Giving Your All is easier to give your all when somebody or some corporate entity has already taken it.
He was a small time thief. Never stealing more than what it took to get by. He’d been caught a couple of times, but managed to work his way out of any real time behind bars by turning snitch or offering some other piece of information the cops could use.
But this was one theft attempt he couldn’t believe. He was being paid to steal two pairs of eyeglasses: a mother’s and a daughter’s. He didn’t like the idea of stealing a young girl’s glasses. He had less than 20/20 vision himself, but because it wasn’t discovered until he was in high school, he had already been labeled difficult to teach, a problem student, and his grades had suffered, and so at sixteen, he dropped out of school and into a life of crime. He didn’t want that to happen to her, but eventually decided the money was too good to pass up. The guy who wanted the glasses, wanted both pairs. He wouldn’t settle for only one.
But he had to steal the glasses today, before 9 PM, or no money. It was already 4 PM when he got the job. It was 5:30 and storming when he found the mother and daughter.
He followed them and decided to strike when they walked into a building that had once housed a milling company. The banner on the awning of the renovated entryway said: “Amateur joke night: Everybody welcome.”
Certainly, there would be a chance here to steal the glasses. His only concern was he had not seen the glasses he was supposed to steal, at least not up close. Like most women he knew, they were probably vain about wearing them, unless they had to. Of course, he was a little vain about wearing his glasses, too, and he hated the idea of contacts. His poor eyesight has been one of the main reasons he had never been more than a petty thief.
He sat beside the mother and daughter, the mother’s big handbag on the floor between them.
The joke telling went on for too long. Most of the jokes were old, and most of the telling was enthusiastic but unpolished. Every now and then there was a good laugh. On top of that, the room was warm. Sweat ran down the back of the petty thief’s neck. The time was 8:37 PM. It would take him ten minutes to get to the meeting point.
The mother picked up the bag, took something out, laid the bag back down, and then turned away from the thief and was talking with her young daughter.
The petty thief glanced around to see if anybody was looking, then reached down and gently pulled the bag into this lap. He was looking down into it when the lightning cackled, the thunder boomed, and then the lights immediately went out.
When the lights winked back on, he was still holding the handbag. It was 8:46. The mother and daughter turned to look at him. He screamed, threw the bag down, and bolted from the room.
Mother and daughter in special glasses
Everyone laughed.
It wasn’t until he was safely outside in the rain that the petty thief understood why the person he was stealing the glasses for was called “The Clown.”
Filed under eye glasses, Found story, humor, story
[Editor’s note: Parts 1 – 4 on the blog. You can click on “Kibitzer or Kidd in the Tags below to reach he previous entries. I am working to make this a monthly feature on the blog. Hope you enjoy this science fiction western with a dash or two of humor set in a quirky time and place: not quite and not quite there.]
888888
The Kibitzer didn’t know what to make of the situation when he stumbled though the swinging saloon doors and everybody was staring at him. Normally, he was the one doing the staring.
Rain dripped off his hat and clothes.
He smiled. No one smiled back, not even the Kidd. As he stepped the rest of the way into the saloon, he heard a voice say, “Donut go there.”
He looked down at the floor, certain that’s where it came from. But how could the floor speak?
“Did you get them?” the Kidd asked.
“Wipe your feet,” the robust saloon woman said.
The Kibitzer pointed outside. He made a slash like lightning, raised his knee, and then spread his arms wide.
“Speak. You know I don’t read pantomime.”
“Maybe I can help,” Al Wayne said. “He probably saw one of our fair citizens zapped by lightning who then got up and walked away. The first time somebody witnesses it, it tends to leave them at a loss for words.”
The Kibitzer pointed at Wayne and nodded.
“I talk about it in my book, Global Warning. Though I’m not quite sure what the raised knee means.”
The Kibitzer turned slightly red.
