PepeBenjamin's Short Stories

Another Day on the Trail

2006-01-10T20:27:00.000-08:00

I've been really busy traveling and getting ready to start a new job, so with the lack of time to make things up you'll again have to settle for a brief account of a real day in my life...

Saturday, November 20, 2004

Went too far today. We were in the dining facility, screaming at the Privates. One of the Privates in my platoon wandered into the "kill zone," an area of round tables where the Drill Sergeants and Battalion leadership sit. The Private realized he'd done something horribly wrong when about five Drill Sergeants descended on him. When the Sergeant Major and Commander glared at him, and his mind went blank.

Drill Sergeant R, my old battle buddy from last cycle, started saying things in the Private's ear, which he started repeating verbatim.

"Hey Private, ask the Sergeant Major if you can drink his coffee."

"Can I drink your coffee Sergeant Major?" He repeated like a dumb parrot.

So I start screaming at the Private to shut up and stop embarrassing himself and our platoon. Then DS R whispers in his ear and the Private says to me, "Drill Sergeant, you're my homey!"

The whole time he's saying this stuff it's apparent from his eyes that the lights are on and no one's home. So I lost it.

"Private, I'M YOUR DAMN DRILL SERGEANT. WHY ARE YOU REPEATING EVERYTHING THAT DRILL SERGEANT TELLS YOU? ARE YOU HIS BITCH?"

Usually the Battalion leadership frowns on using that language in front of them (with the tacit understanding that what is said in the barracks stays in the barracks), but the Sergeant Major, who was infantry, just laughed.

I'm really trying to avoid the bad language, but working such crazy hours has me on edge. Anyway, later in the day I had a good laugh. The Drill Sergeant School (Sergeants training to be Drill Sergeants) showed up, and pitched Drill and Ceremony modules (blocks ofinstruction). I had to memorize them in Drill Sergeant School, but today we demonstrated the movements while the Drill Sergeant Candidates pitched them. One of the modules was saluting with headgear, without headgear but wearing glasses and without headgear or glasses. Since I don't wear glasses, my battle buddy Drill Sergeant Sbrought up one of the Private's glasses for the demonstration. It turns out this Private was blind as a bat. When I went to salutewearing the glasses, my depth perception was so off that I missed my entire head, and had to feel around for the edge of the glasses. When I took them off, I saw 6'7" Drill Sergeant S in the back laughing his butt off. The Privates are still too terrified to laugh at anything.

That evening Drill Sergeant S explained to the Privates the importance of staying alert on Fire Guard, which is the guard duty that two Privates from each platoon have to pull every night on one hour shifts. A couple of years ago a Private got too stressed out, climbed out his third balcony room and tried to jump over the steps. He landed on his neck on the steps and died. The Drill Sergeant found him later that hour when the fire guards took a count and came up short.

Drill Sergeant S also told us Drill Sergeants about how some of the Privates have seen that Private's ghost at various times over the past two years. Fire guards have complained of someone shining lights inthe windows from the balcony, or seeing a Private walking down at theend of the hall and walking into a room. When they go down the hallto tell the Private to go to bed, the room is empty. We don't tellthe Privates because they're freaked out enough as it is.

Grandpa Joe Freaks Out The Grandkids

2005-12-29T08:25:00.000-08:00

Grandpa Joe was relaxing in his wheelchair, strategically located between the fireplace and the Christmas tree, reading the Bible with his one good eye while he stood guard over the presents and his six grandchildren, whose two sets of parents were at Outback Steak House enjoying some authentic Australian cuisine. The children – Bill, Billy, Bobby, Brucie, Betty and Vladamir (who was adopted from an orphanage in Russia) – were ages 4-11, and were playing a board game rather peacefully at the other end of the room. Outside the snow was falling gently, slowly changing the neighborhood from a crime-infested ghetto into a sleepy winter wonderland.

Until snotty 10 year-old Betty decided to ruin Grandpa’s evening with another one of her smarty pants questions…

“Grandpa Joe, if you have to use a wheelchair why do you have a cane?”

Grandpa Joe looked up from his reading.

“Come here, child.”

Betty stood up and walked over obediently.

“A little closer,” Grandpa Joe said kindly.

Betty moved closer, and Grandpa Joe promptly rapped her on the tush with his cane, but not hard enough to hurt.

“I HOPE YOU DIE, YOU CRAZY OLD MAN!!!!!” she screamed, running back to the safety of the circle.

Grandpa Joe sighed. “Well Betty, I love you.”

Betty sniffled and stifled a sob. “Then why did you spank me with your cane?”

“So you’ll stop asking stupid questions and people won’t hate you as you grow older. There’s a lesson here I’m teaching you out of love. Gather round children, I want to show you something.”

