If you see me pushing one of these carts and mumbling about my bad luck, please flip me a quarter, would you?

Yeah, we can all dream of speed.

Can anything transport you into a better life more easily than a movie, if only for a couple of hours?

I love flying. It represents freedom and adventure.

I’m not sure why there are three people taking this romantic gondola ride, but it was in Vegas and I hope they had fun.

I can’t remember what it is, of course, because of the severe head injury I sustained doing my infamous and remarkably accurate impersonation of the Clancy Brothers drinking on St. Patrick’s Day. But just the thought of it brings a smile to my face.

And I guess that’s one of the things I most like about NoName — he makes people smile with his seemingly endless good humor.

People like me.

Whenever I’m feeling down or stressed out by life — and I’ve had way more than my share of that recently — NoName pops in with a quick joke, pun or song lyric to lift my spirits. It’s like he can read my mind, may God save his soul.

NoName — aka John Bray, aka the Canadian Crusher, aka the Punmeister — I’m fairly certain you’re not happy about getting another year older today. But you know what, my brother from another mother? I’m as happy as hell to be able call you my friend on the occasion of your birthday.

Thank you for being you, John, and not somebody awful. Somebody like Selena Gomez, for example, who’s actually a worse musician/actor/dancer than her ex-boyfriend, Justin Bieber, something neither I nor most of his fellow Canadians thought was possible. Why did you have to foist him and his pet monkey on the rest of the world, you rotten bastards?

On the other hand, I don’t know why I do anything. Nobody does, really. We simply pretend our lives have meaning to avoid despair.

Or we watch television to avoid the question altogether. Personally, I’m fond of the new show Vikings, which has just enough warfare, political intrigue, sex and faux Swedish accents to keep me inured to the unending worldly suffering that is meant to wean us from this life.

You may prefer The Walking Dead, or Game of Thrones. Whatever works for you is fine with me.

At any rate, I’ve agreed to join P.J., my old friend Ziva and a handful of other misfits in a monthly photoblog focused around one theme and five photos. March’s theme was “My World,” and my five photographs include:

1) A strange-looking plant and its shadow on an early evening in my chiropractor’s office. I like my chiropractor, but I swear he’s going to snap my neck one day and send me to Valhalla.

2) A mirror at an Italian restaurant I frequent. I like cafe lights an awful lot. They’re charming, and the dim light is relaxing.

3) My son Gabe, who is maturing quickly and hates having his photo taken.

4) Two young men eating lunch, oblivious to one another, and to me snapping their picture far overhead.

5) A large copper brewing kettle at an former brewery that’s been converted into offices and restaurants. I wish I lived there because I love the look of copper and old brick.

To see the other entries, please visit P.J. at his blog, a ‘lil hooha.

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Why he asked for me, I had no idea. I was just a skullhead. A man whose face unexpectedly fell off at a wedding, making me a freak of nature and sought-after motivational speaker, although I had plenty of money and rarely felt motivated to do more than watch The Price Is Right.

But there I was, standing beside Steve Jobs’ hospital bed, fighting an urge to chew my fingernails or pick at the lint on my suit coat.

He was asleep, breathing shallowly. Face pale and drawn, a white iPhone 5 clutched in one hand. Was it set to Do Not Disturb, I wondered? Can a powerful man like Steve Jobs refuse to take calls, or is he obligated to serve the audience he’s created, even on his deathbed? Fame has its benefits, but I was starting to learn that it can also come at a great price. Everybody wants a little piece of you, and once they take it, there’s nothing left.

He stirred, opened his eyes, and screamed, his face contorted with terror, his arms flailing wildly in front of his face.

An assistant leapt to his feet and put a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Gently pushed him back into the bed.

“It’s just him, Steve. Skullhead,” he explained.

“Oh for fuck’s sake! I thought I’d died and gone to hell,” Jobs said. “And I don’t even believe in hell. Although, if there is a hell, I guarantee you they use Microsoft Vista or Windows 8, and listen to their music on Zunes. I don’t know what Bill is doing over there, but it’s got nothing to do with good design.”

We all laughed at that, and I apologized for scaring him. Shook his hand.

“No worries, Mike. I should’ve expected you,” he said.

“Why did you want to talk to me?” I asked.

“I didn’t have an agenda, Mike. But it occurred to me that we have something in common, although for very different reasons. I’m famous, you’re famous. I thought it might be nice to talk, see if we connect, or can learn something from one another.”

“I don’t think I’ve got any ideas to offer you, sir,” I said.

“You’d be surprised. Remember the iPod Classic? The one that looked like a Blackberry with a rotary dial on its face?”

“Sure I do.”

“My housekeeper’s idea. She was sick of lugging her portable radio from room to room. Threatened to quit if I didn’t invent something smaller, and I sure as shit wasn’t cleaning toilets myself.”

“I had no idea.”

“Most people don’t. Ideas can come from anywhere. Tell me, what do you think about the iPhone, the iPad and the iPod?”

“Love ‘em.”

“No, what don’t you like about them? How can they be improved?”

I cleared my throat. Who was I to give Steve Jobs advice? But he looked insistent.

“I wish you had a high-capacity iPod. Sixty-four gig is a lot, but my music collection tops 165 gig. Why should I have to shuffle songs on and off it all the time? Hate that the iPad won’t play flash video. I don’t like the new interface for iTunes, either. Too complicated. And the glass face on the iPhone?”

“Yes?” he said.

“It works great. But it’s fragile. I’m afraid to drop it. They’re ridiculously expensive. I can’t just buy a new one whenever I feel like it. I’m not rich. I’m not…well, I’m not you.”

Steve turned to his assistant. “Are you getting this down? This is fucking brilliant. From the mouths of skullheads…”

“Yes sir. Using voice-to-text,” the assistant said, waving an iPhone in the air.

“Yeah, that could use a little improvement, too,” I said. “At least half of what I say looks like drunk texting. And Siri’s gotta be deaf. She never gets it right.”

Steve nodded sympathetically, and then motioned to me.

“I’ve got a tip for you, too,” he said, whispering.

I leaned in, and turned my ear toward his mouth.

“Don’t rush out to get the iPhone 8 when it goes on sale. Wait for the 9. It’s going to knock your shorts off.”

“The 9? But you just released the 5. You’ve already got the 9 ready?”

“Sure. I designed all the way through the iPhone 23. They’re all locked in a vault in my basement waiting to be released. Wish I could tell you more, but marketing won’t let me. You know how marketing people are.”

He seemed tired then. Closed his eyes. His breathing got shallow, and then stopped.

“Is that all?” I shouted, shaking the rail of his bed. “You call me out here to tell me to wait for iPhone 9 and then die?! The greatest designer on earth, and that’s all!?”

Steve opened his eyes.

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to panic you. I’m not gone yet, Mike. Whenever my pain gets bad, I take a break to think about Jennifer Laurence in Silver Linings Playbook. Great performance. Edgy, sexy. She’s hot. Helps me through it.”

We laughed, and then talked for a few more hours about this and that, like old friends. Before I left, Steve decided to ignore his marketing department and show me the prototype of his most-advanced iPhones, iPads and iPods.

They don’t have cases. They don’t exist at all, not in the normal sense. They appear in the air when you snap your fingers, and float there like magic until you’re done.

I can’t wait to get one.

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Welcome to the 28th and final day of Nicky and Mike’s writing competition. It’s been fun. Well, not fun, but tedious. Just kidding. I love Nicky and Mike. Or Nicky’s shoes, anyway. If you’d like to see today’s other entries, visit Nicky and Mike at We Work For Cheese.

Once, because I was young and Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine was cheap and available. Once, because a tall brunette named Julie traveled all the way from Winona, Minnesota to break my heart. Once, because I was with a pretty, blue-eyed blonde at a smokey blues bar in Kansas City, the music was good and the drinks were strong.

We barely made it back to the car that night, let alone the hotel.

But it’s my friend Rick who’s gotten me in the most trouble with alcohol.

Rick’s a devout Buddhist now, and doesn’t eat meat or drink booze. He meditates a lot, and tries not to get too angry or happy about anything because strong emotions create imbalance that prevent you from walking the path of enlightenment and escaping the cycle of rebirth and suffering.

Or as his wife would say, he’s “boring.”

But Rick is the proud descendant of good Danish stock. Basically a tall, strong, dark-haired Viking masquerading as a saffron-infused monk who should be out lopping off heads with a bloody axe instead of stirring decaffeinated green tea with free-range celery sticks.