The saloon doors swung open again. This time Bonnie came through, carrying a bag. She, too, dripped rain on the floor, but the Kibitzer didn’t hear anything from the floor, or what he thought was the floor, as she approached.
“You forgot these.” She held them out toward him holding the bag between her finger and thumb as if trying to be ladylike or as if what was inside was as foul as fresh dog poop.
The Kibitzer nodded toward the Kidd.
Bonnie didn’t move.
The Kibitzer nodded again. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t speaking. He had been able to after she kneed him. Was the big guy with the bent sheriff’s star on his chest right? Was it the excitement of seeing somebody zapped by lightning, then being told he would rise from the dead, then begin to see the dead stir as he ran across the wide street of mud that left him, the Kibitzer dumbfounded? He had witnessed many things, even eaten some bad popcorn while witnesses them, but he had never been at a loss for words – until now.
“Don’t worry, Kibbey, I won’t knee you again.”
Kibbey? No one called him Kibbey!
The entire room broke out in laughter. Even the big guy with the bent star chuckled.
Nobody told Bonnie to wipe her feet.
(To Be Continued…)
“Why don’t we have pet names for each other?” Zoey asked.
The blathering idiot’s on again, off again girl friend appeared very concerned with the answer to this question. Unfortunately, he did not have one: answer or pet name. He did know that Valentine’s Day was coming, and being short of cash, he proposed this idea: “What if we give each other pet names for Valentine’s Day?”
Zoey nodded, then added, “But I think we should make it a little more sporting. We each come up with a pet name for the other person and whoever comes up with the best one, gets to pick his or her own pet name, which the other one has to use in public.”
“No matter what?” he asked.
“No matter what.”
The blathering idiot felt acid pour into his stomach and forgot to ask who would be the judge.
It was 48 hours to Valentine’s Day and the blathering idiot had no idea how to begin. Where did people get “pet names” anyway? Didn’t they just make them up?
The blathering idiot tried making up a pet name. He filled up pages and pages of names he scratched down and then scratched out. But the ones he liked best: indigo eyes and violet lips would have forced him to get a new girl friend and he didn’t think that’s what Valentine’s Day was about.
Terms of endearment
Xenia, Zoey’s daughter, was at the library, and seeing the blathering idiot in such a lather, she took pity on him. She walked up to him and told she would give him the same list she had given her mother, a list she had printed off the Internet.
The list was in three columns, the first column with the names; the second column saying if was a female “term of endearment,” a male one, or both; the third column was for comment and usually had the word “caution” or words “explicitly suggestive” beside the terms that could be a problem. There were seven pages of these terms. The blathering idiot had no idea there were so many pet names (terms of endearment).
He immediately eliminated the terms cuddly wuddly, cutesy chick, cutesy pie, cutie pie (Did there really have to be two such ugly terms so closely related?), and cutie patootie. Anything that sounded like it might even remotely be referring to a body part would get him trouble.
He also eliminated sugar plum, sugar pie (What is it with pie?) sugar lips, sugar britches, sugar bun, and sugar booger because they all mentioned sugar, and Zoey had been complaining lately of being fat. Plus, to the blathering idiot, there was no way to make booger sound good.
Anything with baby in the phrase was also eliminated because she sometimes referred to Xenia as “her little baby,” which irritated Xenia no end. Of course, those terms with baby in them were the first ones Xenia suggested.
The blathering idiot also eliminated terms with flowers in them, especially buttercup, since it had both butter and was a flower. Zoey already had Xenia, and that was the only flower name she wanted in her life, unless they came in a bouquet.
The night before he was to meet with Zoey to decide who had the better “pet name,” the blathering idiot couldn’t sleep. He walked around his house saying all sorts of names out loud.
“Cherub?”
No. He wasn’t sure what that was, which probably meant he’d be in for it even before he got in to it.
“Bunny?”
No.
“Honey bunny?”
Definitely not.
“Love muffin?”
