My Worst Nightmare: Allah My Rowdy Friends Or So Laden, It's Bin Good To Know by Bill Klein Then I dreamt that I was recruited into Osama bin-Laden's wacky group of Merry Militant Muslim Marauders and I had hoped to God, er, Allah that I had packed enough shampoo because from the looks of these guys they wash their hair a lot but anyway I had a good time on the flight to Afghanistan because it seems I was the only person on the plane, go figure, and it was really weird because the in-flight movies were "Ishtar," "Heaven's Gate," and "Josie And The Pussycats," and I thought there was a law against having so many bombs on an airplane but I guess not and so when I got to airport in Kabul and I had to hire two cabs because I had more luggage than one goat could carry and we rode leisurely to bin-Laden's headquarters which was a much bigger cave then I expected but then everybody knows that the brass get all the perks and they put me in a room full of flags and handed me a Zippo, easy enough work I guess, this must be where they start all the new guys and pretty soon I was accepted and began helping out with other tasks to contribute to the war against the Great Satan as they called it although I didn't tell them that I already knew who the Great Satan was and how was burning American flags ever gonna help get rid of Regis Philbin I'll never know, but I kept my mouth shut, get along/go along and when in Rome and all that so I just did my work and ate my couscous, blech, and was a good little soldier and talked about the great ankles on that Tajik stripper that we hired for Osama's birthday and then somebody told an Uzbek joke and I laughed so hard that camel milk came through my nose and I almost dropped an envelope full of anthrax and then Osama asked if any of us would like to take a plane ride to America and I volunteered because I was feeling a little homesick and the next thing I knew I was back at the airport and while I was standing in line at the Starbucks' kiosk I happened to notice that the ticket was only one way and when I woke up it was the year 2036 and Donald Rumsfeld was on CNN saying they expected to find bin-Laden "any day now"... © 2002 by Bill Klein; all rights reserved. * * * * * * * * * * * Blue Dye Bob Blows the Bank Job by Mike Whitney Blue Dye Bob dropped the bank's currency bag into the trash and ran across the street as the A train pulled into the subway station. He slapped at his clothes and face. The dye bomb color -- more aquamarine than robin's egg blue -- covered the front upper half of his body. The eleven packets of crisp one hundred dollar bills were burning a hole in his pockets. Bob smiled crookedly. No doubt his blue soul was burning as well. Bob scurried down the subway steps. He realized he must indeed take the A train. Entering the train car, he sneezed, puffing a faint blue cloud before him. An off-duty police officer sitting across the aisle immediately noticed Bob's blue bulges. Rising from his seat, he withdrew handcuffs from inside his jacket. Stepping across the aisle, he slapped the handcuffs on unsuspecting Bob with practiced motions. "You are under arrest for appearing in a short story as a character named Bob. Roll up your sleeve and bend over. Repeat after me. 'Hello, LeRoi. I'm your new cellmate.'" Bob freaked. "I'm guilty but I feel no shame. The world ignores me and my ex-wife hounds me. My father neglected me and my art goes unnoticed... I ...what are you doing? Man, put away the gun!" Three shots rang out in the crowded train car. Bob did an impression of Lee Harvey Oswald as both lungs collapsed and his heart screamed in shock. Hot brass from the spent cartridges clinked on the car's floor. The cop twirled his gun and slipped it back into his pants. Sighing deeply from the hot gun barrel pressed against his cul-de-sac, he squirmed, "There's no whining on the A train, see. Don't tell me about an indifferent world unable to accept unique works of art. I created cool stuff all my life to an uncaring populace. Then, I got a gun and now I feel good about myself." The passengers, past pretending boredom at the current criminal carnage, murmured approval at this last, and returned to their bookmarked books. A pair of porters came through and scooped the former Bob onto a stretcher, carrying him out the back of the car, and leaving a trace of blue dye powder in the air. At least there would be no delays getting to work this morning. © 2002 by Mike Whitney; all rights reserved. * * * * * * * * * * * Sleeping With the Natives You're captivated by his smile. Your eyes meet and you know he's yours. Well, at least for tonight. This is the language of love. But what exactly is the language of love in a foreign country? You speak English. Dare you try to impress this fine man with your second tongue? Remember the point of language is as a tool for communication, rather than for sheer entertainment purposes and hopefully you have other ways in mind to keep him entertained this evening than