Everything I know about the Danish, I learned from hanging out with Rick and his family. And as near as I can tell, true Danelanders believe life’s sole purpose is to eat meat and drink liquor, liquor first. They’re particularly fond of something called Akvavit, which is basically rocket fuel flavored with caraway seed. I’ve drunk enough of it to know it should be illegal, partly because a few shots will either make you blind or give you hallucinations that set you skittering down the path of enlightenment like your hair’s on fire.

The Buddhists ain’t got nuthin’ on Akvavit.

The stupidest drunk I ever got was with Rick. Not at a party, or out on the town. Not even at a bachelor party. At my condo, on a Friday night when we didn’t have anything better to do.

He came over to play cards and watch a movie. Offered to make me a rum and Coke. Filled a tall, fat glass half full of rum and topped it off with a few cubes of ice and cola.

I’d never had a rum and Coke. Tasted great. So while he mixed himself a drink, I drank it. All of it, all at once. Roughly a full eight to ten shots of 100-proof liquor in less time than it takes to make the bed.

By the time Rick sat down, I was on the floor, on my back, feeling dizzy. Or ditzy. Or both. It’s unclear to me now.

He glanced at my empty glass, and cocked an eyebrow inquisitively.

“Did you drink the whole thing?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, not understanding the implications of his expression.

“Oh shit,” he said, grinning. “That was supposed to last all night. You’re in trouble.”

My memory of the rest of the night is vague, like a dream within a dream within a dream. I recall Rick sitting on my stomach, laughing loudly and thumping my chest with his index finger. And the condo apparently got caught up in a tornado and spun its way to Kansas and back because I remember not being able to stand up. In fact, I crawled to the bathroom at one point, and poorly at that. The wavy waterbed I eventually fell into was pure hell on my heaving stomach.

I don’t drink rum anymore. The sight and smell of it makes me wretch.

But a gin and tonic?

Well, that’s an entirely different story for another time.

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I don’t need a reason to get drunk, but this writing competition hosted by Nicky and Mike over at We Work For Cheese is reason enough. It’s hard. Really hard. Please visit them to see the other entries for today.

I lived on my parent’s farm then, in eastern Colorado near the Kansas border. Low rolling hills, cold in winter, hot in summer. Wheat country. Rich, productive grasslands, tamed by pioneering families like mine, and irrigated by the Ogallala Aquifer that lies beneath eight states from South Dakota to Texas like a vast, unseen ocean. America’s breadbasket. Seventy, eighty, ninety, even a hundred or more bushels of wheat an acre. So much that the grains flowed like rushing water into the silos.

We planted in early spring, and by August the golden stalks stretched to the horizon in every direction. When the wind blew, and it seemed like it was always blowing, I stood in our yard wide-eyed and dreamy, watching the fields billowing like waves.

The Mexican migrants showed up with their bright red harvesters around that time, moving northward from Mexico to Canada rapidly as the wheat ripened in bands, warmest areas first, coolest regions last. These huge, smoking machines were driven by men and women alike, even children. I once saw a 12-year-old girl piloting one, her hands working the controls confidently, her dark eyes focused on the fields so intently that she didn’t see me when she passed. They moved in straight lines, forks funneling the stalks into cutting blades, and then inside, where some mechanism separated the wheat from the chaff and spat the waste back onto the ground from which it had sprung months earlier.

There wasn’t much for a farmer’s boy to do during this part of the process. After my morning chores, I had time to play, and to watch the migrants empty, maintain and repair their machines.

That idle time proved to be my downfall.

One morning, before lunch, I was playing with the dog, laughing, not paying enough attention. I stumbled on the uneven dirt, and fell into one of the combines parked near the silos. It grabbed my shirt, pulled my arm into the machine, and then tugged at the rest of me. I screamed for help, and my father came running. But by the time he jerked me free, my right hand was gone, severed above the wrist.

The sight of my own blood, the missing hand, they made me wild, and I wailed with fear. But my father, a man accustomed to slaughtering animals and farm accidents, was as calm as I’d ever seen him. Tearing off his shirt, he used his pocketknife to cut it into strips. Then he tied a tourniquet around my wrist, covered the open wound with a patch of cloth and tied it in place. I was faint by then, unable to walk. But he picked me up in his bare arms and carried me to his pickup truck, scooting me onto the bench seat as he shouted for my mother.

We drove to the hospital then, my father silent and somber, my mother cradling my severed arm in her lap, one arm around my shoulders with a hand wrapped around the front of my head, over my eyes. She prayed, too. Quietly, plaintively.

I healed.

Boys heal quickly.

Internally, though, the wounds remained fresh. I had to learn to write with my left hand. Chores like sweeping and raking were almost impossible to do one-handed. At school, with the other boys, gym class was embarrassing. I also felt awkward around girls. Deformed, crippled. Less than a man, and unworthy. I was angry, seething, and bitterness grew up in me like a weed.

When I complained to my parents, when I raged, they always responded with the same stoic words: Deal with it.

“I can’t write,” I shouted.

“You will. Deal with it,” my mother said, calmly.

“I can’t use a shovel,” I whined.

“Your body will adjust, find its balance. Deal with it,” my father said.

So I did. I learned to write again, to handle a hoe, to throw a ball for my dog. But I also learned something else, on my own, with a deck of cards. I taught myself to play poker. To cut and shuffle the deck. To deal the cards one-handed. To count the cards and study people’s faces, their playing habits, for clues that gave me an edge.

I learned how to deal with it. Like they wanted, and in my own way.

And when I turned 21, I told my father I was leaving the farm and moving to Las Vegas to become a professional gambler. He argued with me. Said it was a family farm. A farm that had passed from his grandfather to his father to him and would eventually pass to me. My mother cried. Told me Vegas wasn’t the place for decent Christian men. They thought they could change my mind. Make me stay.

But I was still angry about losing my hand. Still bitter.

Now I’m here, living in Sin City. I’m a gambler, and I win money.

A lot of money.

Respect, too.

My name is Ethan Hobbs, and I grew up on a wheat farm in Colorado. But people here call me the One-Armed Bandit.

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Welcome to Day 26 of Nicky and Mike’s blogging competition. To read today’s other entries, please visit them at We Work For Cheese.

1) I am an NRA Marksman, and once shot and killed so many squirrels in a single day with gleeful abandon that my friend, a professional hunter and fur trapper named Dan, nicknamed me “Murderous Mike.”

2) I once had dinner with Suzanne Somers, former star of Three’s Company.

3) I stole a Volkswagen when I was 15, and rolled it down a hill.

4) I was arrested in Vail, Colorado for public intoxication when I was about 17.

5) I once traveled to Zurich, Switzerland with my judo team and lost a bout to a brown belt who flipped me into the air and onto my back before I could react.

6) I once lost more than 30 pounds on the Atkin’s Diet, but slowly gained it all back.

7) I was a founding member of my high school’s debate team, won a city championship and received a small forensics scholarship to attend college.

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And this completes the 25th day of hell in the 28-day competition hosted by Nicky and Mike over at We Work For Cheese. Three more days. May God have mercy on my soul.

Abraham Lincoln clearly needed more sleep.

First stop: 1864, Washington, D.C., to pick up President Lincoln, the wisest and tallest of American presidents.

Second stop: 477 B.C., near present-day Qufu, Shandong Province, China, home of Confucius, the legendary philosopher, statesman and fortune-cookie author.

Third stop: 2013, The Vesta Dipping Grill in Denver. Trendy and expensive, the restaurant is named for the Roman goddess of the hearth, home and family, and relies on themes of warmth, sensuality and dreams to showcase the skewers of grilled meats and vegetables it serves accompanied by about two dozen inventive dipping sauces—the black pepper aioli garlic mayonnaise with coarsely ground black pepper, for instance, or Steuben’s chimichurri cilantro with parsley, onion, chili flakes, and cumin. Diners are encouraged to combine the sauces to create a chorus of flavors, and Vesta’s seemed liked the perfect place for my dinner with two of the greatest orators in history, especially since they could afford to pay.

Abe: Gotta tell you, Mike, you might not have a face, but you sure know how to pick a restaurant. I haven’t had a meal this good in two score and three years. Who would’ve thought you could dip a forkful of succulent chicken into a sweet chili ginger sauce followed by a pistachio mint sauce and create something so damn tasty? This is the sort of perfect union I’ve been harping about back in Congress! America could learn a lot from Vesta.

Confucius: I dunno, Abe. It’s pretty good, but it’s no blintz.