The kids stood and approached the old man warily, except for Vladimir, age six, who grinned in anticipation that Grandpa Joe might again hit Betty with his cane. He hated her stupid questions.

“Give me that present in the white wrapping paper with the nice bow, Bobby,” Grandpa Joe said pointing at the gift under the Christmas tree with his cane.

Bobby dutifully obeyed.

“You see kids, your life is like this gift, innocent and beautiful. In fact, Jesus said that for adults to get into heaven they need to become like you. Let me show you what life does to you as you grow older.”

He turned and tossed the gift into the fire.

The children collectively gasped, except for Vladimir, who laughed loudly.

“That’s daddy’s gift to mommy!” Betty exclaimed in horror.

“Watch as it shrivels up and turns grey. Life is like that, children. It takes your beautiful, innocent dreams and turns them into cold, grey ashes, leaving you broken and alone.”

The children stared at the fire, transfixed.

“Mommy is going to put you in the old folks home,” Betty announced matter-of-factly.

The other children stood in stunned silence.

“No, she won’t,” Grandpa Joe replied, “because your mother is tired of your stupid questions too, and me curing you of the problem will be a better Christmas present than what’s in that package.”

Betty looked like she was about to cry again. The other children nodded solemnly at what Grandpa Joe was saying.

“Do you want to see what was in the present?”

“Burn, burn, burn!” Vladimir exclaimed, jumping from foot-to-foot with excitement, as if he really had to pee.

Grandpa Joe reached into the fireplace with his cane, shifted through the still glowing embers, and pulled out a beautiful gold bracelet. “You see children, sometimes God uses the same fire that seems to destroy us to make us beautiful inside.”

“But the bracelet was beautiful before you threw it in the fire…,” Betty stubbornly asserted, speaking more softly at the end as it slowly dawned on her that…

“Ouch!” she said as Grandpa Joe again rapped her with his cane.

“But the more important lesson here is that the more you make the same mistake, the more it hurts, and sometimes you pay for your mistakes by getting your eye gouged out, like I did.”

The children looked somber as they soaked in Gandpa Joe’s words of wisdom, except for Vladimir, who stared into the fire with a look hunger and awe. Eventually the parents returned home from Outback Steakhouse and learned about Grandpa’s senior moment. Any anger Betty’s mom may have felt for having her gift tossed in the fire was swept away in the excitement of receiving such a beautiful gift, and while the children begged never to be left alone with Grandpa again they were happy Betty learned her lesson, because they really hated all her stupid questions.

So everyone enjoyed a Merry Christmas, except for Vladimir, who couldn’t figure out a way to steal Grandpa’s good eye.

A Day on the Trail

2005-12-21T07:30:00.000-08:00

To keep things fresh I'll occasionally include a "real" story from my life. This is a random day in my life as a Drill Sergeant: November 19, 2004.

Friday, November 19, 2004 (Day 2 of Basic Training, Red Phase)
Morning came early- real early. It took me a couple of hours to go to sleep, I was so wired. Haven't learn how to turn it on and off yet. I'm so tired right now it's hard to clearly recall specific incidents. We started out by running through the halls at 4:20 AM, screaming and banging on wall lockers to wake the Privates up. Nothing like raw fear to get them motivated for PT (physical training).

For PT we marched them out to the parking lot, which has a track next to it, and demonstrated how to get into and out of the PT formation and perform the exercises correctly. When they screwed something up all the Privates had to go run a lap around the track. The starting position for one exercise requires the Privates to lay on their backs, hands extending straight back next to the head and palms facing inward. One female had her hands up in the air about 10 inches off the ground. We shared the following conversation.

Me: "Private, are you having a religious experience?"

Private: "No, Drill Sergeant."

Me: "THEN GET YOUR DAMN HANDS OUT OF THE AIR!"

I've found that sneaking up behind Privates when they're doing something wrong and screaming in their ear to also be an effective training tool. The Privates tend to easily recall this type of corrective action, and it also gets them thinking that just because they can't see a Drill Sergeant it doesn't mean that one isn't around, and they'd better do the right thing. When one of them does something particularly stupid, I smoke (order them to do push-ups, sit-ups and
run in place) the entire platoon, having them repeat loudly after me "THANK YOU PRIVATE __________________." This is also an effective training tool, as Privates don't like to be embarrassed, and if something particularly stupid happens the rest of the platoon will provide peer pressure to insure the offending Private straightens up. Of course, there is always the possibility that the rest of the platoon will just kick the Private's ass up in the barracks at night,
but we strongly discourage that.

A situation occurred today at breakfast. Three Privates didn't want to eat their food. We keep a close eye out for eating disorders, so I took the platoon outside and smoked them, having them yell, "THANK YOU PRIVATE ________________" over and over so the Privates inside could here them. For lunch we had those three Privates eat first, and the rest had to stand behind their trays and not take a single bite until the three had finished. Of course, one Private didn't wait, so after lunch I smoked the whole platoon.