simply by dangling your foreign participles in front of his nose. Let's assume you didn't arrive on the boat/plane/train today. You've been around. You've picked up phrases and know some basic grammar. At least you can shop at the market and ask for a single hotel room with a view. Whether your command of the local langauge is sufficient to get you by under the sheets is another thing. Sex words are specialty words, not something you learned in your "French for Travelers" course back in Baltimore. Like anything else, start slowly. Try a few native words as you nibble on his ear. Watch his reaction. Does he look puzzled or amused or does he just outright laugh at you? Is it your accent? Or have you whispered something stupid? Maybe "Mmmm. You smell just like the back of a bakery!" This does nothing to spark his desires and it's distracting him from the heat of the moment. Your lousy French (Italian, Japanese, fill in the blank) is obvious. His hopes that your other talents might exceed your shallow capacity for foreign languages are dimming by the minute. You try again, wanting the lights out. This time it's worse. "The lamp, she is too big. Shall I break her on the ceiling?" Now he's convinced you're an idiot. And he's wondering what kind of woman picks up a strange guy her first week in a foreign country. Surely any sane, normal woman would have been staying there long enough to at least be able to first ask, "Are you married?" (Now he's starting to wonder if you plan to present him with a bill for services rendered at the end of the evening.) Your foreign language cloak does not cover you well. You're exposed. No laughing Language Police are going to come rescue you either. You got yourself into this mess and it's up to you to get yourself out - with dignity. Alas, things are not going well. The more you experiment with his man's language, the more you insult his very culture. In the language department, you are braindead. And the night is young. Better not get your hopes up of ever seeing this one again. © 2002 by Roberta Beach Jacobson; all rights reserved. * * * * * * * * * * * A Day in the Life of a Freelance Humor Writer by John Walsh Have you seen that soporific, white-haired guy pitching art school on television? He offers to send an art aptitude test free of charge to determine if you have hidden artistic talent. No one has ever failed the art aptitude test, because employees of correspondence schools are trained to accept any applicant who can control his drool long enough to affix postage. However, imagine that you sketched extemely sick and sordid pictures -- drawings of color-blind corporate executives selecting golfing ensembles -- and you managed to offend the poor guy opening the envelope. If you are the only person in America to crash the art aptitude test, there's still hope for a creative career. Yes, you too, can earn a garageful of money, at home, in the lucrative, fast-growing field of freelance humor writing. If promises of a three-figure annual income sound Too Good To Be True, read these reality-based excerpts from "A Day in the Life of a Freelance Humor Writer." 3:45 a.m. One of the six cats steps lightly over my nuts. It is important for humor writers to own six cats because they create amusing, inspirational situations. 6:00 a.m. Breakfasting with my spouse. When she complains about "rice and beans again," I remind her that The Husband is an Artist. 7:30 a.m. Time for a little house cleaning, or as we say in the humor writing game, "Sprucing up the Appliance Carton." Now, don't be discouraged -- not every humor writer lives in a cardboard box under the viaduct. Many reside comfortably with their parents. 9:00 a.m. Check the mail. I receive six rejections from magazines and twelve pre-approved credit card applications. It's very important for young writers to maintain that 2 to 1 ratio. 10:15 a.m. My wife leaves me for an entry-level fast food employee. "It's not the financial security," she says. "He doesn't hop out of bed at two a.m. for re-writes." 11:00 a.m. I knock off five hundred words of humor on the plight of the American humor writer. "Self-serving, self-absorbed," meows one cat. "Sashimi," meows another. 4:00 p.m. The truth? I only knocked off 490 words. Have you ever tried to end a humor article? The last sentence is impossible. Every conclusion sounds flat. 6:00 p.m. Seeking inspiration to finish the miserable thing, I turn to Blockbuster. I rent the rehab movie "28 Days" and try to drink my way to clarity. That Sandra Bullock, she's a fetching lass. 3:45 a.m. I fall asleep in front of the TV and wake up to prodding cat paws and the droning voice of the white-haired guy imploring me to call for a free art aptitude test. So I draw him a horse, land a six-figure job at a reputable ad agency, and my wife comes back. Everything's perfect, except the last sentence. © 2002 by John Walsh; all rights reserved. * * * * * * * * * * * This Kitchen Ain't Big Enough by Don Kelley Somewhere in the world