Abe: Blintz?! You’re Chinese! You know what a blintz is?

Confucius: Sure, dude. I once had a chocolate blintz at little deli in Bejing that would’ve knocked my socks off, if the Chinese had invented socks. Paper, ice cream, gunpowder and the compass we invented. Would it have killed us to invent socks? My feet are freezing half the year. Anyway, nothing beats a good blintz.

Abe: I agree wholeheartedly, Fu. There was this little blintz joint near the state house in Illinois that I used to eat at all the time. Made sex with Mary seem boring. Well, more boring. She’s not much in the sack. Hey, what say we wrestle after dinner? You look like a man who could hold his own in the grappling ring.

Confucius: Uhm, no. Hate sports. Kung Fu, karate all that crap. Hurts like hell when you get body slammed or neck chopped. Besides, it is not the man who runs fastest who leads the race, but the one who pauses to think before he reads a book.

Me: I have no idea what that means, Fu.

Confucius had some crazy facial hair.

Confucius: Tough nuggets. They can’t all be gems, my faceless friend. I get tired of having to be pithy and brilliant all the time. Nobody ever just lets me kick back and relax. It’s always, “Teach me, enlighten me, expand my world, tell me a story.” Sometimes I just want to tell everybody to shut the fuck up and figure things out for themselves.

Abe: Same problem here, Fu. Every damn day, a constant stream of people ask me to resolve this conflict and resolve that conflict, like I’m a professional mediator or whatever. Like I care if the world explodes. Sometimes I just want to kick back in my top hat and underwear with a beer and a bag of pretzels and watch the game. But, no!

Me: This meeting of the minds isn’t unfolding like I imagined it would.

Confucius: The superior man understands what the inferior man can’t learn if you give him a bowl of pomegranate seeds.

Me: Still lost here, Fu.

Abe: Let’s just eat. Mind the spicy sauces, tho, Mike. Without eyelids, you could have a hell of time if you accidentally get one in your eyes.

Me: Okay, thanks. I’ll be careful.

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I know it’s hard to believe, but this is my entry for the 23rd day of Nicky and Mike’s blogging competition. If you want to see what other people wrote, please visit We Work for Cheese.

This is Scarlett Johansson. Still don’t believe there’s a god?

What about my family? I’d miss them.

Well, yeah, I’d miss my family, too. Good point. We can make a list of the people we don’t want spun off the planet.

We’re going to need some farmers.

Farmers?

I like to eat. Farmers grow food. And you like the movies. So we’ll need some directors, and actors. Johnny Depp for me. Scarlett Johansson for you. And for me. She’s hot. And we’ll need their crews. And the theater people. Somebody to make the popcorn the farmers grow. That’s thousands of people right there.

Okay, families, farmers and film crews. Anybody else?

Our friends. That’s another 10 or 20 people. Less if I dump what’s her name at work. I’m tired of her whining.

I think you missed the intent of my original statement. I love you more than anybody else on the face of the planet. Kiss me.

Emma Stone lets her hair down.

I recently read that a single kiss can contain up to 278 bacteria and other germs. One of them is called cytomegalovirus. It lives in human saliva. It can cause birth defects. Kissing is sort of disgusting when you think about it.

You know, sometimes I wish I wasn’t in love with somebody so logical. Scarlett seems a little wild. Maybe she would kiss me. Or Emma Stone.

You know the odds of meeting either of them are about a billion to one, right?

What’s on TV? Isn’t there a new Sherlock?

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I need to apologize to everybody who’s writing for Nicky and Mike’s blog competition. Between work and family obligations, I’ve had serious trouble keeping up with posting, let alone reading and commenting. It’s supposed to snow heavily here in Colorado on Sunday, however, and I hope I can catch up a little then. Meanwhile, if all of you will visit Nicky and Mike’s blog We Work For Cheese, you can see the other entries for today’s meme.

Not about everything. I don’t alphabetize soups cans, for example, and I don’t care if my shirt matches my socks. Nor do I care if the dinner dishes are washed and dried immediately after eating. Sometimes it’s nice to lie on the floor and groan for a while before doing chores. Or to skip chores altogether, and sleep under the dining room table until my blood alcohol level returns to normal.

Nobody will ever mistake me for a neat freak. Or a teetotaler.

But certain things must be done correctly.

Books should be arranged on shelves from largest to smallest, left to right, preferably with the leather-bound volumes at eye level. Shirts are properly hung grouped by color, pattern and style, with the buttons facing left. It is wrong to rent a movie and then hit pause to discuss income taxes or legal issues, especially if it’s a movie about Vikings or the knights of the round table.

But I guess my biggest compulsion revolves around prime numbers — the numbers that can only be evenly divided by themselves and 1. (Excluding the number 2, because while even numbers are important, they don’t feel right.) Objects and ideas are ideally arranged in threes, fives, or sevens. Eleven and 13 are also good, and if you’re in a real pinch, any odd number that’s a multiple of three — 9, 27, 33 — is an acceptable substitute.

Which is why I’m going to abruptly end this post now, at seven paragraphs.

“What the fuck!” I shouted, spilling milk down my robe and almost dropping my bowl of Coco Puffs. You get used to seeing some strange things when you’re a faceless skullhead like me, but the Devil — well, it’s a bit much first thing in the morning.

“Good morning, Michael,” he said, his voice all Cuban cigars and Scotch whiskey. He stuck out his hand like a businessman, and I shook it hesitantly, admiring his immaculate manicure in spite of myself. The nails were long, tapered to claw-like points, and painted the color of raw egg yolks. I had to admit they looked good juxtaposed against his scarlet skin.

“Why are you here? Is my number up?” I asked, nervously.

“No,” he said, laughing. “You’re confusing me with Death. A lot of people do that. But I turned that job down a long time ago. Hoodies are hard on the horns, and I gotta think the scythe gets heavy as heck after a few millennia.”

“Why are you here, then?” I persisted.

“Not much for chit-chat, are you?”

“Not with Satan. Not while I’m still in my bathrobe.” I pulled the collar of my robe closer around my neck, and tightened the belt around my waist. No reason to give the Devil a free peep show.

He smiled, not surprisingly, devilishly.

“Okay, no bullshit. Straight to the chase. You’re probably aware that hell’s taken a beating lately, what with the school shootings, and the mess in Congress, and this whole Pistorius Blade Runner scandal.”

“The news is a little gloomy.”

“Gloomy?! It’s downright depressing, daring kitten-in-tree rescues excepted.” The Horned One cleared his throat nervously, leaned forward and stared me straight in the eye. “Look, bottom line: With everything going on in the world, my marketing department tells me Hell needs an image boost. A makeover. Something that makes wicked seem sweet. And with a face likes yours, you’re just the skullhead for the job.”

“Me?”

“You. Decent fellow, face of the damned. Ideal.” The Prince of Darkness leaned back in his chair, folded his hands behind his head and smiled. “I can make it worth your while.”

“I’m not sure I want to do PR for hell. I’m a writer, not Karl Rove. I live in the suburbs.”

“Before you say no, remember that I can offer you things.” He waved a scaly arm in the air over his head grandiosely.

“Power!”

“Riches!”

“Every woman you’ve ever…..”

“Can you give me my face back?” I interrupted.

Beelzebub didn’t answer. Instead, he pointed at the wall to my left. A steam train crashed through it and skidded to a halt in my kitchen, sparks flying from the wheels. It was hot. Spitting coal ash and steam.

“I can make you happy. Let’s take a ride. We’ll work out the details later,” he said.

“My face. I’d like my face back. It fell off at a wedding, and I miss it. People aren’t the same with me. And the milk dribbles out of my mouth.” I tapped my teeth. “No cheeks. It’s a mess.”

“Are you nuts?! If you had a face, you’d be just like everybody else. What good would you do me then? Hell might as well go to Hell in a…a…uhm….”

“A hand basket?”

“Exactly!” he shouted, slamming his fist on the table.

“Well, the only temptation that tempts me right now is getting my face back,” I said firmly.

The Devil shook his head. “Look, this train’s got a schedule to keep. It’s leaving. I’ll send another one in an hour, and then every hour on the hour. If you change your mind, hop on and we’ll go over the paperwork when you get to the Blackest Pit. It’s the last stop before Washington, D.C. About 45 minutes out. But I warn you, the last train is at midnight.”

And with that, the train rolled out and he was gone.

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Please visit Nicky and Mike at We Work For Cheese for other entries in today’s meme.

