Tag: Humor

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The Effects of Side Effects, by Nicholas

I went to see my doctor the other day. In the course of our visit, I told him that I did not like a medication he put me on a year ago. The medicine seems to work OK in helping me keep my blood pressure at acceptable levels. But I told him I did not care for some of the side effects and I wondered if there was something else that didn’t have those side effects. There are, after all, a million blood pressure meds available.

Yes, of course, he said, here is something else you can take and handed me a new prescription. Great, I thought. I can get rid of those annoying problems. When I got the script filled, the pharmacist asked me if I’d used this med before. I explained to him that this was new to me to avoid the side effects of another med. Yes, he said, it will not give you those problems, but it will cause other side effects, like slowing your heart rate and you might get tired more easily.

But I get tired already, I thought. I don’t need a medication to enhance that. I went home and got on the computer and started Googling this med to see what else it might do that I should be warned about. Up popped a long list of side effects from fatigue to constipation to sleeplessness and about 20 other things I don’t really need help with. I stopped at “in rare cases, may cause an urge to suicide.” So, I guess I’ll stay away from railroad crossings and high bridges.

I sighed. It seemed I was just swapping one unpleasantry for another unpleasantry.

Why is it that medications produce only negative side effects? I want medication with positive side effects. Like these.

Imagine these warnings as part of the requirement for truth in labeling. This medication:

1. May cause a sunny disposition.

2. May enable you to laugh more—even at jokes that aren’t actually that funny.

3. Will enhance the taste of chocolate, especially with red wine, even the cheap stuff from Trader Joe’s.

4. Warning about operating a vehicle: When starting this medication, get in your car and drive. Go as far as you want.

5. Can cause a rash of good feeling toward others.

6. Can cause an itch to travel to exotic places where people wear less clothing.

7. Can make you laugh. If laughing lasts more than four hours, seek medical treatment immediately.

8. May stimulate an urge to listen to old Joan Baez records. Stop taking immediately if listening to Joan Baez for more than four hours.

9. Call your doctor if you notice a funny story to tell about your dog or cat.

10. In rare cases, can improve your tennis serve.

11. Can diminish your fear of Republicans.

12. Do take if you are pregnant, planning to become pregnant, or otherwise will be around children of any age.

13. May cause constipation—in people you don’t like.

14. May cause you to fall in love with the next person you see. Do not administer more than six doses in a 24-hour period.

15. May increase your need to eat banana cream pie.

16. May increase agility on the dance floor.

17. May decrease your urge to read a newspaper or watch the news on TV.

In rare cases, some users of this medication have reported that it actually worked. So, don’t go killing yourself.

© 22 April 2018

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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Tearer, by Ricky

Not to “down-play” the feelings, but tears are nothing more than a physical response to extreme emotions. Tears caused by circumstances that are too horrible to even think about, like: being buried alive or being a passenger on an airliner that is falling to its doom from 40,000 feet or catching the Ebola virus or discovering too late that vampires, werewolves, and zombies are real. Since these thoughts really are too unsettling to think about, I will write about other forms of tears.

Among the less stressful tears in the animal kingdom are the Wire Hair Fox Tearer, the Boston Bull Tearer, and the Scottish Tearer.

Moving up to the next tier on the tear-ladder, most of us can remember Dennis Mitchell, commonly known as Dennis the Menace. His neighbor, Mr. Wilson, considered Dennis to be a Holy Tearer for causing him to shed many tears. Another such boy you may recall is Johnny Dorset who was made famous by O. Henry in his book, The Ransom of Red Chief. Johnny is such a Holy Tearer that his kidnappers paid the boy’s father to take him back. Even The Little Old Lady from Pasadena is known as “The Tearer of Colorado Boulevard” for causing tears in the eyes of all the racers she beat. Hmmmmm. Here’s a thought. Before their son was old enough to know right from wrong, would Joseph and Mary’s many tears caused by a mischievous Jesus label him as being a Holy Tearer?

Many people want to cry tears when extremely happy but can’t, because it would be a patent violation. Some woman owns the rights to all tears. Now known as “Tears of Joy” ®.

