Yankeedoodle30
"I have a very detailed imaginary life, and it sometimes takes precedence over what's actually happening around me.”
Yankeedoodle30
Follow
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Yankeedoodle30

My BMW prefers premium gas.

The dilapidated wooden sign said, Gas - two miles. I pulled off the single lane highway and pulled up to the pump. No way this place was going to accept my Visa Card. I had two twenties, enough to get me back to the interstate and civilization.

The woman at the counter looked older than my Aunt Marie, who had died twelve years ago in a horrible city transit bus collision while picking up some dry cleaning for her husband, the night manager at the local Denny’s, the one at the East end of town close to the new Wal-Mart.

An unlit cigarette in a black plastic holder hung from her mouth. 

 I gave her an uplifted, “Morning, forty dollars, fill her up, please.”

The haggard of a woman, wearing a faded and yellowed sweater with long sleeves, looked at me as if I had leprosy and my body parts were falling onto the filthy linoleum at an alarming rate.From her slurred voice, I noticed an empty bottle of Peach Snaps standing by a half eaten grilled cheese sandwich made with ungrilled white bread, with the crust removed.

She hissed, “Which pump?”

The front window, obstructed by broken down cardboard boxes and a full sized ragged cardboard cutout of Bobby Allison, drinking a Miller High Life revealed one pump. When I pulled up I had failed to see the number four scribbled across the rusted surface with a black magic marker, the type with the wide tip.

I cleared my throat. “Pump number four, please.” 

Maybe business had been bad, bad enough to force the cut-rate gas company to cart off the other tree rusted pump. 

Grandma Moses held up the bills to the light from one of two burned out fluorescent lights and called out, ”Fill er’ up, pump number four, two good twenties, ” as if she was hollering to the cook, back in the kitchen to grill another freezer burned and bag up an order of cold oil soaked fries - to go.

The courtesy latch, that locks fuel nozzle lever in place, had long been broken off, forcing me to risk a hand cramp holder the lever as forty bucks worth of regular, the single grade they served, dribbled into my tank. I had time for my entire life to march in front of me, in what seemed like real time. I had planned using the station's restroom, while filling up, but I would have to hold it as the dollars and cents creped by. The smell of stale gas enveloped me, most likely delivered near the turn of the century. I studied the discolored gas hose and noticed several jagged lacerations in various locations. I’d never studied the fluid mechanics of flammable gases but I could accurately predict, with no pump shutoff button in sight, in the near future, a giant ball of fire was going to erupt, taking out pump number four and at least half of the rundown gas station. The odds of that old woman surviving were next to nill.

The pump squealed and got my attention as the gallon numbers crawled to a stop and a clunk and a metallic sounding thud rattled the air. I headed towards the restroom for some sanitary and sanity relief. The crapper door was locked, which meant another encounter with the gas attendant from hell.

“Could I get the key to your restroom.” 

She had lit her cig and was looking at me as if what body parts remained, impacted the floor, making repugnant squishing sounds. Moments passed. I felt like I was facing down a hard-nosed customs agent who was trying to access if I was a terrorist, a drug smuggler or a not so innocent tourista with devious intentions.

She turned and opened a cage with thick wire. A Pit Bowl growled and sprang from the cage. Attached to its collar, hanging from a three-food lanyard, was a key; obviously the key to my future if I was going to take a healthy dump and a pee.

She threw the leash at me. 

I frowned my signature frown. “Damn people, always forgetting to bring the key back. Don’t they know I gotta take a crap.”

I should have been at a loss for words, but I wasn’t. “What’s his name?

She smirked, “That damn no good for nuthin’ mutt aint got a name cause he ain’t a pet. I just call him, Dee-oh-gee.”

I’d never owned a dog so that name was good enough for me. I headed towards the restroom for some much needed sanity relief. I took Dee-oh-gee into the crapper; I didn’t dare risk the dog running off with the key. Why should I be the one to  deny the woman of taking an occasional constipated crap? The stench slammed me in the face, indicating the flusher hadn’t worked since the turn of the century. Dee-oh-gee appeared to enjoy the moment. My butt hovered inches above the bowl missing a toilet seat.

Dee-oh-gee's wavering growl and raised lips, revealing yellowed teeth, motivated me to make this the quickest dump and piss in the history of mankind. A thought ran through my mind. What if someone was desperate enough to try and get a vicious watchdog for free, and drove off with Dee-oh-gee? What would the poor woman do, without a pot to piss in? 

Of course the sink had been ripped off the wall. I followed the mutt back to the counter. He ran into the cage. The woman was leaning against an ancient double-barreled shotgun like it was a crutch.

Another one of my signature frowns prompted her immediate response. “A while back, a fellow took off with that junk yard dog. While he drove off, two blasts from my grand papey’s gun, caused him to push open his door. Dee-oh-gee hoped out and came running back to his cage.”

I frowned and got into my car. I wondered? Was my beamer going to start with a tank full of foul smelling water diluted fuel? I held my breath and turned the key. The engine whined, rumbled and backfired. The car rocked as an image of black smoke appeared in my rear view mirror.