The Privates also picked up a bunch of gear for the woods, attended separate briefings by the First Sergeant and the Chaplain (no Drill Sergeants allowed in that one) and went to dinner chow. During each of these tasks the Privates did something stupid, and thus were smoked
accordingly.

I'm going to bed. It's 9:30, and 3:45 will get here fast.

Mr. Peterson Goes to Wyoming

2005-12-13T14:39:00.000-08:00

"So what brings you to Wyoming?"

"I'm convinced the universe is out to get me, so I figured I'd head up to Devil's Tower, flip the universe the bird and call it a lot of nasty names, then wait for the aliens to show up so we could duke it out in the flesh."

The woman behind the desk continued to calmly chew her gum, posing her next question in the same bored voice as the first, her expression that of a cow contemplating a flower.

"So how long will you be staying?"

She really looks like a cow, he thought, what with those big eyes, the large bulbous nose, the black and white dress and the cowbell around her neck.

"As long as it takes," he replied thoughtfully. "Excuse me miss, but I couldn't help wondering – why are you wearing a cowbell around your neck?"

Why, what have they told you?" She asked the question slyly, as her eyes narrowed and her gaze intensified.

Her eyes look like a cow's eyes might look, if it were carnivorous and was hunting bunny rabbits, instead of looking at flowers, he thought.

She read the fear in his eyes and howled like an old, fat grandmother might if she were really tickled about something. "I'm just kidding. Say, with the aliens being light years away and all, should I book you for at least a week?"

"Yes," he replied slowly, handing her his credit card.

"Phoenix Amadeus Peterson," she read the card deliberately. "So that's your name?"

"Yes," he said even more uncertainly.

"PAP!" She chortled, delighted. "Those are your initials."

"Yes, they sure are," he responded, unenthused.

“PAP, my name is Jezebel, you can call me Jessie. Welcome to The Cattle Ranch MOOOTEL.” She grinned broadly.

“Uh, nice to meet you, Jessie. Did you think of that name yourself?”

“Yes, I did,” she announced proudly, either missing or ignoring his sarcasm.

“Of course.”

“So why do you want to flip the aliens the ol’ number 1? Say, are you one of them gay cowboys? We’ve been getting a lot of those since that gay cowboy movie came out. There aren’t really any gay cowboys running around here, you know. If there were, they’d probably have disappeared after the Michael Shepard murder.”

“No ma’am, I am not a gay cowboy.” His words were again quite certain.

“Of course, what am I thinking? There’s nothing gay about the name Phoenix Amadeus. So why are you so pissed, PAP? Is it ok if I call you PAP?”

“Please don’t.”

“Um, ok Phe-o-nix A-mu-de-us. So why the anger?”

He thought about it a moment, and then shrugged.

What the hell, she won’t believe me anyway, and it’ll be therapeutic to actually tell someone.

“Basically, for the last six months my life has been a country music song,” he began. “I’ve spent most of that time working for a secret joint government coalition task force composed of intelligence agents from the United States, Israel and Iraq, trying to track down an Electromagnetic Pulse Device on the international black market before it falls into the hands of the aliens. I couldn’t tell my girlfriend Alessandra, who thinks I’m a Baptist missionary, or she’d think I was crazy. So I lost the love of my life, who thinks I’m more committed to God than I am to her, when I don’t even believe in God, and the device has fallen into the hands of the terrorists, who will begin using it on major metropolitan areas in the next few weeks once Ramadan ends. So I figured I’d beat the rush out West before the world goes crazy.”

There, he thought, I said it.

“Before THE WORLD goes crazy,” she repeated.

God, I bet if I looked deep into her eyes I could see the cranks turning, he thought, leaning forward and looking deeply into her eyes, as he said, “Well, I guess the world is already crazy, most people just don’t know it yet, because they’re too self-absorbed…”

“THEY’RE too self-absorbed,” she repeated. “So why don’t you believe in God?”

“People who believe in God are crazy,” he said, continuing to look into her eyes, waiting to see what would happen.

“PEOPLE WHO BELIEVE IN GOD are crazy,” she repeated, returning his gaze.

“Yes, the world and the people in it are too screwed up for a God to exist. So there must be a bunch of aliens out there somewhere pissed off at us for something, so I want to provoke them into revealing themselves to me, so at least I know I’m not the crazy one.”

“PEOPLE WHO BELIEVE IN GOD are crazy,” she repeated, continuing to return his gaze.

Why does she keep saying that? He wondered. What is this, Goodwill Hunting?

Then he started to cry, just like Matt Damon in the movie, except Jessie didn’t reach over to hug him like Robin Williams did.