If you stop and think about it, we all have been a tearer at one time or another. Most notably when we try to open a small letter or package where the instructions tell us, “To open, tear along the dotted line.” Failing in the act of doing so and crying about it, identifies us as a tearer. People who are very good at tearing are known as tearerists.

To paraphrase FDR, the only thing we must tear-up about is that the Republican Party has again gained control of Congress and the Presidency. Now that is worthy of producing tearerists!

© 23 Oct 2017

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Revenge, by Phillip Hoyle

Sages of the East and West, North and South have advised against revenge. I’m sure we can add SAGES of the Rockies to the list of wise ones. Revenge will never satisfy. It begins a feud that will never end. It will define a life, not improve it. I’m old but have no experience of revenge and thus no story to tell.

But I have noticed something I want to tell you about. You’d never believe how much sex takes place in our backyard and the alley beyond. It’s a wonder we haven’t been pushed out of the neighborhood so seedy is that space in a rather quiet district of Denver where more and more children are being born and reared. I won’t try to justify what takes place in our backyard but simply describe it. Frankly, I have been surprised although I’m not sure why. Perhaps I am just a tiny bit jealous? Probably I should consider it an inspiration. I do want to mention before I continue this story that in it I’m simply a voyeur.

Sometimes out there couplings occur; occasionally a ménage a trios. I’ve seen necking that surpasses anything I ever saw or did on the top of Bluemont, that Kansas State University make out spot for undergraduates and who knows who else. I sometimes hear screams and can never determine if they are from pain or pleasure or simply the intensity of the moment. A rhythmic chant sometimes seem to say, “Won’t you come and put it to me?” Sometimes it is repeated over and over until, for me at least, it loses its allure. But the beat goes on. I’ve seen dances, flurries of activity, showing off, flirting, teasing, urging, and suggesting. I’ve seen mountings and heard noise making I don’t know how to describe. I’ve seen dirty dancing that more than rivals what I saw for years on Saturday nights at The Denver Compound and Basix dance floor. I’ve seen things done out in the open that would get a Republican to warm up.

Well, I can tell it’s time to end this tale of what my prim sister would call lewd conduct, but it seems unadvisable to criticize Mother Nature right out there in the open. The sparrows started it all years ago. Then the flickers got deep into the necking dance. You’d never imagine how noisy that gets or how enticing. Now robins come around and just yesterday some very excited chickadees—a ménage a quatre—put on the most spectacular and noisy demonstration I’ve ever seen. It’s wild out there in the backyard. What’s it like in your neighborhood? Inspiring? Invite me over.

© 14 August 2017

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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I Met a Fairy, by Ricky

I MET A FAIRY TODAY THAT SAID SHE WOULD GRANT ME ONE WISH.

“I want to live forever,” I said.

“Sorry,” said the fairy, “I’m not allowed to grant eternal life.”

“Fine,” I said, “Then, I want to die after Congress gets its head out of its ass!”

“You crafty bastard,” said the fairy.

© 8 Apr 2012

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Fitness is a Piece of Cake, by Nicholas