While he would love a muffin right about now, it being one of his favorite foods, it was still a food, and she knew muffins were one of his favorite foods, so he knew she’d be wondering if he was seeing her or a pumpkin chocolate chip muffin every time he said it. And truth be told, it was sometimes easier to picture himself with a muffin than with her.
Several hours later, in the wee hours of the morning, his voice hoarse and his thoughts a watercolor blur, he collapsed into a chair, the terms of endearment on the desk table beside him.
The next evening, dressed in a shirt, tie, and dress pants, he met Zoey at the appointed time in the appointed restaurant.
He wasn’t quite sure who should speak first, and he guessed neither did she.
Finally, she said, “Who should go first?”
The blathering idiot quickly took a sip of water, but then decided to get it over with. He first started off explaining everything he had gone through to get to his conclusion, but long before he was near his conclusion, Zoey was drumming her fingers on the table.
Finally, she said, “What did you decide?”
The blathering idiot quickly took another sip of water.
Unable to think of anything – he’d even left the list at home – he blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “Cornucopia’s delight.”
Except it didn’t come out quite that way. Instead it came out “Corn and peas deli.”
Stunned for a moment, Zoey then laughed and laughed and laughed, but in short order told him that if he didn’t take their relationship any more seriously than that, she never wanted to see him again.
Just then a tray of muffins came by the table, and the blathering idiot decided he’d think about those for a while.
Filed under blathering idiot, Cartoon, cornucopia, humor, pet names, Valentine's day
Every now and then, it is good to revisit a classic, or even a curiosity from the past. The Devil’s Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce was originally published in newspaper installments from 1881 until 1906. You might be surprised how current many of the entries are.
For example, in this as Valentine’s Day approaches, here is a definition for the words Love and Marriage. The Old definitions are Bierce’s. The New definitions or comments are mine. From time to time, just as it was originally published, we will come back to The Devil’s Dictionary, for a look at it then and how it applies today. Click on Devil’s Dictionary in the tags below to bring up the other entries.
Love, n. A temporary insanity curable by marriage or by removal of the patient from the influences under which he incurred the disorder. This disease, like caries and many other aliments, is prevalent only among civilized races living under artificial conditions; barbarous nations breathing pure air and eating simple food enjoy immunity from its ravages. It is sometimes fatal, but more frequently to the physician than to the patient.
Marriage, n. The state or condition of a community consisting of a master, a mistress, and two slaves, making all, two.
Love, n. A state of insanity cured by death, taxes, divorce, children, or being told you have to. Being told you can’t only encourages it. You know you are under its influence when money is no object, but the object of your affection is. When hope has replaced reason, and longing is just one more step on the way to ecstasy, then it is love.
But remember, love and libido come from the same Latin root: libet, meaning “that is pleasing.” If love would only stop there, it might be okay, but it often does not, heading, instead, into marriage.
Marriage, n. Terminal state of love. An institutional condition at which point that which was pleasing no longer is. Especially so when defined by the state, and enshrined with all the solemnity the government can bestow.
Filed under Ambrose Bierce, Devil's Dictionary, humor, love, marriage, satire, Uncategorized
How can a door be a jar?
Just the other day, the blathering idiot had some time to kill, though he wasn’t sure it was alive to begin with, and while pondering the philosophical depths of life, came across questions for which he could not find answers. Below are a few of them.
How can a door be ajar?
How come left behind means you’ve lost it, but right behind means it is still with you?
How come you can be told to sit down and shut up, but never sit up and shut down?
How come you can give a nod, but never take one?
How come when you are taking a bow, you are giving it to somebody else?
How come a house warming doesn’t involve starting a fire?
How come you can give somebody the shirt off your back, but you have to beat the pants off him?
How come politicians run for office, but stand for re-election?
Santa hit man bounty hunter
Finding work in the off season hard to come by, Santa takes a job as a bounty hunter and hit man. Using his naughty list, he tracks down the not-so-nice folks and brings them to justice or brings them down.