“I AM crazy, not the world, not God…” he sobbed, as she continued to watch him silently.

She finished writing down the information on his card and handed it back to him.

"Welcome to Wyoming, Phoenix Amadeus."

He reached across and hugged her, pressing a quick kiss on her big, cow-like lips.

“MY NAME IS TONY!” he exclaimed with joy. “TONY CANDALERIA!”

Instantly Jessie began to glow, her luminescence filling the room until it almost blinded him. Large white wings sprouted from her back, and she ran out the door. Flapping her wings she flew over Devil’s Tower and presumably up into heaven.

“THERE IS A GOD,” he exclaimed. “IT ALL MAKES SENSE!”

Then he thought about Jessie, and how she’d sprouted wings and flown away.

“IT DOES NOT ALL MAKE SENSE,” he exclaimed again, looking into the heavens.

He saw some black spots moving on the horizon toward the small town. As they came closer he recognized the black helicopters, and knew they were for him. So he turned and ran into the desert, where they wouldn’t look for him.

Natalie, the Three Guys and the Secret Truth

2005-12-02T19:15:00.000-08:00

"So why do guys like watching sports so much?"

She looked at him earnestly, as if he as a guy knew the Secret Truth that guys had been hiding from her since her childhood.

I'll never tell, he thought. She'll never get it from me. Let me think up something really complex, that sounds like it could be true, so that I can play with her head. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!

He secretly cackled sinisterly in his head, and then knowing that she couldn't hear what he was thinking, he secretly cackled again, even louder, and more sinisterly.

"Well Natalie," he said running his right hand with the friendship bracelet on the wrist through his permed hair, looking like Mike Seaver from Growing Pains, minus the stone-washed jeans, "for most guys scoring in sports is a metaphor for sex, and cheerleaders represent the ultimate woman- someone really sexy, who cheers whatever we do, doesn't ask hard questions, and is always calling for us to score."

Natalie looked thoughtful. "My mom always said it was just an excusefor my dad to drink beer and get away from women for awhile. Thanks for being honest with me, Gary! You've helped me realize that I need to get a boob job if I really want to find true intimacy with a man and feel good about myself as an independent woman."

Yes, Gary laughed again in his head. I got to another one, and women around the world are still no closer to knowing the Secret Truth! Natalie walked out of the bar and down the street, so caught up in her own thoughts that she walked smack into her friend Paul as he was walking out of the bookstore.

"Woah, Natalie," he said, sounding like Joey from Blossom, except not sounding half as cute because his hair wasn't curly and his chest was six inches smaller in circumference than the former sitcom star. "You look like you have a lot on your mind. What's going on?"

"I just found out the Secret Truth about why guys like watching sports so much. Also, I'm going to get a boob job so that guys will look at me as the ultimate woman, and then I can find true intimacy and also boost my self-esteem."

Paul looked thoughtful for a moment. "Natalie, let me be straight with you. As you know, I read lots of really boring books and I'm not that attractive, so I'm a pretty deep. I think you've been spending time with the wrong type of guy, and he's been filling your head with junk that could haunt you for years."

Natalie looked sad and a bit vulnerable. "What do you mean, Paul?"

"Well Natalie, the competition and violence involved in most sports provide a healthy outlet for our insecurities and frustrations withthe world, so when a team like the Red Sox wins the World Series after 86 years, it allows the average guy to think, 'You know, maybe I can make it through another day, and perhaps one day realize my own dream.'"

Natalie looked concerned. "You mean it's really not about me, I mean women, and I shouldn't get a boob job?"

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha!" Paul laughed sinisterly.

"Why did you just laugh sinisterly?" Natalie asked.

"Oh, sorry," Paul replied. "I thought I was laughing in my head. I spend my weekends alone in my room and don't have a social life, so sometimes I think I'm thinking something but I actually say it out loud. But never mind that... Of course you should get a boob job! Big boobs are warm and comforting to a man, and subconsciously make us think of becoming a father, and that our babies will be well fed. If you ever want to find true intimacy in a relationship and raise the beautiful children you've had in your head, you definitely need to change your appearance."

A bit more confused now, Natalie left Paul and continued to walk down the street. She was so caught up in her own thoughts that she ran into Peter, just as he was coming out of the neighborhood church.

"Hey Natalie," he said as he poked the top of his pointy elf-shaped ears, looking like Orlando Bloom in Lord of the Rings minus the bow and quiver of arrows, "I can tell by the way your lips are upturned and your eyes are squinting that you are deep in thought. What's on your mind?"

"Well Peter, I've just spoken with two different guys, and they've given me two different explanations for the Secret Truth about why guys like sports, and neither answer sounds like anything I've ever read the really sensitive guys built like Greek gods say in my romance novels."