Fitness is one of those things that you are better off having
than not having. But fitness is also something I love to ridicule and that is
because some people—gay men among them—take it to absurd extremes.
Fitness can be hard to define and has many meanings. One
man’s fitness can be another man’s piece of cake. The cake of course has to be
organic and with a carrot thrown in so it’s healthy. I find if you put enough
cream cheese in the frosting, however, you can overcome any health benefit from
the carrot. Health and fitness don’t necessarily go together. I was never so
fit as when years ago I used to dance all night after doing the right drugs,
the kind that make you dance all night. I had a waist so small, I could hardly
even measure it. But health wise—I don’t recommend it.
For me, true fitness is an elusive optimal state of health. Right
now, in mid-summer, I see myself as being in peak condition. I have for over a
month now been bicycling 50 miles each week and have reached a kind of plateau
in strength and endurance. My diet has shifted as well to a summer feast of
fresh fruits and vegetables, many of which I pick in my own backyard—basil, kale,
summer squashes, tomatoes. My summer weight is ten pounds less than my winter
weight. Summer means fitness.
Balance of course is key. So, I balance the fresh stuff with
a cold beer before dinner and ice cream after. I wouldn’t touch a health shake
or a protein bar unless I was starving. Fitness is one thing; health nut is
another and I am not a health nut. Optimal means somewhere between energetic
and relaxed. I’ll never be accused of overdoing it.
I know some guys who are into what is called cross-fit
training. Cross-fit is to fitness what sack cloth and self-flagellation are to
religion—a chance to be mean to yourself and feel self-righteous and brag about
it. It isn’t fitness or health, it is punishment. Cross fit is ruthless with its
extremes of running, jumping, doing push ups and pull ups, lifting weights, and
forcing your body to do things it doesn’t want to do and probably shouldn’t.
You might ask: What is all this fitness for? So, you can type
faster on your computer? So, you can look prettier on your computer? So you can
measure up to the high standards of Grindr. Since muscles have no intrinsic
health value, why all this body building? The desire for muscles seems to be in
inverse proportion to the need. Having no practical value, I guess that those built
up bodies must be for display purposes only.
Physical fitness is good for you but I think we should pay
more attention to mental fitness and on that scale our society is pretty
flabby. We don’t exercise our minds and feed it constant junk food. Showing
intelligence is regarded as just showing off. No wonder some Americans want to
get rid of access to health care. And others can’t figure out that that’s a bad
idea. Instead of intelligence—or mental fitness—we get the mental equivalent of
cross fit training—lots of training to navigate complicated computer programs,
for example. But no smarts.
Fitness is for those who have a lifestyle and I gave up a
lifestyle ages ago. Nevertheless, I try to stay fit.
© 30 Jul 2017 
About the Author 
 Nicholas grew up in Cleveland,
then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from
work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga,
writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.
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The Opera House, by Ricky

With apologies to Dr. Seuss and Ogden Nash I submit for your reading pleasure (or whatever it turns out to be):

The Opera House

Come inside, Mr. Bird said the mouse
And I will show you what’s inside an opera house.
An opera house has things like stairs,
Elevators and soft cushy chairs,
But don’t sit too long or ushers will stare.

Around the pillars and down the halls
There is more to see behind these walls.
On the stage, there is much to do
Before the productions are finally through.

There are ropes, ladders, and scaffolding galore,
And canvas and cloth and curtains that reach the floor.
With pits for music and trap-doors for exits
Performers must avoid blows to the solar plexus.

In the dressing rooms beyond the stage
Many a Prima Donna hath raged.
Stagehands are waiting in the wings
For the final time the “Fat Lady” sings.

Come on, come on there’s more to see
Let us make haste I have to pee.
From gilded washrooms to golden arches
Patrons patiently check their bejeweled watches
For the time when the curtain will rise
And they can finally sit down and close their eyes.

Talking and snoring are both frowned upon
But then, so is “shushing” someone looked down upon.
An opera house is seldom austere
Many have a large chandelier
Which refracts the light with a tinkling sound,
But gives no warning before crashing to the ground.

Keep moving right along you see
Before that thing comes down on me.
Opera houses oft feel alive,
Where life and death both do thrive.
Some will house a persistent ghost
But only one is more famous than most.

Composers recollected from times long past
Now drift through air where they do bask
In the glow of the product of their life’s task.
No more than this do they ever ask,
That we the living appreciate them so,
Not one is forgotten though dead long ago.

An opera house cannot become a tomb
When so many of us come to fill the room
And keep alive the majestic tradition
Of all the castrati operatic renditions.
Farinelli, Senesino, and others all knew their position;
Was to sing beautiful arias in their unusual condition.

Do you see? Do you see? The pit fills with musicians
And the gilded boxes house the patricians.
So now, Mr. Bird, said the mouse.
You know what there is in an opera house.

Oh, I forgot to mention that it’s about time you knew,
An opera house presents operas too.
Now we must leave this beautiful place
To buy a ticket lest we lose face.
What! All sold out. Don’t fly into a rage.
Remember poor Custard is crying for a nice safe cage.

© 30 October 2011

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Weather, by Ricky

When I came up with this response to the topic “weather,” there was a large heat wave in Colorado and several major forest fires burning out of control throughout the state.