A one-act play in surreal despair

Scene: The Lincoln bedroom in the White House. The president and his wife, Mary, are lying in bed, their faces dimly illuminated by the flickering oil lamps on the rosewood nightstands crafted by his father, a cabinetmaker. Abraham looks profoundly demoralized, and curiously, is wearing his trademark tophat and one shoe. Mary’s arm is resting on his chest, and the worry lines on her face indicate she’s concerned about her famously morose husband’s state of mind.

Mary, whispering: Abe, where’s your other shoe?

Abe, sighing heavily: I don’t know. I lost it.

Mary: And you didn’t try to find it?

Abe: No. I’m really bummed out, Mary.

Mary: Is it this awful Civil War?

Abe: God no. We’ll have the war won in a month or two. There’ll be some rough years ahead as the nation mends, but America won’t be this ineffective and bitterly divided again until President Barack Obama and Speaker of the House John Boehner are in office.

Mary: Who’s Boehner?

Abe, shaking his head: I’m not sure. I think he must a own a spray-tanning salon, though. Either that, or Republicans are orange in the future. Wouldn’t surprise me. We are the party of morons. I’ve no idea how I got elected.

Mary: So if it’s not the war that’s got you down, why are you so blue?

Abe: I crave a decent blintz.

Mary: A what?

Abe: A blintz. Like a crêpe, filled with sweet cheese or sour cream. Jewish confection. I used to treat myself to them at little delicatessen near the statehouse in Illinois whenever the arguing over slavery harshed my mellow. It was like taking lithium salts in a pastry. Delicious, and I can’t stop thinking about them. But I can’t find them here in D.C. Do you know where I can get a decent blintz?

Mary, her brow furrowed: Aren’t we going to be a Ford’s Theater to see a play tomorrow night?

Abe, his voice tinged with frustration: Yes. What’s that got to do with it? I just hope we’re not seeing Phantom of the Opera. I hate musicals. Nobody sings their way through life. And if it’s Momma Mia!, just shoot me on the spot.

Mary, sitting up and playfully slapping his hollowed cheek: Oh, Abe, don’t be such a Gloomy Gus. We’re seeing a comedy — Our American Cousin. And I for one can’t wait to hear that scamp Harry Hawk utter the riotous line to Mrs. Mountchessington, “Don’t know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal — you sockdologizing old man-trap.” We’ll laugh so hard people’s faces will be falling off well into the second millennium.

Abe, sighing heavily: Yeah, sure. Haha. But no blintz.

Mary, smiling: No, no, that’s the best part! There’s a little delicatessen just around the corner from the theater. Saul’s Deli. I’ll send a messenger and tell them to expect the president and his wife for blintzes and apéritifs after the show.

Closing: The lights fade until only the president’s face can be seen, smiling happily for once. And then the stage goes completely black as the curtain drops.

The End

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Please visit Nicky and Mike at We Work For Cheese for more of today’s entries in their writing competition.

Other mornings I wake up, groan, get out bed because I have to go to the bathroom, and then go to work because I have to pay my bills. Proving that one day follows another, each one of them pretty much exactly like the one before it.

But once in a while something unusual happens.

Something……well, something wonderful.

It happened recently.

I’d just trudged home from my dreary job at the bottle factory — I check for chips in the glass — when I thought to check the mailbox. Usually, I don’t bother, partly because I’m afraid poisonous/hairy/jumping spiders might be hiding inside, and partly because I never know when one of my NRA card-carrying neighbors is going to rig the damn thing with explosives as a practical joke. I don’t want to risk getting my hand blown off just to retrieve the latest discount pizza coupon or Hammacher Schlemmer catalog. I have kids for that sort of work.

This time, however, I peeked inside and saw a large yellow box. A box addressed to me in unfamiliar writing. European writing, judging by the careful script. Europeans often have neat handwriting, because they believe education is valuable and happily pay taxes to fund decent schools where kids learn to read and write properly. Americans are opposed to taxation, and prefer hiring people to do complicated things like writing for them so they can watch television.

I don’t get boxes from Europe very often, so I was excited.

Well, not excited. But not as depressed as usual.

After gingerly setting the box on the ground, I commanded my German shepherd, Frau Pfannkuchen, to sniff it for drug and bomb residue. Then I leaned over and read the label closely. And that’s when I realized it was from my dear Finnish friends Ziva and M, who live, oddly enough, in Finland.

I tore into the package like a virgin groom undressing his reformed whore of an Italian bride on their wedding night. Except that I wasn’t, you know, uhm, turgid.

Packages excite me, but not that much.

Inside, I found a beautiful card, and brightly colored packages of Finnish confections. Pounds of milk chocolate, several varieties of salmiakki (also known as salty or ammoniated licorice), and a few boxes of something I’d never seen before called Leijona.

Nicky over at We Work For Cheese will vehemently disagree with me about this, but I think salmiakki tastes great, even the stuff that comes in packages marked with scary flames and the skull and crossbones. And the chocolate was some of the best chocolate I’ve ever had.

But I especially liked the Leijona. I don’t know how to describe these treats to Americans, but they’re little things about the size of a shirt-collar button. They’re coal black, coated in sugar crystals and taste like a combination of sweetened asphalt and herbal cough drops.

I loved them.

Ate them all in one sitting, in fact, because they’re as addictive as potato chips.

Which made me sad. No more Leijona.

I wept.

But you know what? Ziva and M heard my cry in the wilderness, and sent me another package filled with boxes and boxes of Leijona just a few weeks later.

Which makes me smile. Not just because I like Leijona so much, but also because I know somebody out there — somebody in a frozen, faraway land called Finland, where kids grow up eating bizarre candy and knowing how to read and write — cares about me enough to break up the monotony of my days with candy.

Sometimes it’s the little things in life, you know?

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Nicky and Mike at We Work For Cheese urged me to join their writing competition this month, and I agreed, thinking it was a little thing. I was wrong, horribly wrong, but I still love them because they’re awesome people, and because maybe I’ll win an autographed photo of Mike or, who knows, a pair of Nicky’s undergarments, which would be fun to hang from my rear-view mirror. For other entries today, please visit them.

When he finally cut the ropes and was free, he started killing. By hand at first, and quickly, because he wanted them to be surprised.

Frightened men make bad warriors.

He punched the first one in the throat, crushing his trachea, and snapped the second one’s neck with a violent twist between his forearm and bicep. After that, he slaughtered them methodically, using the short-handled axe he’d taken from the one with the broken neck. They were no match for him. Not in twos, or even in threes. He flung himself to the ground and took one man’s leg off at the ankle, and then crushed the man’s skull with a rock when he fell over clutching at his leg and screaming in pain. Rolling back to his feet like an acrobat, he cleaved a fourth victim through the clavicle. One opponent rushed him, tackling him into the mud. But the fool made the mistake of leaving his neck exposed. He bit into the attacker’s flesh, tearing out the carotid artery. The man leapt to his feet in a panic, squealing like a wounded rabbit while blood squirted through his fingers.

The killing was easier then because the men either froze in place or flailed about helplessly when he approached them, fearing he was the Devil, or possessed by the Devil. For he was as strong as sinew, and as fast as a reflex, and he fought without fear because he was not afraid of death. He was death, a man blessed with the unholy gift of snuffing out life, each victim a fresh sacrament to the cathedral of unbelief of which he was the high priest. Of the thirteen men in the encampment, he claimed the lives of twelve, and all without the slightest hint of remorse or compassion, and in a matter of minutes.

The last one, he knocked unconscious with the axe handle and kept alive. Tied him to a tree with rope and watched him out of the corner of his eye while he lit a fire, slaughtered a goat from the pen, cooked the meat over the flames, and ate it straight off the carcass with the blade of his knife.

Throughout his captivity, a single thought had consumed his mind: Home.

He had been taken a long time ago. Longer ago than he could remember. Yet an image of that place was firmly fixed in his mind. A wooden house, one large room directly above a stable. He felt the animal’s heat rising around him trough the floorboards. Smelled stew cooking in a pot hanging by a fire. Heard a woman singing sadly. Saw her hair falling down and around one shoulder, long and brown.

He poked at the fire. Felt emotion.

What was it?

He watched ambers from the fire rise high into the air. Glowing red, orange and yellow. Dancing and twirling, wraith-like.

Longing.

That was the feeling, and he was unaccustomed to it.

The man turned toward his captive. Pointed at him with the tip of his knife.

“Where did you take me from? Where is my home?” he asked, standing up.