Peter looked horrified. Before she could say another word he grabbed her and pushed her into a large box that was sitting on the sidewalk. He poked some air holes in it so she could breathe, and covered the top flaps with duct tape so she couldn't get out. Then he sighed deeply.

"Natalie, you've been led down the wrong path. Boobs have nothing to do with sports, except for women's beach volleyball. The Bible says that if we have but the faith of a mustard seed we can move mountains! If you would just read your Bible more and join a woman's prayer group, your boobs would grow to be the size of mountains!"

Then he said the same thing again and again about twelve more times only using different words, so she stopped being afraid that he wouldn't let her out of the box and started to fall asleep.

Finally, feeling satisfied that he had shaped her mind into the mold he wanted and undone the mind molds shaped by the men before him, and feeling like he had made a real difference by saying the word God a lot, he opened the box and let her out.

"Woman, thou art loosed! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha." He laughed sinisterly.

I know that sinister laugh, Natalie thought to herself as she continued to walk down the street. Paul had the same laugh, and Gary too. Finally she realized the Secret Truth… that all men had something deep inside of them that made them idiots! This was why they would do things like pay hundreds of dollars to fly to Dallas, stay in a hotel, pay $10 for a cheeseburger at the stadium and sit alone in a group of50,000 people to watch the Dallas Cowboys play football. At a base level, they were all idiots! She didn't need to change her body for a bunch of idiots, she was beautiful just the way God created her!

Feeling happy and free, she changed into a tight bikini and took a long, cold shower. She wasn't sure why she had an urge to do this, but she suspected that it was because the author of this story is a man. Realizing his mind could be so easily manipulated, and that he still didn't really understand what was going on her mind, she laughed sinisterly.

Ha ha ha ha ha!

Luci Edgewood

2005-11-21T06:06:00.000-08:00

Nick stood in the shadows, resting his right shoulder comfortably against the wall, watching Luci talk to her friend. He knew she couldn’t see him, and she was so focused on her conversation he doubted she would look his way. She was sitting on a bench under a tree.
“I have… feelings for him,” Luci stated uncertainly.
“What kind of feelings?” Mother Superior asked kindly.
“You know,” Luci responded softly, “unspoken yearnings.”
“UNSPOKEN YEARNINGS!” Mother Superior roared. Several other nuns on the abbey’s front lawn looked in their direction, and then went back to their work. Some of the cooler nuns smiled.
For the next hour Nick continued to watch the drama unfold, pausing occasionally to read Luci’s bio yet another time on the playbill. “The Sound of Music: 2006” had been universally panned. Theatre goers simply enjoyed the original too much, and rewriting the plot so that the nun Maria fell in love with a Muslim man and fled to Canada with his family to escape the incoming Republican administration proved a lousy draw. The theatre was less than half full, and when the curtains came down tonight the show’s week-long run would be over.
Expecting to see the acting equivalent of a train wreck, Nick had actually paid for a seat the first night. He found the show’s horribly written script strangely satisfying, but the real reason he’d volunteered to usher for the remaining performances was to see Lucy Edgewood, who played Maria. He kept trying to think of suave, creative ways to introduce himself to her, but after coming to the self-realization that he was neither suave nor creative, simply contented himself to watch from a distance.
The play ended and he straightened up to clap along with the small but enthusiastic audience. Miserable that he was about to walk out of the theatre and never see her again, Nick took a last, long look at the picture in the playbill and the woman on stage.
His heart went to his stomach. She was pointing at him.
“HEY, YOU. COME UP HERE!”
The other actors were walking to the front of the stage and engaging the audience, which from the conversation seemed to consist almost entirely of friends and family. Nick pushed his way through the small crowd and up to the front of the stage.
“Hi.” Nick said. “I really enjoyed your performance. My name is-”
“Are you a stalker or something?” Luci asked the question so casually that Nick relaxed and forgot to feel horrified.
“No.” He smiled.
“Oh.” She looked a little crestfallen. “Because I think it would really help my career if it got out that I had a stalker.”
“Well,” Nick said, longing to see her smile, “I suppose I… actually, um, no, that would be too creepy.”
“Then why have you been to every performance?”
He paused, wanting to choose his words carefully. “I think you’re really hot and I wanted to ask you out.”
“Hmmmn.” Luci thought for a second. “Normally I wouldn’t say yes, because you don’t know the real me and have probably idealized who you think I am from my character. However, since you haven’t thought beyond my looks yet, and your tight dress shirt hints at the body of a Greek god, why don’t we go get some pizza? What’s your name?”
“Nick.”