Oh the temperature outside is frightful,
And the wildfires are so hurtful,
And since there’s no cold place to go,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! I Want Snow!

The heat shows no sign of dropping,
And I’ve brought some corn for popping,
The shades are pulled way down low,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! I Want Snow!

When we finally wave goodbye,
I’ll be going into hot weather!
But if you’ll give me a ride,
We can beat the heat together.

The fires are slowly dying,
And, my friends, we’re still goodbying,
But if you really love me so,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow!

Wait! I don’t want snow. I really want Baseball Nut ice cream and an ice-cold Dr. Pepper.*  

Baseball Nut Ice Cream

*Lyricist Sammy Cahn and the composer Jule Styne created Let It Snow in 1945 and is used here under the fair-use provisions of copyright law.

Baseball Nut ice cream is a trademark flavor by Baskins-Robins. Dr. Pepper is a trademark drink by Pepsi Co. (???)

© 1 July 2012

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced. 

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Limericks, by Will Stanton

There once was a possimum.
T’was said he had no guts inum.
On the highway one day
He got in the way.
Keep superlative remarks to a minimum.

There once was a sea-sick lama
On a ferry to Rama.
A hippo near by
Got it on the fly.
Oh! The resulting drama!

There once was a hip’podimi
Who loved raspberry pie.
He’d roar and roar
Until he got more.
He was the only purple one I seen.

There once was a purple papoose
Who lived with a Manhatten moose.
For dinner one day
A bale of hay
Was picked from the moose’s toothes.

Here he lies dead
With a tombstone at his head.
But at his feet
A lily sweet?
No—-broccoli instead.

A burly baboon
From deep in Rangoon
Swam in a race with a schooner.
He took out a spoon
And whipped up a typhoon
And got to the finish the sooner.

There once was an old dinosaur
Who loved a wrinkled condor.
He gave her a ring
And jumped on her wing
And neither’s been seen any more.

© 1962 by Will Stanton

About the Author

Will Stanton had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. He also realized that, although his own life had not brought him particular fame or fortune, he too had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. In the SAGE Story Time group, he derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. He always put thought and effort into his stories hoping his readers would find them interesting.

Monitor’s note: These poems from Will’s papers were submitted in his memory by Ricky .

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The Knitters’ Dilemma, by Cecil Bethea