there are people that live together and actually share a kitchen. Married couples that enjoy cooking together. He chops and she mixes. She seasons and he slices. They both taste. Awww. I imagine they have these huge, roomy kitchens with 'islands' inside, tons of counter space, with elbow room to spare. I don't have a kitchen like that. It's not tiny, but it's not huge either. And it's certainly not made for two people. It's made for one, plus the occasional visitor. The visit must be brief. Here's a typical scenario. I get thirsty and decide I'd like a drink. So I head to the kitchen to get one. Halfway there, I can see my wife is already in there, doing something. I come in. She gets tense. Instead of going about her business, she tries to figure out which direction I'm going, so she can get out of my way. Then she gets directly IN my way, as I awkwardly try to reach over her shoulder for a glass, the fridge, the sink. She blocks me, unthinkingly, at every turn. If she would only stay still, I think, I could work around her. But no. She is so concerned that she might be blocking me that she moves and immediately blocks me. This has been going on for eight years now. I was talking to my wife this the other night, and asked her why she did this. "Because you come in with this huge AURA around you." she replied, making a big circle with her arms. "And you have this attitude that no one can invade your AURA." This was the craziest thing I ever heard. "Well if that's true, what can I do about it?" I asked. "Make it smaller." So, until I learn how to reduce my aura, this condition will continue. We will both reach for a glass at the same time, decide to rinse our hands at the same time, try to open the fridge at the same time. Yes, two people functioning as one well-oiled machine. There is one thing that we can do in the kitchen: I call it tag team cooking. She'll start to boil something, and leave the room for about 30 minutes. I might drift in, lugging my oversized aura with me, and notice that a pan of spaghetti sauce is boiling furiously, throwing blotches of tomato all over the stovetop, the clock, the dials, and the adjoining countertop. Alarmed, I'll quickly remove the pan, turn the heat down to simmer, put the pan back, then do what I originally came to do. When my wife returns, I'll tell her of my heroic act. "Oh," she'll say. "You didn't have to do that." Maybe we should open a restaurant. © 2002 by Don Kelley; all rights reserved. |
My Worst Nightmare: Allah My Rowdy Friends Or So Laden, It's Bin Good To Know by Bill Klein Then I dreamt that I was recruited into Osama bin-Laden's wacky group of Merry Militant Muslim Marauders and I had hoped to God, er, Allah that I had packed enough shampoo because from the looks of these guys they wash their hair a lot but anyway I had a good time on the flight to Afghanistan because it seems I was the only person on the plane, go figure, and it was really weird because the in-flight movies were "Ishtar," "Heaven's Gate," and "Josie And The Pussycats," and I thought there was a law against having so many bombs on an airplane but I guess not and so when I got to airport in Kabul and I had to hire two cabs because I had more luggage than one goat could carry and we rode leisurely to bin-Laden's headquarters which was a much bigger cave then I expected but then everybody knows that the brass get all the perks and they put me in a room full of flags and handed me a Zippo, easy enough work I guess, this must be where they start all the new guys and pretty soon I was accepted and began helping out with other tasks to contribute to the war against the Great Satan as they called it although I didn't tell them that I already knew who the Great Satan was and how was burning American flags ever gonna help get rid of Regis Philbin I'll never know, but I kept my mouth shut, get along/go along and when in Rome and all that so I just did my work and ate my couscous, blech, and was a good little soldier and talked about the great ankles on that Tajik stripper that we hired for Osama's birthday and then somebody told an Uzbek joke and I laughed so hard that camel milk came through my nose and I almost dropped an envelope full of anthrax and then Osama asked if any of us would like to take a plane ride to America and I volunteered because I was feeling a little homesick and the next thing I knew I was back at the airport and while I was standing in line at the Starbucks' kiosk I happened to notice that the ticket was only one way and when I woke up it was the year 2036 and Donald Rumsfeld was on CNN saying they expected to find bin-Laden "any day now"... © 2002 by Bill Klein; all rights reserved. * * * * * * * * * * * Blue Dye Bob Blows the Bank Job by Mike Whitney Blue Dye Bob dropped the bank's currency bag into the trash and ran across the street as the A train pulled into the subway station. He slapped at his clothes and face. The dye bomb color -- more aquamarine than robin's egg blue -- covered the front upper half of his body. The eleven packets of crisp one hundred dollar bills were burning a hole in his pockets. Bob smiled crookedly. No doubt his blue soul was burning as well. Bob scurried down the subway steps. He realized he must indeed take the A train. Entering the train car, he sneezed, puffing a faint blue cloud before him. An off-duty police officer sitting across the aisle immediately noticed Bob's blue bulges. Rising from his seat, he withdrew handcuffs from inside his jacket. Stepping across the aisle, he slapped the handcuffs on unsuspecting Bob with practiced motions. "You are under arrest for appearing in a short story as a character named Bob. Roll up your sleeve and bend over. Repeat after me. 