“So tell me about yourself,” Nick said as he stuffed a slice of NY’s finest pie into his mouth at a greasy spoon across the street from the theater.
“My mother died at childbirth, so my father named me Lucifer Anne to keep the boys away. It does the job, I suppose; that and the voices in my head.”
Nick looked at her oddly, so she responded quickly, “I’m just kidding about the Lucifer thing. Luci is actually short for Lucinda.”
“I see.”
“I was born and grew up in Prattville, Alabama. I came to NYU three years ago to get a double major in drama and psychology. I dropped out after a year, and started acting to support my career as a waitress. Ha ha ha. That’s a joke. Ha ha ha. No, I became an actress to get the admiration and adoration from the public that was missing in my relationship with my father. And also I want to be famous so I can raise money for poor, ugly people like Angelina Jolie.”
“I see,” Nick said again.
“What do you see?” she asked pleasantly.
His eyes grew wide as his attention was diverted out the window behind her.
“Oh my God, that man’s on fire!” Nick exclaimed.
As Luci turned to look Nick sprang from his chair and ran out the door.
She considered chasing him, but decided against it.
“One day,” she thought to herself, choking back the tears, “I’ll meet a man who loves me for me, a man who gets my sense of humor and can look past the medication to a heart full of love.”
“Miss, are you ok?” It was the Mexican pizza guy, walking out from behind the counter as he asked the question.
“Are you a stalker or something?” Luci asked.

The Death of Mr. Bubbles

2005-11-16T08:30:00.000-08:00

Sam Jones, age 8, sat on the soft green couch looking quizzically at Major Thomas Paul, an Army psychiatrist, who was looking with curiosity at his father, Drill Sergeant Matthew Jones, who was sitting next to his son and glaring suspiciously at a goldfish, who was swimming peacefully in a small, round bowl on the table next to the couch.

Major Paul’s unibrow was creased in concern.

“Drill Sergeant Jones, it is not uncommon for Drill Sergeants to have difficulty ‘turning it off’ when they walk through the door at home after a long day of Basic Training. However, your ex-wife has expressed her concern to your Company Commander that your behavior is impeding the emotional growth of young Sam here-”

“Why do you only have one eyebrow?” Sam asked. “Do all wizards have one eyebrow?”

Major Paul shot Drill Sergeant Jones an irritated look and emitted an exaggerated sigh. “Drill Sergeant, please refrain from referring to me as “the wizard” in front of Sam, or in front of your Privates for that matter. I’m here to help, and the negative connotation associated with that nickname gets in the way of me doing my job.”

Drill Sergeant Jones turned his gaze from the goldfish and leveled his eyes on the psychiatrist, his face as hard as stone. “Major, I KNOW you did not just tell me how to train my Privates.”

Major Paul looked quickly at Sam to gauge his response to his father’s behavior and was surprised to see his face harden like his father’s, an intense, almost hungry look filling his eyes. The Major licked his lips nervously and tried a different tact.

“I find it interesting that you responded on behalf of your Privates and not your son. As a father-”

“Major, I DARE YOU to tell me how to raise my son. I DARE YOU!”

Major Paul flinched at the last words and looked from the Drill Sergeant, whose look was cold and steady, to Sam, whose eyes were filled with excitement and anticipation as he muttered under his breath. The Major decided it was in his best interest to ignore the Drill Sergeant and try and shift the focus of the conversation back to Sam.

“What’s that, Sam?” he asked, hoping his voice didn’t quiver like his hands, which were now resting on his knees. He began to tap his finger, to release energy in a manner that he hoped did not convey fear, which was beginning to course throughout his entire body.

“Kill the pig, cut his throat, suck his blood.” Sam chanted the words just louder than a whisper.
Major Paul looked quickly back and forth from Sam, who continued to chant, to his father, whose eyes had narrowed and were focused on the Major’s tapping finger like a bird of prey honing in on a baby rabbit.

“I have an idea!” the Major exclaimed. “Let’s try a little exercise! Both of you close your eyes and take three deep breaths. Go ahead now, little Sam!”

Sam, continuing to mutter, looked at his father, who gave a curt nod and closed his eyes, to the Major’s surprise. Sam quickly followed suit.

“Ok now, we’ll start with you, Drill Sergeant.” Major Paul spoke the words quickly as his finger continued to tap furiously on his lap. “Take three deep breaths, in… and out, in… and out, in… and out. Ok. Ok. Now I want you to visualize your anger as a living thing.”

Drill Sergeant Jones visibly relaxed. Major Paul did not.

“Ok, now tell me about your anger. What do you see?”

“I’m standing at the edge of a dark lake. The water is as smooth a glass, but reflects nothing beneath a pitch black sky, silent and ominous as the grave.”

“I see,” said Major Paul. His fingers had ceased their tapping. He rose slowly to his feet and began to edge towards the closed office door.