The scene is a comfortable living room – like its owner a bit
worn and dowdy who is sitting on a sofa with two wing back chairs at either
end.  A plastic grocery bag lies beside
him.
Bert  (Looking directly at the audience)
Good afternoon!  My name is Bert
Wilson.  Because I’m a junior and Dad was
called “Al”, I got the rear end, which is pretty much the story of my life.
Well, you all are
probably wondering why we’re here.  There
is a story.  I’m a member of a men’s club
called the Prime Timers.  If you’re nice,
you’d call us a group of mature gentlemen involved in various social
activities.  If you’re not nice but are
bitchy –like so many people-, you could call us a gaggle of gay geezers doing
only God knows what.
Anyway a
few of us are working on a project to raise money for the club.  While we don’t advertise the fact, we all
like to knit, it’s a bit like masturbation –enjoyable but not discussed. Anyway, we’re doing a project to raise money. 
We are making what might be called, shall I call them, stocking
stuffers, actually they are called cock socks. 
Hate that term.  Sounds like
something you’d buy in a really depressing discount store.
(The door chimes “There’s
Gonna Be a Hot Time in This Old Town Tonight”) Come on in whoever you are; the lock is off.
Ben   Some day you’re going to say that to the wrong man.
Bert  Is
there such a creature as a “wrong man”?
Ben   Just think how
often we’ve fallen in love before the third drink with some guy in a bar.
Bert  There
you go again dragging up the past.
Ben   We all know you think that truth is a greatly overrated
virtue.  Listen, I went by Playtime Toys and talked to
Mike, the manager; he’d like to get a dozen of the cock socks, but on
consignment.
Bert  Consignment?  What’s that?
Ben
We let him
have them.  For each one he sells we get $7.50.  Any he doesn’t sell we get back.
Bert  Is he honest?
Ben   He’ll sign a contract.
Bert  Exactly what sort of place is this Playtime Toys.
Ben   You know.  He sells
sex toys.
Bert  No, I don’t know! 
I get along very well without gadgets. 
Besides what were you doing in Playtime Toys?
Ben   He also sells porn.
Bert  Now that’s understandable.  Wonder where the magazines get all those good
looking young men who are willing, no, anxious, to take off their clothes to be
photographed.  I never see any such
creatures while strolling in the malls, at Safeway, or on 16th
Street.
Ben   You should sport a $100 bill or maybe even a $50
on your lapel.  Sometimes, I hear, a hot
meal and a warm bed will do the trick.
Bert  Really?
Ben   At least, that’s
what I hear.  Is Adam coming?
Bert  Yes.  He has a ride with Ned, that new member who was
at the luncheon Wednesday, so he might be on time, 
Ben   Unlikely.  Adam will be too late for his own funeral.  (The chimes peal) I might be wrong.
Bert  Come on in.
Adam   I do believe I’m on time.
Ben   Probably nobody else will believe in that miracle.
Adam   There you go again being cynical and telling the world.
Ben   Not so much cynical as realistic.
Adam   No matter.  This is
Ned.  Remember him from the luncheon
Wednesday.  He sat by me.  Somehow during the conversation, it came out
that he knits, so naturally I invited him to join us.
Bert  Ned, who taught you how?
Ned  My grandmother.  She babysat me.  To keep me still she taught me how to crochet
pot holders.  Everybody, no matter who,
got a pot holder for Christmas. 
Eventually I graduated to afghans. 
Pot holders became dull so she taught me how to knit.  As they say, the rest is history.
Bert  My story exactly except it was Aunt Amanda.  She was a fine seamstress.  Women came all the way from Laurel to have
her make them dresses.
Ned  Laurel?  Maryland?
Ben   Lord, no.  He’s
from the metropolis of Hot Coffee, Mississippi. 
Bert is the only man I know who can turn ‘shit’ into a five-syllable
word.
Ned  Five?
Ben   He sort of skids on that ‘i’.
Bert You all quit talking about me.  I’m thinking we should get a name other than “cock
sox”.  That sounds so common.
Ned  Hardly common.  I’d say downright rare.  For example, is one of us wearing a cock sock
now?
Adam   It’s not that cold outside.
Ben   I’d never thought of using one like long johns.
Bert  You all know what I mean – a classy name with just a hint
of naughtiness.
Ned  What about ‘Gilding for the Lily’?
Ben   Maybe ‘Gift Wrap’.
Adam   ‘Camouflage’.
Ben   ‘Almost There’
Ned  ‘High Hopes’
Adam   ‘Manhandler’,
Bert  Remember; we’re not trying to name a new perfume.
Ned  I once heard them called penis
cozies.
Ben   How many guys
have ever seen a tea cozy much less know what a cozy is?
Bert  I prefer penis cozy to cock sock because it sounds so warm
and snugly.
Ned  Well, now that problem is solved;
we can get to work.
Adam   I’m more than half way through one.  And Reggie, that guy from Calgary, gave me a
custom order for a gift.  Wrote the
colors and the size on his business card. 
(He pulls the card from his wallet, reads, and then exclaims)  My God!
Bert  What’s the matter?
Adam   He wants a cock sock in Kelly-green with amethyst blue
trim and 20 by 6!
Ben   That’s positively equine.
Ned  Sounds more like elephantine.
Bert  Those colors are garish. 
Wait just one minute! Did you say twenty by six?  No one has ever seen one that size; has
anyone ever heard of one? 
Ned  That would be a treasure in a
museum.  
Ben   Or in a porno film.
Adam   The very wonder!
Ned  I think you should verify
those dimensions.
Ben   On the other hand if they are wrong, he could use the
thing for a tote bag.
Bert  That would be an awful lot of Kelly-green and amethyst
blue.  I think you should call to check.
Ben   Try to get the other guy’s number.
Adam    (Dialing) Hello, Reggie. 
Adam Swithin.  I’m just checking
to see if I got you order right.  My eyes
aren’t what they were.
Never did meet a Dorian Grey either.  Now, you have down here on your card Kelly
green…
Oh!  He is.
That’s not too common.
All over!
I’m sure he is. 
And you want amethyst blue for the trim?
They are? 
That must be nice.
Now about the size, I read it as twenty by six
(Disappointed) So that’s it ,
I didn’t know that. 
Well, I just wanted to be sure  
See you at the luncheon Wednesday.  Good bye.
Well, that man is besotted or crazy or vice
versa.
Ned  Go ahead and give us the details
Adam   Firstly, Reggie, like I said, is madly in love with an Irishman.  That’s why he wants the Kelly green.
Ben   Never heard of showing your patriotism by wearing a Kelly-green
cock sock.
Ned  You’ve never been in the baths
after a St. Patrick’s Day Parade.  I did
decades ago in New York.  Still suffer
from post-traumatic stress syndrome.
Bert  What about the amethyst blue?
Adam   That’s the color of Shawn’s beautiful eyes.  His hair is red, everywhere.
Ned  When the lights are out you can’t
see, so the colors don’t matter, but you can feel a lot.
Ben   Tell us.  We are
waiting with bated breath.  Whatever that
means
Adam   Like I said, Reggie is from Calgary.  Up in Canada, they use the metric
system.  So, it is in centimeters not
inches.  Respectable but not marvelous.
Bert  But what does all this mean?  Centimeters? I don’t understand.
Ben   It means that Shawn’s prick is about 7 ½ inches by 2 ¾.
Bert  That’ s nice but certainly not 20 X 6.
Ned  Oh! How the glory has departed.
Ben   Miracles do not happen in the modern world.
Adam   But I can still daydream.
Bert  Seeing one that
big would be like that old saying “See Paris and die.”
© 17 Oct 2010 
About the Author 
 Although
I have done other things, my fame now rests upon the durability of my
partnership with Carl Shepherd; we have been together for forty-two years and
nine months as of today, August 18th, 2012.
Although
I was born in Macon, Georgia in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the
Great Depression.  No doubt I still carry
invisible scars caused by that era.  No
matter we survived.  I am talking about
my sister, brother, and I.  There are two
things that set me apart from people. 
From about the third-grade I was a voracious reader of books on almost
any subject.  Had I concentrated, I would
have been an authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.
After
the University of Alabama and the Air Force, I came to Denver.  Here I met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s
Bar.  Through our early life, we traveled
extensively in the mountain West.  Carl
is from Helena, Montana, and is a Blackfoot Indian.  Our being from nearly opposite ends of the
country made “going to see the folks” a broadening experience.  We went so many times that we finally had
“must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in Paducah, Kentucky and
the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming.  Now
those happy travels are only memories.
I was
amongst the first members of the memory writing class.  While it doesn’t offer criticism, it does
offer feedback.  Also, just trying to
improve your writing helps no end.
Carl
is now in a nursing home; I don’t drive any more.  We totter on.
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Ice, by Ray S