'Hello, LeRoi. I'm your new cellmate.'" Bob freaked. "I'm guilty but I feel no shame. The world ignores me and my ex-wife hounds me. My father neglected me and my art goes unnoticed... I ...what are you doing? Man, put away the gun!" Three shots rang out in the crowded train car. Bob did an impression of Lee Harvey Oswald as both lungs collapsed and his heart screamed in shock. Hot brass from the spent cartridges clinked on the car's floor. The cop twirled his gun and slipped it back into his pants. Sighing deeply from the hot gun barrel pressed against his cul-de-sac, he squirmed, "There's no whining on the A train, see. Don't tell me about an indifferent world unable to accept unique works of art. I created cool stuff all my life to an uncaring populace. Then, I got a gun and now I feel good about myself." The passengers, past pretending boredom at the current criminal carnage, murmured approval at this last, and returned to their bookmarked books. A pair of porters came through and scooped the former Bob onto a stretcher, carrying him out the back of the car, and leaving a trace of blue dye powder in the air. At least there would be no delays getting to work this morning. © 2002 by Mike Whitney; all rights reserved. * * * * * * * * * * * Sleeping With the Natives You're captivated by his smile. Your eyes meet and you know he's yours. Well, at least for tonight. This is the language of love. But what exactly is the language of love in a foreign country? You speak English. Dare you try to impress this fine man with your second tongue? Remember the point of language is as a tool for communication, rather than for sheer entertainment purposes and hopefully you have other ways in mind to keep him entertained this evening than simply by dangling your foreign participles in front of his nose. Let's assume you didn't arrive on the boat/plane/train today. You've been around. You've picked up phrases and know some basic grammar. At least you can shop at the market and ask for a single hotel room with a view. Whether your command of the local langauge is sufficient to get you by under the sheets is another thing. Sex words are specialty words, not something you learned in your "French for Travelers" course back in Baltimore. Like anything else, start slowly. Try a few native words as you nibble on his ear. Watch his reaction. Does he look puzzled or amused or does he just outright laugh at you? Is it your accent? Or have you whispered something stupid? Maybe "Mmmm. You smell just like the back of a bakery!" This does nothing to spark his desires and it's distracting him from the heat of the moment. Your lousy French (Italian, Japanese, fill in the blank) is obvious. His hopes that your other talents might exceed your shallow capacity for foreign languages are dimming by the minute. You try again, wanting the lights out. This time it's worse. "The lamp, she is too big. Shall I break her on the ceiling?" Now he's convinced you're an idiot. And he's wondering what kind of woman picks up a strange guy her first week in a foreign country. Surely any sane, normal woman would have been staying there long enough to at least be able to first ask, "Are you married?" (Now he's starting to wonder if you plan to present him with a bill for services rendered at the end of the evening.) Your foreign language cloak does not cover you well. You're exposed. No laughing Language Police are going to come rescue you either. You got yourself into this mess and it's up to you to get yourself out - with dignity. Alas, things are not going well. The more you experiment with his man's language, the more you insult his very culture. In the language department, you are braindead. And the night is young. Better not get your hopes up of ever seeing this one again. © 2002 by Roberta Beach Jacobson; all rights reserved. * * * * * * * * * * * A Day in the Life of a Freelance Humor Writer by John Walsh Have you seen that soporific, white-haired guy pitching art school on television? He offers to send an art aptitude test free of charge to determine if you have hidden artistic talent. No one has ever failed the art aptitude test, because employees of correspondence schools are trained to accept any applicant who can control his drool long enough to affix postage. However, imagine that you sketched extemely sick and sordid pictures -- drawings of color-blind corporate executives selecting golfing ensembles -- and you managed to offend the poor guy opening the envelope. If you are the only person in America to crash the art aptitude test, there's still hope for a creative career. Yes, you too, can earn a garageful of money, at home, in the lucrative, fast-growing field of freelance humor writing. If promises of a three-figure annual income sound Too Good To Be True, read these reality-based excerpts from "A Day in the Life of a Freelance Humor Writer." 