In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Calling Uncle Bob.”
I don’t even know what that means. Have I ever turned to someone for a quick fix when I should sort it out myself? Calling Uncle Bob?
The funny thing is I have an Uncle Bob. Then again I guess that isn’t all that funny since probably everyone in America has an Uncle Bob. Shit I have two Uncle Bob’s.
One of them fell down a well once and landed on his back. Then he accepted Jesus as his personal savior.
His son had been telling him about Jesus for thirty years or something, but up until then he was a hard living ex-marine who didn’t need a personal savior.
HIs son was a preacher and when Uncle Bob fell down the well and miraculously learned to walk again (a year, three surgeries and months of physical therapy later), his son baptized him.
Then a few years later, Uncle Bob’s son went and got diagnosed with bipolar disease, divorced his wife and left his church and put on a Lynard Skynard t-shirt.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Envelope Pushers.”
The last time I took a big risk I didn’t even look at it as a risk and it didn’t turn out too well.
I left my job and went on vacation, thinking that I could easily find a better job when I came back.
Then I came back and realized I would have to go to interviews and submit resumes and shit and that was asphyxiating.
Then I found out that no one wanted to hire me and then I really freaked out.
I ran out of money and everyone was like, “Dude why did you quit your job?”
And I was like, “Shit man, I don’t know. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Spinning Yarns.”
What makes a good storyteller?
For starters I prefer someone who can end a story. So, not me. My stories have good beginnings and then by the middle I’m like so anyway how was your weekend?
My favorite storytellers are famous people because the people I know don’t really tell great stories. It seemed like back in the day I knew some funny storytellers, but not really any more. I think maybe some of the people I work with.
I hate storytellers who focus on details that don’t matter. Like when something actually happened when that isn’t part of the story. “Was it Tuesday? No, no…I think it was…Wed…nesday? Yeah, Wednesday. No it was Tuesday because that’s when I ate that sandwich I had been saving.”
Some of my favorite storytellers are Allie Brosh, Louis CK and Kurt Vonnegut. The first two are hilarious and the last one is funny, surprising and insightful. Oh and I love PG Wodehouse’s stories as long as they aren’t about golf. I like stories that are complex and twisty and have good endings. I like Sherlock Holmes stories, too.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Grateful and Guilty.”
Hey fuck you man. If I want to listen to Katy Perry eat snickers and ice cream sandwiches and watch 7th Heaven reruns dressed in an oversized American Eagle hoodie I’ll damn well do it without you.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: Cue the Violins.
Man I don’t know what the soundtrack would be like because there is still a lot of time left in the movie. Definitely some CCR, Curtis Mayfield, and Interpol. I listened to a soundtrack the other day thinking it would be good to write to and instead it was distracting because it was so theatrical. I mean I felt like I was watching the movie. So I don’t know how they do that kind of shit. Plus I’m writing this at work because I have no other time to do it. So…fuck it. Daily post. Done.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Sparkling or Still.”
My perfect day off would be me sitting around staring at a wall and being happy, so drugs would probably have to be involved. Mostly just alcohol.
I would wake up around 1 PM and eat pancakes and drink a few greyhounds.
Then I’d put a bottle of whiskey on the coffee table and play Assassin’s Creed until I got hungry again.
Then I’d order a pizza with everything on it and mozzarella sticks too and when it arrived I’d use the bathroom since I had to get up anyway.
Then I’d put a six pack of Belgian beer on the table with the pizza and I’d watch a Tarantino movie until I was done eating.
Then I’d play Assassin’s Creed until my eyes bled.
Then I’d lay on the floor, listen to Pink Floyd and drink the rest of the whiskey until I passed out.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Cousin It.”
Families are all weird for sure and I know this one guy who’s family is way weirder than mine and he is my brother-in-law so now he’s my family, too. He is an outlandish motherfucker who used to drive tanks in Afghanistan and also climbed ladders straight up four or twenty stories high and used to race family cars against cops and burners on the highways and never get caught and he had a V6 Camaro and took the muffler off to prove it.
He can’t be in the room with a conversation unless he rocks himself back and forth into a vegetative state or unless he’s controlling the conversation, it just depends on if there are stronger personalities as to which of those he’ll choose. If there’s no one to shut him down he’ll talk and talk about how he doesn’t want to interrupt you and wants you to talk to everyone else and you shouldn’t talk to him because he knows you have a better life than him and you should enjoy it. Then he’ll get a phone call and I’ll start talking to my sister like I came there to do and then he’ll wave us down and put the phone on speaker and say, “I want you guys to hear this! Listen!” and I’m only there for an hour or so to talk to my sister I haven’t seen in a long time and that’s how the whole thing goes and he’ll say, “Well I’m really glad you two got to catch up she really enjoys talking to you.”
He’s managed to take over the whole family, actually. When he’s not there we talk about how crazy he is and what he did this time and when he is there he talks about how crazy he is and what he did this time and a hundred other times and how no one understands the right way to do anything and that time he went to the city and honked at mother fuckers while drinking out of a warm two liter gas station brand soda he found under the seat the other day.
He came in here the other day and told a story loud enough for the whole building to hear and one part of it was him yelling three times, “I do NOT love you!” Ha! Crazy ass.
It’s a girl trapped in a world she wants to leave immediately, she had a deal with the men who came up, it was a con game, get the mark into the bathroom, take him for all he’s worth, slip him the mickey, find his weak spot, break his knuckles against the glass, make it look like his fault, don’t mind the slip covers and the valance, they will take care of themselves.