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June 18, 2014
Nice Night
What kind of a night is it, then?
August 7, 2012
December 22, 2011
It's sweeping across the nation!
November 24, 2011
Is there something in your ears, soldier?
November 11, 2011
Is it bad when people don't laugh?
October 18, 2011
Sex is a part of life.

Words

Digital Camo Utility Vest

Wednesday, October 12, 2011 - 12:33pm

Dear Prefair Military Surplus,

This utility vest I bought? I’m wearing it right now. I’ve worn it six days straight, and I won’t be stopping anytime soon. That’s how good it is. I wanted you to know.

Some people wear their vests over their shirts. Not me. I hate shirts. But I love pockets. That’s why your vest is so perfect. I’ve got things to carry. Lots of things. I’ve got matches. I’ve got band-aids. I’ve got a Swiss army knife.

That knife? It’s a good thing. Almost as good as your vest. Without it, I’d be carrying a whittling blade, a fork, a spoon, scissors, tweezers, a compass, a bottle-opener and a friggin’ corkscrew. You know how many pockets I would need? But the thing is, your vest could still handle it. Your vest would do just fine if I didn’t have that knife.

I keep my cigarettes in the top right pocket. You know what I keep behind them? Another pack of cigarettes. These pockets have depth.

I have a pocket for fishing tackle. Bottom right. Above it, that’s where I keep my socks. I mostly don’t wear socks, but sometimes you need them. The bottom left is for dried, salted meats.

What I’m saying is I have stuff to carry around. Pants pockets? Not good enough. I can fill them up, but then I can’t sit down. Your vest, straps stretched across the front of my bare belly, giving me maximum skin exposure and carrying space, that’s what heaven is to me.

I’ve got a pocket for insulin. Packed full of needles. I don’t need the stuff, but if I run into someone who does, they’re in good hands. Your vest might save a life one day. Might save it fourteen times.

I’ve got a pet rat. I can’t leave her at home. She gets lonely. She’s scared of solitude. Guess where she lives now? She’s got her own little condo right here inside the best garment I’ve ever worn.

Listen, I hate shirts. I said that already, but it’s true. Vests? I hate them too. Mostly. But with all this cargo, it’s a good compromise. Until I find a doctor who will just suck up their Hippocratic Oath bullcrap and just sew a few skin-pockets in me, this is my only solution.

My sister doesn’t like that idea. Carry a rat in a skin-pocket, she says, and you’ll never meet a woman. But a woman who doesn’t see the convenience of a sack stitched into your free-breathing belly? That’s not a woman I care to meet. I tell you what though, if I ever meet a woman wearing your vest, I’ll slip my fingers into those pockets, pull her in close and never let her leave my side. I mean that in a romantic way, if you can’t tell. Nothing weird.

Anyway, the point being, your vest? Good vest. Thanks.

Dog Blows Up Story

Wednesday, September 28, 2011 - 12:41pm

I tried to explain what had happened calmly and rationally, but the farmer wouldn’t settle down long enough to listen. He kept waving his arms around and shrieking about how I had killed his dog.

His face was only inches from mine, and if I defocused my eyes, I could turn him into a Cyclops. A furious, spitting Cyclops. I repeatedly wiped my face in an exaggerated fashion, but he didn’t get the hint.

“I didn’t hit your dog,” I tried again. “I stopped the car two feet in front of him, and then, I don’t know what happened. He just kind of exploded all on his own.” I gestured to the remains of his dog which lay all around my feet, and lifted up one bloodied shoe to emphasize that we were both inconvenienced by this situation. He didn’t seem to be buying my story, so I tried to come up with an explanation. “Maybe something he ate had caused a sudden gaseous reaction. Maybe he got into the baking soda, and then drank a bunch of vinegar?” I shrugged.

“Dogs like those things”, I explained, pushing up my glasses so that I would look like I knew what I was talking about. “You should be careful to keep them locked up so that things like this don’t happen.”

That was when he stormed off, muttering something about a shotgun.

I think he was surprised to find me waiting patiently when he got back, swishing my feet around in his ex-dog’s viscera and humming some jaunty tune I had just heard on the car radio. I looked up and smiled genially, which must have caught him off-guard, because he hesitated for a moment. I playfully kicked one foot up, spraying a red line up his flannel shirt and giggled innocently.

Then he shot me.