“I don’t know. It was far from here. On the other side of the ocean, and farther north than my village.” He nodded at the river, and at the short snekkja, or longboat, floating on it.

“What is my name? That much you must know.”

“I don’t, I’m sorry.”

The man killed his captive for not knowing. Took two sudden steps forward, slit his stomach open with the knife and spilled his bowels out onto the ground. The captive groaned pitifully until he was dead, and the soil at his feet glistened black with blood.

Then the man loaded the boat with provisions. Barrels of water, ale, livestock, smoked fish, nuts, grains. Wood for fire. Furs for warmth. Weapons, and rope.

By the time the man was finished, it was night time, and the river gleamed under the starry sky like liquid coal. The man waited until the moon rose, full and bright like a beacon, and then climbed into the boat, letting it drift into the deepest part of the water. He aimed it downstream, and sailed toward the sea.

He would find his name. He would go home at last.

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I’m participating — poorly, I admit — in a writing competition hosted by my friends Nicky and Mike at We Work For Cheese. For more entries under today’s prompt, please visit them.

I’m not sure why. I’m not the sort of man who gets noticeably angry very often. Not that badly. Maybe I was tired, or hungry, or just didn’t want to be pushed around by a square-jawed stranger in a freshly pressed Oxford shirt and $35 haircut.

It was lunchtime. I parked my car in a crowded parking lot outside Panda Express, because the only Chinese food I can afford for lunch on a government worker’s salary is served by the scoop.

He pulled up in a freshly washed Subaru just as I jumped out of my car. I hate Subaru drivers. They’re too slow and cautious. If you get trapped behind somebody on the freeway doing 37 mph when the speed limit’s 65 mph, nine times out of 10 he’ll be driving a Subaru, with both of his white-knuckled hands clutching the steering wheel and a look of terror in his safety-minded eyes as he anxiously scans the road ahead for potential hazards.

Maybe that had something to do with what happened. Decades of pent-up frustration with Subaru drivers.

“Hey!” he shouted, pointing at me accusatorially through his open window. “Did you happen to see me on the other side of the parking lot?”

“What?” I said, thoroughly confused about why somebody I’d never met was suddenly grilling me about his whereabouts.

“You almost hit me,” he said angrily.

“Yes, I saw you. And no, I didn’t even come close to hitting you,” I said. “I stopped when I saw your backup lights, but you weren’t moving, so I moved on.”

“I was backing out of the space, asshole.”

Now, I don’t know if you have any testosterone in your system, but if you do, you may understand what happened next. Rather than apologize and passively defuse the situation like I normally would, my chest filled up with air, my hands balled into fists, and I took two steps toward him, exploding angrily.

“Whatever, dude. You weren’t moving and I don’t have all day. So fuck off,” I said, scowling.

“What did you say to me?”

“Fuck off!” I shouted, flipping him the bird, and fully expecting — no, relishing — a fight, even though he was a good 20 years younger and three times fitter than me, and my last fight — in high school some 35 years earlier — ended abruptly when a single punch from my opponent knocked me to the floor.

“Is that a handicapped spot you just parked in?” he asked.

“What?”

“That’s a handicapped spot, and you don’t look handicapped to me,” he sneered.

“It’s the only available spot, and I’m going to be here 3 minutes,” I said.

“Oh, that’s very cool of you. Parking in the handicapped spot. What an asshole,” he taunted.

“You know what buddy, fuck you,” I shouted, taking two more steps toward him and throwing him the double bird. “Fuck you, you fucking fuck!”

And with that, a look of shock crossed his face, and he drove off. Slowly, of course, because even a Subaru driver who thinks he’s about to get punched in the face by a lunatic won’t put the pedal to the metal.

I stood there for a minute, realizing for the first time that people were staring at me, and debating whether I should feel bad about my behavior.

But you know what? I didn’t. I felt like a man who stood up for himself for once. Still do, in fact.

Maybe I should move to New York City, where there are more of my kind. Longshoremen. Hit men. Cops. Irishmen.

I think I’d fit right in.

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For more of today’s entries, please visit We Work For Cheese.

While I’m at it, and perhaps this will seem out of character given the tone of this post, I’d like to apologize to my fellow writers in this competition for not reading and commenting on yesterday’s entries. I had a very busy day and night, and simply couldn’t. I promise to try and catch up by Monday.

There is a neighborhood.

There is a house. Large. Near a lake. A tiled porch and bright brass lamps shining on either side of the heavy wooden door.

Inside the house, there is a party.

People. Twenty or thirty. Nicely dressed. Standing or sitting in groups. Talking. Beer. Wine. Spirits of every kind. Buckets of ice. Food on silver trays. Lights dimmed. Candles. Cafe lights strung between beams. Soft music.

There is a man.

He is not antisocial, but he is sitting alone. Dark corner. Overstuffed chair. Drinking gin and tonic. Glass tumbler. His third. Feet flat on the floor. Arms outstretched against the chair’s arms. Head back, sunk into the cushion. Relaxed. Impassive expression. Watching. Listening.

A woman laughing. Talking. Loudly. Arms waving wildly. The top buttons of her blouse pop loose. Embarrassment. Laughter. She spins on one heel. Curtsies. More laughter. She grins. Dances to the center of a circle of men and women.

A man, a woman. Arguing. Angry. Money.

Men debating sports. Drinking. Wagering. Boasting. Jockeying for social rank. One man. Tall. Taller than the rest. Large hands. Square jaw. Whitened teeth. Commanding voice. Older. Another man. Small. Balding. Younger. Voice wavering almost unnoticeably when he talks to the larger man. When the larger man laughs, he laughs louder.

Another couple. A man, a woman. The woman pressed against the coatroom wall. Shadows. Kissing. His hands wandering. Left knee between her thighs. Short black skirt, made shorter. Her arms up and around his back, hands on his shoulders. Heels lifted off the floor.

Another couple. Two women. Brunettes. One nervous. Talking fast. Breathless. Blinking. The other focused. Confident. Quiet. Two fingers twirling and tugging a strand of the other’s hair. Lips parted. A small gap in her front teeth. The tip of her tongue. Wet. Pink. Touching it against the bottom of her upper lip. Exhaling slowly. Smiling. Eyes wide open.

The man sits. Watching, listening.

Groups split up.

New groups form.

Conversations build. Taper off. Build again. Taper off again.

Clocks wind forward, strike twelve.

A few people leaving early. The man sees them. Thanks his hosts politely and also leaves. Slightly tipsy. Cold. His breath hangs in the night air. Looks up. Stars. Orion, The Pleiades. The moon, three-quarters full. The man stares at the moon for a long time. Sighs, not sadly, not happily.

There is a highway.

There is a road.

There is a car. Inside the car, the man, his face lit by the blue light from the radio.

There is a house.

There is a driveway. He parks.

There is a song.

There is a singer. A guitar. A harmonica. A verse.

The gentlemen are talking,
and the midnight moon is on the riverside
They’re drinking up and walking,
and it is time for me to slide
I live in another world where life and death are memorized
Where the earth is strung with lover’s pearls, and all I see are dark eyes

The man listens. And for the first time in his life the man understands he is not the only man who sits alone at parties, watching and listening.

There are tears.

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If you had to guess, how would you say I feel about Nicky and Mike at We Work For Cheese on Day 16 of their blogging competition?

Well, you’d be wrong.

For more of today’s entries, please visit them.

I feel exactly like Linda Blair in The Exorcist after 15 days of participating in “30 Days Minus 2 of Writing.”

Not literally, like that demon-possessed girl’s head did in The Exorcist right before she upchucked all over the room. That was gross and scary, and I would never do that. Besides, my neck is so stiff most of the time I can barely look left and right, let alone face north while looking south.

I mean “my head is spinning” metaphorically. As in, My head is spinning like the basket in a washing machine when it’s on the spin cycle.

Wait, that’s a simile.

Anyway, what was I talking about?

My head is spinning. Why?

Oh, today’s prompt, Or Else. I spent 7 and a half hours thinking about it last night, and I can’t imagine a writing scenario in which I’d use “or” and “else” next to one another. It just isn’t right. Consider this example from a dramatic screenplay I’m working on about a high school English teacher turned professional superhero bowler:

Masked man, brandishing a handgun in a bank: This is a robbery! Everybody give me your money, or else!

Pudgy man, holding a flaming red, 20-pound bowling ball: Or else what?

Masked man: Give me your cash, or else I’ll shoot you.