“My anger is boiling just beneath the surface, embodied in a school of flying piranha on the other side of the lake. I step confidently into the lake to embrace and overcome my anger. The piranha sense my presence... they know that I know that they know that I’m in the water. I chortle gleefully as they begin their frenzied rush from across the lake towards me, several of them flapping their small fin-wings madly and rising momentarily above the water’s surface, glaring at me with their evil fish eyes with no lids-”

Sam opened his eyes and stared down Major Paul, who momentarily stopped inching towards the door and held his breath as the young boy began muttering softly, his voice growing louder with every word.

“Caw, Caw, Caw, CAW CAW CAW!”

Drill Sergeant Jones continued with his eyes closed, apparently oblivious to the others in the room, a dreamy grin spreading across his face.

“Yes, I hear them now, these prehistoric piscine birds of prey, but I fear not my anger. I GRIP IT IN AN EMBRACE OF DEATH!”

He grabbed the gold fish bowl and raised it over his head as Sam’s wild squawks filled the room. Major Paul, still several steps from the door, stood frozen in terror, his eyes wide with awe and horror.

“I AM A DRILL SERGEANT! DEATH HAS NO POWER OVER ME!” With that he turned around and hurled the fish bowl at the wall behind him, vanquishing Mr. Bubbles in one mighty throw.

The shattering glass brought Major Paul back to his senses, and he bolted for the door. Just as he grabbed the handle the door flew open, and his colleague, Captain Josh Haywood stood in the doorway with a digital camera.

FLASH!

“I guess we’re even now for April Fools, huh Major?” Haywood was laughing, joined at once by Drill Sergeant Jones and Sam.

“I’m not sure even is the word I’d use, Haywood,” Major Paul said icily. “Good one, Drill Sergeant. Say, why don’t you and Sam head on out of here so I can have a word with Captain Haywood.”

Drill Sergeant Jones and Sam walked out chuckling. The Major tore in the Captain. And in the other room Mr. Bubbles pondered what a cruel joke life could be as he breathed his last.

Charlie the Dirty Old Pickle Man

2005-11-10T18:27:00.000-08:00

“They say Paris is for lovers.”

“They say the same thing about Virginia. And here we don’t have all those smelly little Pierres running around with their big upturned noses. You’d think with such big noses they’d realize how fishy it smelled and do something about it.”

“You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”

“You know why else Paris smells? Because people piss all over the place. They do it because to take a piss you have to pay some old lady to walk in the john. Then she sits there and watches you do your thing to make sure you’re not shooting the drugs. Serves the damn little Socialists right- you have to pay to piss. That’s why people piss all over the city. You know why else people piss all over the city?”

“Please, enlighten me.”

“Because they know they can get away with it. The Frenchies got bitch slapped through two world wars. They know it, and so does everyone else. That’s why people piss all over Paris. Because they won’t do a damn thing about it. No one would ever do that in New York. Get their ass kicked.”

“Truly interesting. I’ve always wondered why people never urinate publicly in New York City. So when were you in Paris?”

“Well, I can’t really talk about it. I was working for the Pickle Factory at the time.”

“It truly embarrasses me to flaunt my ignorance in front of a gentleman such as yourself. Pickle Factory?”

“Yeah, you know, the Agency. CIA.”

“You were a spy?”

“Like I said, I can’t really talk about it.”

“How convenient.”

“So, you ever French kissed a spy before?”

“No, as a matter of fact I haven’t.”

“What say you and I go up to my room and I tell you a little more about the Pickle Factory?”

“As tempting as that sounds, a girl must have her standards. I’m afraid I don’t really take to men who wear diapers.”

“Come on, baby. There’s snow on the roof but there’s fire in the furnace.”

“You are a dirty old man, Charles Sanders. I insist you change the subject immediately, or I shall leave.”

“Call me the Colonel. Do you want to see my pickle?”

“Charles, Jesus loves you.”

Pause.

“Do you love me?”

“Yes, but I love you with agape love, not eros.”

“Ok. I’m not sure exactly what that means, but since you speak French, DEW YEW VANT TO SEE MY PEEKUL?”

“Good night, Mr. Sanders.”

“Say, you’re not French, are you?”

Sister Ingrid Johanssen stood from her rocking chair and walked across the front porch of the retirement community, pausing briefly at the entrance to shoot Charlie a last look of disgust, which turned to pity and then sadness. Once she was inside, he slyly surveyed the perimeter with his remaining eye, and then pulled out a small, stuffed velvet pickle with large white eyes. Satisfied that he was alone, he gave it two good squeezes with his one good arm.

“Eat your vegetables!” It cheerfully exclaimed.

Charlie spoke quickly into the plush toy he’d stolen from his grandson, as if it were a microphone.

“Day one. I have penetrated the hen house. Have yet to penetrate hen. No sign yet of the Grey Fox. Charlie out.”