The invitation read:

Cocktails

6 PM
Friday, the 25th of November, 2016

Arriving a little after six that evening I was greeted by the hostess’s daughter and ushered to meet the other two guests. Maybe another man or two were on the way, but at this moment it looked like it would be my turn to respond politely, if not wittily and interestedly in what subject the ladies brought up.

Seated on the right end of the sofa sat Ms. Dorothy dressed in her robe looking very much like, I might imagine, the Dowager Empress. The opposite end of the sofa was occupied by Laura who also managed an occasional run to the pantry to replenish snacks or ice.

The cocktail table was set with an inviting selection of tasty foodstuffs.

All of this was surveyed by our hostess, Mary, who was in command of the most important part of the evening’s ritual. Here on a silver tray stood a tall glass cylinder and stir stick. Then the ice bucket and the necessary stem glasses. With a grand gesture Mary dropped each ice cube into the pitcher. Then came a bottle of Queen Victoria’s Best. No measure was needed. To my amazement Mary had a very practiced eye that resulted in four perfect double Martinis—olive or a twist, your choice.

The long glass swizzle stick gently massaged the gin and the ice cubes. Remember, “Always stirred, never shaken.” The other element of this communion of happy souls that surprised me was the absence of any Vermouth, however, rest assured no one but I missed it, and I survived.

© 5 December 2016

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