Pudgy man: You don’t need the “else” in that sentence.

Masked: What!?

Pudgy: The ‘else’ is totally unnecessary. You can just say, ‘Give me your money, or I’ll shoot you.’ It’s the same for me. I could say, Put down the gun, or else I’ll throw this bowling ball at you. But it’s better to say, Put down the gun, or I’ll throw this bowling ball at you.

By the way, put down the gun, or I’ll throw this bowling ball at you.

Masked: Oh, right, you’re going to bowl me to death. And what are you, a high school English teacher? Shut up!

Pudgy: How do you know I’m not a superhero whose superpower is hurling bowling balls at supersonic speeds?

Masked: Look, give me your cash, or I’m going to pop a cap in your fat ass.

Security guard, quickly sneaking up behind the masked robber with his service revolver: Drop the gun, or I’ll blow your head off!

Pudgy: Excuse me, but you shouldn’t end your sentence with the word ‘off.’ It’s incorrect to end a sentence with a preposition.

Security guard: What!?

Pudgy: Well, I don’t mean to be picky, but to be grammatically correct, you should say, ‘Drop the gun, or I’ll blow off your head.’

Security: That sounds stupid! Nobody talks like that!

Pudgy: Maybe so, but it’s correct.

Masked: Is everybody here fucking nuts?

Pudgy: No, clearly we’re not fucking nuts, if that’s even possible, which I highly doubt. We were robbed, and now we’re discussing grammar.

Masked: I don’t want to discuss grammar!

Pudgy: I don’t, either. I want to go bowling. But you started this mess, not me.

I went through writing scenario after writing scenario like this last night, desperately trying to figure out if there was a correct way to use or and else together. But the scenes always ended up like this one. Botched.

It’s driving me insane.

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I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but there’s got to be a connection between my problems and this writing competition sponsored by Nicky and Mike over at We Work For Cheese. For more responses to today’s prompt, visit them now, or else.

I am a 53-year-old man, well past middle age, graying, college educated, experienced in the ways of both the wrench and the pen. A man born from two continents. A man who has seen the world from 36,000 feet in the air, and several thousand feet below its surface. A man who has stood on granite slabs overlooking fog-shrouded valleys that were created in the cradle of time by the same inexorable force that also gave me warm, salty waters without discernible horizons in which to swim.

And yet in all my days, and for all I’ve seen and heard and done, for everything I’ve touched or treasured or loved, I’ve never eaten a blintz.

How can that be, I wonder?

Cheese blintzes with black raspberries.

How does a man like me — somewhat world-weary, with callouses and blunted molars and a left hip that aches at night — awake one morning with the startling realization that there are more meals yet to be discovered than he has enjoyed in an entire lifetime of dining? That something as basic as food is reeling away from him faster than he can comprehend, never mind larger issues like the rapid retreat of dying stars into the distant fraying edges of the ever-expanding universe that houses them?

A blintz.

A blintz is not a complicated thing. It is a staple food for Jews. A handful or two of flour, milk and egg mixed without leavening. A type of pancake or crêpe.

I have seen them prepared many times. The yellow batter poured into seasoned flat pans blackened with heat. Cooked golden brown. Thin rounds laid out with spatulas on white china. Filled with molten chocolate, or warm ricotta cheese, or caramelized apples, or roasted peaches the color of lazy sunsets. Rolled and squeezed until the dripping sweetness oozes out either open end, giving them delicate hourglass figures that would make Emma Stone jealous, and that’s before they’re blanketed with whipped cream, dusted with powdered sugar and cinnamon, or drizzled in raspberry sauce.

I have seen them mostly in port cities, where there were Jews and Jewish neighborhoods and Jewish bakeries to serve them.

I have seen them winking salaciously at me from wooden trays in shop windows. I have heard them whispering my name from curved glass display cases, where I found them reposed like lovers in beds of crocheted lace and lit like golden tourmalines plucked from the diadems of heaven.

I have have watched blintzes slide from red-hot ovens onto shiny white plates that were whisked away by white-gloved hands and dramatically placed onto white-clothed tables set with polished silver and crystal decanters and hand linens bound by circlets of gleaming rosewood.

And I have lusted for them. For many, and for one.

Just one.

Just one small bite.

Just once.

Oh please, please, please just one, just once, just one small bite, please I beg you, just one, just once, just the tiniest taste, please, please I must, just once, I beg you, please.

But I never tasted one.

Not one.

Croquembouche — mini cream puffs — with a spun- sugar cloud.

Time always seemed to be slipping away from me. Or I didn’t have enough coins in my pocket. Or I’d already eaten the easy thing. The sticky Napoleon. The buttery croissant. Or one too many of the bite-sized croquembouche laced with wisps of brandy-colored, spun-sugar clouds that had to broken and lifted away in order to get at the custard-filled globes temptingly arranged into edible pyramids.

I saw them all right, mostly in port cities. Now I don’t travel very far, don’t live near a port, and can’t find a bakery with a curved-glass case.

I have not seen a blintz, not for a very long time.

But I remember them. Still long to taste one, just one bite, just once.

Do you understand me?

Do you know where I can get a good blintz?

Do you?

And if you do, is there still time for me? Or has time raced too far ahead of me?

Is that it there, the loping black wolf of time with its ragged head turned back to glance at me angrily from the bloodshot corner of its ever-hurried eye? Is that it growling at me even as I shrink and shrink behind it until I am merely a speck, and then just a iota among millions and billions of other iotas, and finally just part of something huge and formless that shimmers grey and all but forgotten in the background far behind all the other objects that still retain some vestige of the rainbow hues that distinguish them from the black-velvet curtain of inscrutable existence?

I hope not.

Oh please, please, please, I hope not. I want one, just one, just once, just one small bite I beg you, just one, just once, just the tiniest taste, please, please I must, just once, I beg you, please.

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Howdy, and welcome to the 14th day of Nicky and Mike’s blogging challenge, which I’m enjoying enormously despite having an actual life to attend to. Today’s prompt was entirely my fault. Regrettable as that may be, you will find other entries in today’s category over at their blog, We Work For Cheese.

I’ll tell you how fucked up I am.

I commute to work by bus four to five days a week. It’s about an hour’s ride, and I hate it because it’s monotonous, smelly, noisy, uncomfortable and inconvenient. I don’t know who designed bus seats, for example, but I think it might have been the Nazis.

There is one compensation: Most of the time, the bus is half empty, and I have room to spread out, put on the noise-canceling headphones and doze. But sometimes, for no particular reason I can discern, the bus fills up and seats get scarce.

This makes me unhappy.

Unhappier.

I hate sitting next to strangers.

Hate it, hate it, hate it.

Hate it so much, I feel like ripping my face off and feeding it to the dogs.

I don’t want any bus friends, and I don’t like making small talk about the weather, politics or the economy when I could be sleeping. I especially don’t want to be forced to overhear the silly college students’ animated conversations about epistemology. Fuck epistemology. I don’t need to analyze how knowledge affects my beliefs and perceptions of truth. Plato, Socrates, Descartes and their epistemologically oriented buddies can go piss themselves.

End of discussion. Class over. Now fuck off.

So, in order to protect myself from getting an unexpected seat buddy, I try to emit negative vibes that clearly communicate, “Don’t fucking sit next to me. I don’t care if this is the last open seat on the bus and you’re 89 fucking years old and pregnant with fucking triplets. Stand up for the next hour rather than sit next to me.”

I do this subtly—by putting on my sunglasses, closing my eyes and feigning sleep, scowling, and trying to look smelly or even contagious: “You don’t want to sit here! I’ve got syphilis! And it’s the new kind you can get just from sitting next to strangers on the bus!” I also refuse to move my backpack out of the empty seat next to me unless I’m asked, and I throw one leg out to the side like I bought the seat next to me and the entire aisle it’s bolted to.

These tactics almost always work. Nobody dares to sit next to me.

But here’s where something unintended happens.

As the bus lumbers from stop to stop and gradually fills up so much that people start taking any available seat except the one next to me, I inevitably start wondering, “Why isn’t anybody asking if this seat’s available? Am I that ugly and repulsive? Or am I scary, like the skullhead in the front row who mutters to himself, looks like the Unibomber and furiously scribbles notes on the backs of fliers he picked up at the bus stop? I don’t want to be shunned. Why won’t anybody sit here? What’s wrong with me?”

