13 Sure Signs
That dry cough
All those empty bottles
Socks with sandals
You’ve got a cool list. Share it at: THURSDAY THIRTEEN.
Everyone was screaming for Tang and Velcro, but fewer than half of them had ever been to the moon. Most of those who had been there, had been there only once and, of those, only a small handful had returned alive to tell the tale. Those who survive the arduous voyage are generally rewarded with more Tang and Velcro than most humans require or, for that matter, can easily tolerate.
Occasionally, there is a rumor about an impending shortage of Tang, or an actual shortage. In the event of a rumored shortage, everyone is expected to file slowly past the Tang locker, chanting, “We don’t need it / We don’t need it / We don’t need no stinking Tang!”
Although it has never happened, everyone is acutely aware that there would be no good outcome if ever there was a Velcro shortage. Shortages of Velcro, in the past, have always proven to be catastrophic.
Today, Two Facts And A Question:
Here’s Our Tax Dollars At Work:
Here Are Our Taxes, Not Working:
What Should We Spend Taxes On?
[|||]——— Show your face to Call Me Cate at: SHOW MY FACE. ———[|||]
He hopes his red Ford Ranger will make it another thirty thousand miles so he can tell people he’s driven it to the moon, but the transmission’s been slipping pretty badly, the clutch seems totally fed up with all the downshifting he’s been doing to save the brakes, and the brakes themselves gave up squeaking in favor of a deeper, more ominous grind almost a month ago.
It’s not like he’s in love with it or anything like that. The rig’s been a pain in his ass since he bought it almost fourteen years ago. But he hangs on to it because he dreads the rigmarole of shopping around, the hassle of all that paperwork, loosening up the tightwad bankers and dealing with the dealers who don’t know him from Adam and don’t really care about anything except jacking up the price with a lot of options only a richer, fatter, and lazier man might want.
Even though his father turns over in his grave whenever he tells anyone he’s driving a Ford, after the first few years he’d formed an uneasy truce with both the truck and his conscience, driving back and forth to the landfill, the Saturday morning coffee shop and, once, halfway across the continent just to make sure the old man was still in the ground where he’d planted him more than a decade before.
And, to be fair, for a vehicle that only received sporadic and minimum maintenance and had never seen the inside of a carwash, it had served him well; had left the road only twice—once because of ice, and once because of alcohol. It had only failed to start one time: at 3 AM and thirty below. But he knew this much: if you ever needed a truck to start at 3 AM and thirty below, you really needed it start. It was because of this particular failure he knew that—whether he made it to the moon or not—the Ranger was going to have to go. Soon.
Thirteen Odd Jobs
- Eye Catcher
- Peanut Butter
- Olive Oiler
- Monkey Shiner
Lots of other wondodderful stuff at: THURSDAY THIRTEEN.
At times like this, he thinks, it’s best to write things down; so he does, and then he goes inside with all the other strangers to view the body. Some of the strangers seem vaguely familiar, predictably ill-at-ease, and he notes that his reception among them, like the weather, is cold.
Inside, music. Roses never fade. We meet again on some fabulous shore. We never grow old. Jesus loves us. Everybody sits and everybody stands. Everybody sits and pretends to be listening. No one listens. Everyone is lost.
Comrades In Black
If this were more than ordinary ink upon a page
would I have given, then, more than others gave
who (not being given, themselves, to outright rages)
left no more than merely ink, or less, upon a page?
No. We are but those who strut and fret on stages,
seek a lasting voice with which to voice a rant or rave
in common ink, no more, upon an ordinary page.
Oh, would that I have given as much as others gave.
(An old triolet, dredged up and revised for this week’s prompt–Black And White–at One Single Impression)
Shut Up And Let Me Sleep
Have your 6-word say with Call Me Cate at: SHOW MY FACE
(It’s really all you can stand)
13 Seconds Of Benny Blanco From The Bronx
Lots more (& probably better) can be found at: Thursday Thirteen.
He’s acutely aware that it’s May, almost the middle of the year, and he thinks more and more often about phrases like “Time flies.” He finally grasps — now that he’s well past mid-life — the math at play that makes summers come and go far more quickly than when he was just a boy, waiting around for what seemed like an eternity for the birthday cake, the carousel’s turn, the inevitable season’s change.
It’s the middle of May, first time this year that the temperature’s been in the seventies for more than two consecutive days. He’s acutely aware of all the hot girls on Main Street in halter tops and shorts, in sandals and sunglasses; and he’s glad to be alive, an old man in a shady café, sipping iced tea and still breathing in the springtime air.
It’s May again and it’s Wednesday, the middle of the week. He begins to think he’ll probably muddle through somehow; somehow find his second wind, find a way to make it home reasonably unscathed and more or less ready to face the inescapable summer’s heat, the cold and unavoidable fall.