Saturday, January 29, 2011

More Dumb Laws

Pedestrians crossing the highways at night must wear tail lights. (Kansas)


One may not picket a funeral. (Overland Park, Kansas)


No one may sing the alphabet on the streets at night. (Topeka, Kansas)


Having sexual relations with a porcupine is illegal. (Florida)


Torpedoes may not be set off in the city. (Destin, Florida)


It is illegal to sell Limburger cheese on Sunday. (Houston, Texas)


It is illegal to urinate on the Alamo. (San Antonio, Texas)


No one may tease an idiot. (Columbus, Georgia)


Minors are not allowed to purchase cap pistols, however they may buy shotguns freely. (Columbia, Missouri)


Liquor stores may not sell milk. (Indiana)


It is legal to protest naked in front of city hall as long as you are under seventeen years of age and have legal permits. (Chicago)


Picnics are prohibited in graveyards. (Columbus, Georgia)



















Monday, January 10, 2011

From D.O.T.S. Diary of a Teen-aged Stalker




June 9, 20--

When I wake in the morning, I am certain that everything will be all right. Everything will be normal. Everything will be as it has always been. 

My father will already be in the bathroom. He always beats everybody to the bathroom. He will be showering or shaving. He takes a long time, because he is so particular about how he looks. He seems to believe that in order to sell life insurance he must look absolutely perfect. Nobody has had the heart to tell him that it doesn’t matter how good he looks; if somebody is going to buy life insurance, they are going to buy it no matter what. If somebody doesn’t want it, his looking all that and more isn’t going to force that person to buy. Most people avoid life insurance salesmen, anyway, because they don’t want to think about how one day they will die. They act as though they will live forever, and if they ever hear the words “life insurance” they tend to walk away. So my father is not a popular guy; he is always the mean guy who reminds everybody that some day, sooner or later, they will be worm’s meat.

While my father is upstairs primping, my mother will be down in the kitchen. She makes breakfast. She always insists on making a hot breakfast. I don’t know why. We can never have just cold cereal or fruit, not even when she’s sick with a cold or the flu. She makes bacon and eggs, pancakes, or omelets. Really, her omelets are great: American cheese and diced ham omelets, Denver omelets. Mexican omelets…. Her Denver omelets are the best, because she never scrimps on the green peppers.

The counter radio will be on, tuned into to an oldies station that plays all the lame songs that she seems to enjoy so much. Sometimes she hums to a particular song that she has not heard in a long time. The dishes clink together. The music plays. The pots and pans rattle as they soak in the water-filled sink. The spatula scrapes across a frying pan. My mother hums….

The kitchen is filled with a symphony of sounds whenever my mother cooks.

All this happens when everything is normal.

But today is not normal.

Nothing will ever be normal again.

Forever.