And that’s just fucked up. One part of my brain is loading the Ruger and psychically screaming, “Fuck off! Go away! You suck! Leave me alone!” And another part is getting misty and whimpering, “Take this seat! Pick me! I have a peanut butter sandwich in my backpack that we can share! Let’s talk about the weather—or epistemology, you decide!”

I don’t get it.

What am I, schizophrenic?

Maybe I need medication.

Extra medication.

Or perhaps I should just skip the fucking bus and drive to work. I hate those people who ride the bus to work with me.

Although, to be honest, I might miss them a little, too.

Oh, for God’s sake!

Fuck me.

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I love Nicky and Mike at We Work for Cheese. Honestly, I do. For more entries related to today’s prompt, please visit them here.

I know what you’re thinking. But what about the magic of time travel?

Right.

Look, I don’t care what you read in The Time Machine, or The Time Traveller’s Wife or Time Enough For Love, people can’t go back and forth in time like they’re riding elevators up and down the Empire State Building. That’s a steaming crock of bullshit served to you in factory-made stoneware by nerdy scientists who depend on government grants for their livelihoods. We’re stuck where we are. Stop fantasizing about going back to 19th-century Paris to live like a Bohemian, admit your life sucks and step into the now.

No, Abe is not coming here to have dinner with me, and I’m definitely not going back there to attend the theater with him.

If I’m going to be forcd to think about Lincoln, then it’s going to be him lopping off vampire’s heads with a silver-plated axe.

Even if I could, I wouldn’t risk getting my face blown off by an assassin just to see Les Miserable, or whatever god-awful play Abe and Mary suffered through that fateful night he was assassinated. I hate live theater, especially musicals. People don’t sing their way through life. Most of us can barely get out of bed in the morning, let alone break into song every 5 minutes.

I wouldn’t want to talk to Abe about slavery, or the civil war, or why he was so honest, either. I’m sick of hearing about all of that crap, which has been the subject of dozens of books, thousands of magazine articles, and at least two recent documentaries, the critically acclaimed yet depressing Lincoln, and the highly entertaining and uplifting Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, in which he uses a silver-plated axe to lop off vampire’s heads.

Now I’m bored with Lincoln.

That’s the hat I want. That one right there on Johnny Depp’s head.

Except for his top hat. It fascinates me. Tall, and made out of beaver fur — *snicker* — it looks very dapper. I’ve long wanted a top hat, and I’d probably try to trade Abe for his.

“Hey, Abe, how’s it hanging?”

“I’m bummed out. Again, I guess. I wish they’d invented Xanax this century. You guys get all the good stuff — medicine, the Audi R8, Internet, cable television. I can’t even get a decent blintz here. Do you know where I can get a good blintz?”

“No idea.”

“Anyway, I’m working on a speech for my trip to Gettysburg. Can’t get past the first line: Eighty seven years ago, Jefferson got together with other key policy makers and founded America to help promote freedom and equality…”

“No, no, no! That’s all wrong, Abe. Don’t be such a bureaucrat. It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it. Don’t start with 87 years. This isn’t Antiques Roadshow, you’re not trying to establish provenance. You’re trying to wow the crowd and create some patriotic anti-slavery buzz. Try four score and seven years ago. Same thing, but now it sounds super-important, see?”

“It sounds awesome, I have to admit. But what about the rest of it? I don’t think I’m cut out to be president. I should’ve stayed in Illinois and opened up a Wild Birds Unlimited franchise. I like birds.”

“Don’t be such an Abject Abe! This is a piece of cake. You’re a tall drink of water, think big. Something like, Four score and seven years ago….not key policy makers, thats a snooze-fest…our fathers!….yes, that’s it!….Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now that’s a speech.”

“By god, that does sound better! How can I repay you?”

“Well, I sure like your hat, bud.”

“You want my hat? But I might need it.”

“Yeah, you’re not going to need it as much as you’d like to think. Fork it over.”

And that would be my day with Lincoln. If it was possible, which it isn’t.

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My fingers are bloody and my eyes are as dry as the Gobi desert in August thanks to writing and reading for this blogging competition hosted by Nicky and Mike at We Work For Cheese. Please visit them to see the other entries for today’s prompt, which is stupid.

I could hire somebody to take care of the problem for me. Dirty work comes cheap in a grimy ice cube like Montreal, where a fresh pool of blood is just a hockey rink away and the West End Gang is always happy to show you the business end of a shillelagh.

But why bother, when I will enjoy doing it myself so much?

Yes, it’s time for a road trip. My packing list:

* Three cases of Coke
* Four pounds of beef jerky
* One large bag of naval oranges
* A whole lotta Led Zeppelin’s “Trampled Under Foot” on my iPod
* A radar detector
* Sunglasses

I’ll need a fast car, too.

I’m thinking a black 1967 Lincoln Continental with suicide doors and a stroked 700-hp Ford 514 V8 with Mass-Flo fuel injection and the suspension to handle all that power. It’ll go, and that’s a good thing, because it’s a long drive from Denver to Montreal — 1,840 miles and 27 hours at normal speeds. Less than 20 if I hit it hard.

Nicky and Mike will be surprised to see me.

And they’re going to learn some appreciation for the misery they’ve caused me with this little 28-day writing competition of theirs. They’re going to pay, and dearly.

No violence, of course.

I’m not a violent man.

But I’m gonna eat all their fucking cheese, drink all their fucking liquor, treat fucking Mike’s fucking cat with disdain, and then fucking move in with fucking Nicky and Jepeto and the fucking kids. Eat fucking Cheetos and fucking sleep on their fucking couch with their fucking remote tucked in my fucking underwear.

They’ll be sick and tired of me by the fall, I guaran-damn-tee it.

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It’s the ninth day of 30 Days Minus 2 of Writing, and I’m starting question my sanity and wonder why god allows evil in a fallen world.

“You might want to deal with this one right away,” she said, smiling.

“Another complaint?”

“No, it’s the mayor.”

The mayor? I thought, taking the message from her hand. Mayor McCheese?

“The mayor? You mean the mayor, mayor? Of Denver?”

“Yup.” She looked impressed.

“What does he want with me?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. I just take the calls. He said it was important, though.”

The next morning found me sitting at a large wooden conference table across from Mayor Hancock. He was flanked by the chief of police, the city attorney, and his public relations staff.

I felt self-conscious. Like I had a bugger in my nose. But that wasn’t possible, because I didn’t have a nose. Like the rest of my face, it’d fallen off last year at the Turk’s wedding. I was a skullhead, one of the faceless minority.

Why was I here? I wondered, nervously fiddling with my tie.

“You’re probably wondering why I asked you to meet with us, Michael,” Hancock said amiably.

“Yes, sir. I don’t get invited to meet with the mayor very often. Or ever, actually.” I paused, and smiled. Or would’ve, if I had lips.

“I’ll get straight to the point, then. No reason to waste anybody’s time. Gotham’s got the Batman, Metropolis has Superman, New York City has Spiderman. I believe that if Denver wants to be a great American city, it needs a superhero of its own. With a face like yours, I think you’re the man for the job.”

“Me?”

“Yes. What’s your superpower? Can you fly?”

“No.”

“You’re super strong?”

“No. I don’t even exercise like I should. I need to lose some weight.” I patted my tummy.

“You don’t ride a motorcycle from hell to fight crime? Anything like that?” The mayor looked puzzled.

“No, sir. You’re confusing me with Nicolas Cage in Ghost Rider. I don’t have any superpowers. Not unless you count being able to win staring contests.” I pointed a finger at my unblinking eyes. “No eyelids. Huge advantage.”

The mayor glanced at the chief and shook his head incredulously. The chief shrugged and shook his head, too.

“What do you do, then?”

“I’m a writer for the government. I write reports and press releases.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Goddammit!” The mayor exploded, slamming a clenched fist on the table. “A writer? That’s it? You have a face like that, and no superpowers? Not even x-ray vision? Nothing? You’re a Goddammed government writer? You don’t do anything special?”

“No, sir, nothing. My face fell off at a wedding, and that was it. No superpowers. Not so far, anyway, and it’s been almost a year.”

The mayor turned to his staff. Pointed, his hand trembling.

“What do I pay you people for? Do you do a lick of research before you waste my goddamned time? This was your idea. Now what?” he demanded angrily.

Everybody was dead silent for a long time. Somebody standing at the back of the room coughed. One of the older men picked up a glass and took a drink of water. I heard him swallowing.

“Well!?” the mayor said, spittle flying from his mouth.

A young woman with her hair in a tight bun hesitantly raised her hand, the padded shoulder of her black suit coat bunching up around her neck.