3:45 a.m. One of the six cats steps lightly over my nuts. It is important for humor writers to own six cats because they create amusing, inspirational situations. 6:00 a.m. Breakfasting with my spouse. When she complains about "rice and beans again," I remind her that The Husband is an Artist. 7:30 a.m. Time for a little house cleaning, or as we say in the humor writing game, "Sprucing up the Appliance Carton." Now, don't be discouraged -- not every humor writer lives in a cardboard box under the viaduct. Many reside comfortably with their parents. 9:00 a.m. Check the mail. I receive six rejections from magazines and twelve pre-approved credit card applications. It's very important for young writers to maintain that 2 to 1 ratio. 10:15 a.m. My wife leaves me for an entry-level fast food employee. "It's not the financial security," she says. "He doesn't hop out of bed at two a.m. for re-writes." 11:00 a.m. I knock off five hundred words of humor on the plight of the American humor writer. "Self-serving, self-absorbed," meows one cat. "Sashimi," meows another. 4:00 p.m. The truth? I only knocked off 490 words. Have you ever tried to end a humor article? The last sentence is impossible. Every conclusion sounds flat. 6:00 p.m. Seeking inspiration to finish the miserable thing, I turn to Blockbuster. I rent the rehab movie "28 Days" and try to drink my way to clarity. That Sandra Bullock, she's a fetching lass. 3:45 a.m. I fall asleep in front of the TV and wake up to prodding cat paws and the droning voice of the white-haired guy imploring me to call for a free art aptitude test. So I draw him a horse, land a six-figure job at a reputable ad agency, and my wife comes back. Everything's perfect, except the last sentence. © 2002 by John Walsh; all rights reserved. * * * * * * * * * * * This Kitchen Ain't Big Enough by Don Kelley Somewhere in the world there are people that live together and actually share a kitchen. Married couples that enjoy cooking together. He chops and she mixes. She seasons and he slices. They both taste. Awww. I imagine they have these huge, roomy kitchens with 'islands' inside, tons of counter space, with elbow room to spare. I don't have a kitchen like that. It's not tiny, but it's not huge either. And it's certainly not made for two people. It's made for one, plus the occasional visitor. The visit must be brief. Here's a typical scenario. I get thirsty and decide I'd like a drink. So I head to the kitchen to get one. Halfway there, I can see my wife is already in there, doing something. I come in. She gets tense. Instead of going about her business, she tries to figure out which direction I'm going, so she can get out of my way. Then she gets directly IN my way, as I awkwardly try to reach over her shoulder for a glass, the fridge, the sink. She blocks me, unthinkingly, at every turn. If she would only stay still, I think, I could work around her. But no. She is so concerned that she might be blocking me that she moves and immediately blocks me. This has been going on for eight years now. I was talking to my wife this the other night, and asked her why she did this. "Because you come in with this huge AURA around you." she replied, making a big circle with her arms. "And you have this attitude that no one can invade your AURA." This was the craziest thing I ever heard. "Well if that's true, what can I do about it?" I asked. "Make it smaller." So, until I learn how to reduce my aura, this condition will continue. We will both reach for a glass at the same time, decide to rinse our hands at the same time, try to open the fridge at the same time. Yes, two people functioning as one well-oiled machine. There is one thing that we can do in the kitchen: I call it tag team cooking. She'll start to boil something, and leave the room for about 30 minutes. I might drift in, lugging my oversized aura with me, and notice that a pan of spaghetti sauce is boiling furiously, throwing blotches of tomato all over the stovetop, the clock, the dials, and the adjoining countertop. Alarmed, I'll quickly remove the pan, turn the heat down to simmer, put the pan back, then do what I originally came to do. When my wife returns, I'll tell her of my heroic act. "Oh," she'll say. "You didn't have to do that." Maybe we should open a restaurant. © 2002 by Don Kelley; all rights reserved. |
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