Marc, John and the Man with Donut Nipples

2005-11-08T17:37:00.000-08:00

Marc sat heavily down at the chess board across from John and picked up the thick, worn paperback to the right of the board. Closing his eyes dramatically, he flung the book open and thrust his finger down on a page.

"The unexamined life is not worth living for man."

John took a sip of his port, and moved the pawn in front of his castle two spaces to start the game.

"Socrates, of course," he responded. "This is usually more interesting when the quote is more obscure. Maybe we should replace Bartlett’s Book of Quotations with People Magazine."

"Chess, port and talk of breast implants- now there’s a good time. It’d be fun to see you flaunt your ignorance. I suppose that’s why you don’t speak about women much on your show." Marc replied.

"As you know, C-SPAN is not given to that sort of thing unless there’s a president involved. But you’re avoiding the topic. You got us into this conundrum, so back to the quote. Otherwise I’ll be forced to spend the evening downing an excessive amount of this excellent port."

Marc moved a pawn of his own.

"I think Socrates was a pompous ass. No one sets out to live a meaningless life; I mean, everyone has a motivation for why they do things. I knew a guy in college named David Lawson. Dave was a philosophy major, wore the dark turtlenecks with the unkempt hair."

"I thought ‘techno-weenies’ dressed like that." John interrupted.

"No, techno-weenies wear t-shirts with sarcastic things written on them, like ‘Chicks dig pale white guys.’ Philosophy majors wear dark colored turtlenecks, so people will know how deep they are."

"I did not know that," said John.

"Anyway, when Dave wasn’t busy kissing Professor and Respected Scholar Timothy Newton’s ass, he would sit under trees, smoke pot and contemplate life. One time we were in a study group together with this hot girl Sarah, and so I asked him what he planned to do once he finished college."

"What does this Sarah have to do with anything? John interrupted.

"Examined or unexamined, a life without an attractive woman in it isn’t worth living. But you’re missing my point. Dave said he didn’t have things figured out yet, but he wanted to spend more time thinking through the meaning of life, then live a life of meaning. Do you know what he ended up doing?"

"You know I hate rhetorical questions." John said.

"A year after graduating he started working at a donut shop! A few months later he got hauled away to prison for murder." Marc paused dramatically.

"What happened?"

"He couldn’t find any meaning to his life, or life in general. After graduation his philosophy degree was as valuable as an ass tattoo in the job market, so he ended up working at Sarah’s cousin’s donut shop."

"Again the lovely Sarah," John interjected.

"Yeah, she choose him over me and they dated for a bit. Women." Marc blew a cloud of smoke.

"There’s no accounting for some women’s taste," said John.

"Yeah, well if I was good with the ladies I wouldn’t be wasting one night a week playing chess with the host of C-SPAN’s ‘Book Notes,’ would I? Anyway, after a few months at the donut shop Dave sort of lost it. He decided he hated himself, hated life and hated the customers who relied on sugar highs to make it through their day. So he sold his car, maxed his credit cards, and bought $20G’s worth of Crack, which he mixed in with the dough one morning."

"You can buy Crack on the street with credit cards?" John asked.

"No, he wrote checks on the credit card accounts. Credit card companies send them to make it more easy for users to buy things. Don’t you own a credit card?" Marc scowled.

"Just the company card; but I interrupt you tale. Please continue." John finished the glass of port and poured another.

"Two of the customers OD’d there in the shop. Someone called an ambulance, which arrived escorted by five cop cars-"

"Five police cruisers?" John interrupted again.

"Hey, it was a donut shop. By that time Dave had eaten a few of the Crack donuts, so as they pulled up he ran out wearing nothing but a smile and two donuts glued to his nipples. A couple of the cop cars followed him for about 20 minutes around town, then arrested him when he finally fell over unconscious."

"The police allowed him to run around in public like that for 20 minutes?" John put down his glass, obviously agitated.

"Hey, would you want to tackle a naked guy with donut nipples?" Marc continued. "He got life in prison."

"How did you hear about all this?" John asked.

"Sarah called and told me about it. I hadn’t talked to her since we graduated, but she knew I was a reporter for Weekly World News, and thought she might be able to get a few bucks out of the story." Marc took another drag on the cigar.

"And did she?"

"No. I wrote the story, but WWN doesn’t like to run stories without pictures. Pictures make the story more credible," Marc concluded.

"Such as the article about Pig Boy, the result of a liaison between a farmer’s daughter and a Bovinian Don Juan which graced the cover of WWN last week?"

"Exactly," Marc agreed. "Although I thought you were above reading such ‘rubbish.’"

"I was stuck in line at a Safeway last week. Couldn’t help it."

"Anyway, to get back to Socrates... you examine life too much and you’ll find yourself running bare-ass naked down the street with donuts glued to your nipples."