.

Suddenly, with her Chanel-earringed ears, she heard ringing in the next room.

Melania snapped to attention when she realized it was her special phone– the one installed in her room specifically for First Lady crime fighting.

“Sheet,” she muttered, feeling a wave of Slovenian butterflies come to life in her tummy. “Dat’s my anti-cyber-bullying phone.
Somewhere in America cyber-bullying is happening right now. I must prepare to fight.”

And with that, she strode out of the commode with all the force of Tyra Banks, Linda Evangelista, and RuPaul at a Supermodel Mall of America Fashion Show.

Carefully picking up the Swarovski-encrusted receiver, Melania removed her earring and held the phone to her ear.

“Good morning, Mrs Trump. We have a report of some serious cyber-bullying. The American people need your help!”

Melania’s butterflies turned into an entire flock of seagulls. She was so nervous she thought she might throw up.

She spoke as she moved to a hot pink computer whose screen came to life, displaying Earth flying through space.

“Give me de coordinates,” she said quietly.

The informant called off the numbers as the First Lady typed them carefully on the keyboard. When she had the location, she paused before she hit “enter”.

“Good luck, Mrs. Trump. You can do it,” the voice on the line said.

Melania took a deep breath and recalled her promise to the American people. Being an asshole online was such a prevalent thing these days and so many suffered at the hands of bullies in real life and online. She knew if she told everyone she promised to try and help end bullying, people would eat that shit up. So she said she would do it.

The First Lady went ahead and pressed the button.

The Earth began to spin on the screen and when it landed over North America, the image closed in on Washington DC.

Melania made a face like she suddenly smelled something gross as she watched the image.

The cursor began blinking furiously right on top of

Her very own house.

Specifically–her husband’s office.

Melania’s heart sank.

But she was not surprised.

“Sheet,” she said quietly. She glanced around the room, her mind racing with turmoil over what to do next.

Slowly, she walked to her window and looked out over the landscape of the great city she now called home.

The flock of seagulls in her stomach felt like a heap of dead carcasses filling her gut. It made her sad, but she knew she was not going to be able to fight this time. There was no winning. There was also no need to change into her silver lamé superhero dress with matching shoes and lightning bolt headpiece.

“I guess when I said I would fight de bullying, I was probably just tinking I wish someone would do that for me,” she said wistfully.

She shut the lid on her computer and walked back to the bathroom.

And with that, all the ghosts of former First Ladies in the room shook their heads and Eleanor Roosevelt said a little too loudly, “What in the actual hell?”

Nancy Reagan nudged Jackie and said,

“She looks just like you.”

And then they all laughed out loud for a solid 10 minutes.

The End.