Day 9: The Ruse

Mr. Trump stood offstage, hands cupped over his groin, as “Proud To Be An American” reached it’s saccharine crescendo through the public address system speakers. The crowd roared like Romans demanding blood. Surveying the sweaty attendees, man with eyes rolling back beyond the view of Chinese-made snapbacks were in an ecstatic release. Trump was pleased, and nodded his approval, which seemed a contradiction coupled with his furrowed brow and pout.

“Patriots, I give you our next president, Mr. Donald J. Trump!” the speakers announced, and the roar turned into a shriek, a war whoop. Mr. Trump sauntered to the podium, a smug close-mouthed smile plastered on his garish sepia face.  He scanned the rally crowd for babies to eject. His staff had ensured him several times there were none in the first 10 rows, but some of them were a little Mexican, or maybe those weird Mexicans from Guatemala or some other backward tacotown, and so could not be trusted.

“Folks, I gotta tell you, you look great. You guys that came out, you see? A lot of people have turned their backs. I was treated very unfairly, very unfairly, especially by that horrible internet, which is going down the tubes, let me tell you, doing very poorly, by the way.”

He pursed his lips again, as the rally attendees hurled anti-internes slogans, “Roast Snopes!” and “Tumblr is for socialists!”

“Folks, before we get going, There’s something I gotta do. Can  do that?” He grasped at his jowls behind the knot of his Chinese-made tie, and began to tug and yank, his diminutive digits the perfect pincers to accomplish the task. He pulled the skin forward and up, with a schlopping sound when it flapped off. Blinking at the bright lights were three male heads. “Hey, we’re Kamal and Johnny, the Jerky Boys! And we got you good, jerkies!”, said the head on the left. The slightly smaller head in the middle spoke next. “I’m 12-yeal old Brayden. Fart fart faggot fart!”

The crowd was silent for a moment, than began chanting “Trump! Trump! Trump! Trump!”, as supporters took to twitter and facebook to declare the TrumpHeads3 for their honesty, and point out that at least they’re not politicians.



Chicken Coop



Note: This originally appeared on my Medium page.

Keisha opened the egg box of the vacant chicken coop, and saw a tiny man pooping in a feed tray. He shielded his eyes against the sun and yelled at her “Hey, do you mind? Whaddaya, some kinda pervert?”

“What are you doing in my chicken coop?” Keisha asked.

His eyes darted about. He cracked a half-smile. “What does it look like? I’m not knitting a sweater. I’m not in the joint no more, I wanna crap in peace without giant ladies or field mice watching me.”

Keisha thought it remarkable how deep his voice was, with such small vocal cords, and how he spoke like a cartoon character from New Jersey.

“What I mean is, why do you live here, in the chicken coop?”

“I (grunt) won it in a cockfight, fair and square.”

“There used to be cockfights here?”

“Just the one time. I stabbed that bastard in his liver, then slit his throat. Kept my distance as he bled out. What a mess! The hens split soon after that” he explained.

“They just up and left?” She asked.

“Yeah, flew the coop” he said, with another half-smile.

He grabbed a handful of woodchips to wipe himself. When he was done, as he walked over to his puddled cargo shorts, Keisha blushed when she saw his member. It was tiny, but in proportion to his body, an impressive appendage. He put on his shorts.

“So, listen lady, I guess you own the house now. I had it all worked out with the last people. Let’s be civil, okay? No coming by unannounced, and I won’t get in your way. Text me if you need anything, I’ll be doing the same. Keep any dogs or cats out of this part of the garden, especially cats. And I need a few things from you,” he said.

“Such as?”

“Those tiny bottles of liquor-once a week I need a bottle of Dewar’s. I need a water, some melba toast, and Vienna sausage. The rest I get from the garden, or I barter with animals. Can you do that for me…I wanna say Carol? You look like a Carol”.

“Keisha, actually. Yeah, I can do that.”