Filed under Found story, humor, neighborhood, photo, photograph, Santa Claus, villains
A little old lady went to the grocery store to buy cat food. She picked up four cans and took them to the checkout counter.
The girl at the cash register said, “I’m sorry, but we cannot sell you cat food without proof that you have a cat. A lot of old people buy cat food to eat, and the management wants proof that you are buying the cat food for your cat.”
The little old lady went home, picked up her cat and brought it back to the store.
They sold her the cat food.
The next day, she tried to buy two cans of dog food.
Again the cashier said “I’m sorry, but we cannot sell you dog food without proof that you have a dog. A lot of old people buy dog food to eat, but the management wants proof that you are buying the dog food for your dog.”
So she went home and brought in her dog.
She then was able to buy the dog food.
The next day she brought in a box with a hole in the lid.
The little old lady asked the cashier to stick her finger in the hole.
The cashier said, “No, you might have a snake in there.”
The little old lady assured her that there was nothing in the box that would harm her.
So the cashier put her finger into the box and quickly pulled it out.
She said to the little old lady, “That smells like poop.”
The little old lady said, “It is. I want to buy three rolls of toilet paper.”
Don’t mess with old people.
The local news station was interviewing an 80-year-old lady because she had just gotten married for the fourth time.
The interviewer asked her questions about her life, about what it felt like to be marrying again at 80, and then about her new husband’s occupation.
“He’s a funeral director,” she answered.
“Interesting,” the newsman said.
He then asked her if she wouldn’t mind telling him a little about her first three husbands and what they did for a living.
She paused for a few moments, needing time to reflect on all those years.
After a short time, a smile came to her face and she answered proudly, explaining that she had first married a banker when she was in her 20s, then a circus ringmaster when in her 40s, and a preacher when in her 60s, and now – in her 80′ – a funeral director.
The interviewer looked at her, quite astonished, and asked why she had married four men with such diverse careers.
(wait for it)
She smiled and explained, “I married
one for the money,
two for the show,
three to get ready,
and four to go.”
And that’s the box you leave in.
Or as the young grocery bagger who introduced the funeral director and the 80-year-old lady put it: “Will that be paper or plastic?”
Every now and then, it is good to revisit a classic, or even a curiosity from the past. The Devil’s Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce was originally published in newspaper installments from 1881 until 1906. You might be surprised how current many of the entries are.
For example, in this political campaign year, here is a definition for the words Patriot and Patriotism. The Old definitions are Bierce’s. The New definition is mine. From time to time, just as it was originally published, we will come back to The Devil’s Dictionary, for a look at it then and how it applies today. Click on Devil’s Dictionary in the tags below to bring up the other entries.
Patriot, n. One to whom the interests of a part seem superior to those of the whole. The dupe of statesmen and the tool of conquerors.
Patriotism, n. Combustible rubbish ready to the torch of any one ambitious to illuminate his name.
In Dr. Johnson’s famous dictionary, patriotism is defined as the last resort of a scoundrel. With all due respect to an enlightened but inferior lexicographer, I beg to submit that is it the first.
Updated definition: has anything changed since these definitions were first published? I think you could add to Patriot: The dupe of statesmen, the tool of conquerors, and the straw man of politicians. Anyone who does not agree with a politician’s stance for saving America is not a patriot (or even worse, a liberal).
It should also go without saying that scoundrel is a synonym for politician, and patriotism is often the first refuge of the politician, particularly when he (or she) doesn’t want to discuss something embarrassing or damaging, such as facts.
One also need remember this that an “-ism” as in patriotism is short for Ideology Stuck (in the) Mind. It has ceased to be a living idea and has become a petrified facsimile (or petrifac) of the real thing.
Filed under Ambrose Bierce, Devil's Dictionary, humor, patriot, patriotism, politicians, politics, satire, scoundrel
Running and yelling don't make sense.
Filed under Cartoon, child, eight year old philosopher, humor, politicians, politics
Booker's Blog 