“Yes? Speak up,” the mayor said.

“Well, mayor, he may not have any superpowers, but he’s got a very memorable face. Or no face, really,” she said, shakily. “Maybe we could put him in an anti-crime marketing campaign. Like Smokey the Bear or McGruff the Crime Dog, only scarier.”

The mayor raised his eyebrows with surprise.

“What’s your name, young lady?” he asked.

“Carolyn, sir.”

“I like creative ideas, Carolyn.”

The mayor turned to me. Cocked one eyebrow and held his hand out, fingers extended, palm up.

“What do you think of that idea, Mike?” he asked.

I sat there for a while, my head in my hand, thinking hard. When I finally spoke, it was almost in a whisper.

“Mayor, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here. I really do. And I’d love to help the city out. I don’t like crime more than the next guy. But I don’t think I’m ready to be the face of Denver. I mean, let’s be honest here. I don’t have a face, sir. I’m just a skullhead.”

The mayor nodded, as if he was agreeing with me. But I don’t think he was, and I had a bad feeling about where the conversation was headed.

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There are worse things than having no face. Participating in Nicky and Mike’s writing competition, for example. At least I’m not alone. To read today’s other entries, please visit We Work For Cheese.

My idea was to get him nothing. Men don’t expect birthday gifts, and wouldn’t even remember they had birthdays if their mothers didn’t constantly complain about hard it was to birth them.

“Do you know how hard it was to give birth to you?”

“No, mom, I don’t. I’m told I was there, but my memory of that day is mercifully unclear.”

“Nine pounds seven ounces you weighed! Nine! It was like forcing your father’s Buick through a garden hose with the parking brake on. I’ll never forget the day you were born!”

We were shopping at the local health food store. It isn’t the best place to get birthday gifts unless the recipient is gaga for gluten-free pasta and organic produce.

“Oh, free-range organic kale from the Cooperative Peace Farm and a sugar-free, gluten-free, non-dairy, vegan carob cake! Thank you, it’s exactly what I wanted!”

My wife’s idea was to get Rick a 32-ounce bottle of Alaffia’s Authentic African Black Soap in the tangerine citrus scent.

“It’s the perfect gift for a vegetarian Buddhist because it’s a fair trade product, and the profits are used to promote gender equality and alleviate poverty and that sort of shit,” she said. “Besides, it’s moisturizing and smells wonderful. I love it.”

“I like it, too. But it’s soap.”

“What’s wrong with soap?”

“Soap is boring. Men don’t want soap.”

“What do they want?”

“I don’t know. Nothing?” I lied, knowing full well that all men want three things: electronic gadgets, power tools, and Italian sports cars that come fully equipped with Italian supermodels to ride around with them in those cars, their long scarves blowing freely in the wind.

“We’ll get him the soap. Or we can pay for dinner. But we still have to get him a card.”

“He doesn’t want a card,” I said, not because Rick dislikes cards, but because I dislike shopping for cards. The funny ones aren’t funny, and the rest of them have pictures of puppies or unicorns on them. Sometimes with glitter. I hate glitter. If I get glitter on my face, I practically have to scrub my face off to get rid of it.

So we got a card. Something about skipping broccoli to eat ice cream on your birthday.

Haha! Health food jokes are the best.

And then we bought Rick’s dinner, and gave him the soap plus two dark-chocolate candy bars. He looked happy, but I think the soap puzzled him. Men are confused by the concept of gift soap. Soap is is not a gift, it’s something you buy because you need soap.

I wish I could’ve given him a Ferrari, if only so I could borrow it from him. But he loved the chocolate. I guess if you can’t have a fast car, chocolate is the next best thing.

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I need help, and I’m not getting it from We Work For Cheese, host of this ridiculous meme. What is wrong with me that I would agree to do this for 28 days? Did I kill people in a former life?

They’ve given us so much. Renoir and Jean-Paul Sartre. Steak au Poivre and Champagne. Catherine Deneuve and Sophie Marceau. The Eiffel Tower and Statue of Liberty. The French kiss and ménage à trois. A language that can make any phrase sound sexy.

This is Sophie Marceau. She’s French. That is all.

Sophie (sipping absinthe outside the Louvre): “Pardon, monsieur, votre putain d’animal a chié sur mon soulier.”

American tourist (wearing khaki shorts, white knee socks, and black loafers): “Thank you, and you are an incredibly attractive woman. Have sex with me and Catherine Deneuve now, and marry me later.”

Sophie: “I just told you that your dog shit on my shoe, idiot! I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were Gérard Depardieu.”

American tourist (picking his nose): “Oh, it sounded nicer in your foreign accent.”

The French reek of good culture. Until you get to their love of the American comedian Jerry Lewis.

Lewis may be a comedic icon, but he isn’t funny.

Yes, he seems affable. Yes, I admire the amazing work he’s done on behalf of the Muscular Dystrophy Association.

But his famous “Hey lady!” routine? Or the pratfalls?

Not funny, just infantile.

This is Jerry Lewis. He is not French. That is all.

The French, however, love him. In 2006, the French Minister of Culture awarded Lewis the Légion d’honneur, calling him the “French people’s favorite clown.”

Not Robin Williams. Not Jim Gaffigan. Not Bryan Regan, Jerry Seinfeld, Jim Carrey, Ben Stiller, Jake Johansen, Jack Black, Eddie Murphy or Richard Pryor. Not anybody who makes me laugh so hard I feel like my face is going to fall off. Not even Bobcat Goldthwait.

Lewis.

The comedian whose entire career has consisted of acting like a mentally disabled spastic and falling over, often on his co-stars.

I can’t wrap my head around the concept. It’s like the French are kissing us lightly on one cheek, and then slapping us on the other.

I’d still like to live in Paris, of course. I was there once, and fell madly in love with its pastries.

I wonder if Sophie has a room for rent?

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Let’s be honest here: I’m stretched to my limit as I try to keep up with this blogging challenge hosted by Nicky and Mike at We Work for Cheese. Yesterday, I barely had time to read the posts and comment, let alone work. And I still can’t find a way to comment on any blogs that use the same comment form used by P.J., Nora Blithe and Nathanael. As a result, I’m frustrated, depressed, filled with anxiety, and nauseous.

No, it’s nauseated. Proper grammar is essential, even at a time like this.

Anyway, this challenge is like the Bataan Death March of writing.

See you again tomorrow. If you survive today.

If you wanted to communicate with somebody, you had to send them a telegram, write a letter, telephone, or talk to them in person.

It totally sucked.

Simple questions like “Where should we eat?” often turned into hours-long conversations about the meaning of life. And it was much harder to ignore people’s personal problems when they were standing right in front of you jabbering about them.

I hate talking to people face-to-face. They often have bad breath, and if they get worked up about a hot topic — whether you can get a better 39-cent taco at Taco Bell or Del Taco, for instance — they’re likely to accidentally spit in your face.

It’s particularly bad at work, where my co-workers can walk right up and practically force me to speak to them. There are dark days in the office when I catch gallons of spittle on my forehead, cheeks and eyes. Even — shudder — in my mouth.

Some people talk so much, their spit beads together and forms slimy rivulets that flow down my face and drop off my chin to the floor.

I’m often tempted to put on a burka to keep from getting soaked, not only because spit is gross, but because it’s hazardous to pedestrians. I don’t know if the national Centers for Disease Control (CDC) tracks spittle-injury statistics, but I hate to think about how many people slip in conversational drool every year and suffer disabling brain injuries after hitting their heads on hard floors.

Thank God for technology.

Text messaging was used for the first time in December 1992, when a 22-year-old engineer in England used a PC to send a co-worker’s cell phone the message, “Merry Christmas. I’d like a gift card to Best Buy this year instead of a stupid scarf.”

In 1995, a Finnish company became the first company to offer texting to the general public on cell phones. It was an instant hit there because the emotionally reticent Finns are notoriously shy conversationalists.* Unlike the Swedes, they also have a strong cultural revulsion to being spit on.

Today, texting is as common as breathing.

Americans send 188 billion text messages a month, according to a Pew Institute survey. Young adults are the heaviest users, sending and receiving an average of 88 texts a day, compared to 17 phone calls. I’ve seen entire rooms filled with people ignoring one another while they text, often to people who are in the same room.

It’s a heartwarming sight.

* How do you tell introverted Finns from extroverted Finns? The extroverted Finns stare at your shoes instead of their own shoes while you talk.

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