“Okay, cool. Keisha, I’m having a little get together later, not for nothin’, it’s poker night, and my turn to host. We’ll keep it down and be done by ten-thirty at the latest. The frogs get belligerent past about then. Last time they picked a fight with the chipmunks, sheesh, wadn’t pretty. I’ll need you to take out the trash bags later. Not much. 1 or 2 of them Halloween baggies. In return, I’ll scare off any tweakers or raccoons that come around.”

“Tweakers come in the yard at night? Is this a regular occurrence?”

“Heh heh. Yeah. You ask a lot of questions. Welcome to Utah, toots.”


The Ghost Athiest (Fiction)



This originally appeared on my page, where I post fiction pieces.

The Ghost Athiest

“Dude, wake up.”

Paul rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “You’re not talking to me. I already told you ghosts aren’t real. Rather, they could be real, but there’s no evidence for or against. My non-belief is pragmatic and based on the scientific method”, he said.

“Paul, this is going to get ugly if you don’t get your stupid meatbag ass outta that bed. I have to right wrongs on Earth so I can move on, and you’ll learn something through the quest.”

Paul sighed. “This is just a side effect of my medication. I’m going back to sleep.”

“Goddamnit Paul! Even prescription-strength dandruff shampoo doesn’t cause claw-like lacerations, auditory and visual hallucinations, and fuckin’ ECTOPLASM!”

“The scratches are from inexpensive towels, the hallucinations are from being tired, and the alleged ectoplasm is sebaceous fluid from my inflamed scalp. Goodnight, to no one and nothing, because I am alone.” Paul said, glad for having stood up for himself.

The ghost shook the bed. “A common earthquake, and a pitiful one, at that.”

The ghost opened Paul’s laptop and typed “SAMSAMSAMSAMSAMSAMSAMSAM.”

“Screensaver,” Paul declared.

“Listen, jackass, I have to settle accounts” the ghost said.

“Misplaced workplace anxiety,” answered Paul.

The ghost jumped in through Paul’s solar plexus and made his head turn around three times.

“Yoga must be paying off”, a smug Paul said. “Namaste.”

“I have business with the realm of the living, and I’ve chosen you as my corporeal assistant”, the Ghost said from within Paul’s thorax.

“I have big things to do. I’m going to change the World! I believe in me, I’m a winner, and nothing can get in my way!” affirmed Paul.

The ghost swam out through the main exit, dragging a fart with him. Paul giggled.

“You screwed up big time, buddy! You could have been rich, and imbued with the power of the spirit world. You could even have been reunited with your dead dog, Sparky. I’m outta here.” The ghost said, before flying through the dreamcatcher over Paul’s window and teleporting to Arizona.

“Is he gone?” asked a voice from under the bed.

“Yeah, it’s cool. Come on out, babe”, Paul said

“Whew, that was close” said Lady Sasquatch, as she slipped under the comforter. “Tell me about Sparky” she said, spooning Paul.


This story originally appeared on Medium.


You pat yourself down before you leave-wallet, key fob, phone. You have all your pocket rectangles. The rectangle is utilitarian, to be sure, and the least sexy of all shapes. Rectangles are boxes containing brown, square-toed shoes to make boring men more boring, their feet more rectangular. Rectangles are cubicles, mid-sized sedans, Excel spreadsheets, cinder blocks, paper money, the phone books that appear on your porchtangle to be fed to your recyclingtangle. Topographical maps commit the sin of rendering mountain ranges-MOUNTAIN RANGES!-as rectangles, their purple mountain majesty wider than tall, cornered by 90 predictable degrees. Even the Golden Rectangle of the Parthenon is only hip because of spirals and the Fibonacci Sequence. If it weren’t playacting as circles (and therefore asscheeks-trust me, the ancient Greeks were all about ass), the Parthenon would just be another fucking fat fucking square. You walk through your rectangle door into your pickup truck and drive down the road alongside other sad rectangles and their sad people. You encounter more as your go along; traffic lights, handi-vans, convenience stores. Rectangle, rectangle, rectangle. You see a box in the road. It’s possible the box is full of kittens. You speed up and run it over. At the very least you’ll create something new and asymmetrical, and though you’re not overtaken by feline bloodlust, you’ll destroy a rectangle.