I pressed the peddle and ran it up to 3,000 rpm and held it there until the car stopped rocking and the smoke dissipated. I put the car in gear. I looked back at the woman standing in the door.

She was giving me the finger while her other hand was on the trigger of the double-barreled shotgun. My head jerked to the back seat, making sure Dee-oh-gee hadn’t snuck into my car.

Flying gravel, a whining engine and a cloud of dust, answered that question. I smiled and decided . . . someday, if I ever get a dog, I’m going to name him anything except, Dee-oh-gee.

4
1
0
Juice
32 reads
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Yankeedoodle30
My BMW prefers premium gas.

The dilapidated wooden sign said, Gas - two miles. I pulled off the single lane highway and pulled up to the pump. No way this place was going to accept my Visa Card. I had two twenties, enough to get me back to the interstate and civilization.

The woman at the counter looked older than my Aunt Marie, who had died twelve years ago in a horrible city transit bus collision while picking up some dry cleaning for her husband, the night manager at the local Denny’s, the one at the East end of town close to the new Wal-Mart.

An unlit cigarette in a black plastic holder hung from her mouth. 

 I gave her an uplifted, “Morning, forty dollars, fill her up, please.”

The haggard of a woman, wearing a faded and yellowed sweater with long sleeves, looked at me as if I had leprosy and my body parts were falling onto the filthy linoleum at an alarming rate.From her slurred voice, I noticed an empty bottle of Peach Snaps standing by a half eaten grilled cheese sandwich made with ungrilled white bread, with the crust removed.

She hissed, “Which pump?”

The front window, obstructed by broken down cardboard boxes and a full sized ragged cardboard cutout of Bobby Allison, drinking a Miller High Life revealed one pump. When I pulled up I had failed to see the number four scribbled across the rusted surface with a black magic marker, the type with the wide tip.

I cleared my throat. “Pump number four, please.” 

Maybe business had been bad, bad enough to force the cut-rate gas company to cart off the other tree rusted pump. 

Grandma Moses held up the bills to the light from one of two burned out fluorescent lights and called out, ”Fill er’ up, pump number four, two good twenties, ” as if she was hollering to the cook, back in the kitchen to grill another freezer burned and bag up an order of cold oil soaked fries - to go.

The courtesy latch, that locks fuel nozzle lever in place, had long been broken off, forcing me to risk a hand cramp holder the lever as forty bucks worth of regular, the single grade they served, dribbled into my tank. I had time for my entire life to march in front of me, in what seemed like real time. I had planned using the station's restroom, while filling up, but I would have to hold it as the dollars and cents creped by. The smell of stale gas enveloped me, most likely delivered near the turn of the century. I studied the discolored gas hose and noticed several jagged lacerations in various locations. I’d never studied the fluid mechanics of flammable gases but I could accurately predict, with no pump shutoff button in sight, in the near future, a giant ball of fire was going to erupt, taking out pump number four and at least half of the rundown gas station. The odds of that old woman surviving were next to nill.

The pump squealed and got my attention as the gallon numbers crawled to a stop and a clunk and a metallic sounding thud rattled the air. I headed towards the restroom for some sanitary and sanity relief. The crapper door was locked, which meant another encounter with the gas attendant from hell.

“Could I get the key to your restroom.” 

She had lit her cig and was looking at me as if what body parts remained, impacted the floor, making repugnant squishing sounds. Moments passed. I felt like I was facing down a hard-nosed customs agent who was trying to access if I was a terrorist, a drug smuggler or a not so innocent tourista with devious intentions.
She turned and opened a cage with thick wire. A Pit Bowl growled and sprang from the cage. Attached to its collar, hanging from a three-food lanyard, was a key; obviously the key to my future if I was going to take a healthy dump and a pee.
She threw the leash at me. 

I frowned my signature frown. “Damn people, always forgetting to bring the key back. Don’t they know I gotta take a crap.”

I should have been at a loss for words, but I wasn’t. “What’s his name?

She smirked, “That damn no good for nuthin’ mutt aint got a name cause he ain’t a pet. I just call him, Dee-oh-gee.”

I’d never owned a dog so that name was good enough for me. I headed towards the restroom for some much needed sanity relief. I took Dee-oh-gee into the crapper; I didn’t dare risk the dog running off with the key. Why should I be the one to  deny the woman of taking an occasional constipated crap? The stench slammed me in the face, indicating the flusher hadn’t worked since the turn of the century. Dee-oh-gee appeared to enjoy the moment. My butt hovered inches above the bowl missing a toilet seat.

Dee-oh-gee's wavering growl and raised lips, revealing yellowed teeth, motivated me to make this the quickest dump and piss in the history of mankind. A thought ran through my mind. What if someone was desperate enough to try and get a vicious watchdog for free, and drove off with Dee-oh-gee? What would the poor woman do, without a pot to piss in? 

Of course the sink had been ripped off the wall. I followed the mutt back to the counter. He ran into the cage. The woman was leaning against an ancient double-barreled shotgun like it was a crutch.

Another one of my signature frowns prompted her immediate response. “A while back, a fellow took off with that junk yard dog. While he drove off, two blasts from my grand papey’s gun, caused him to push open his door. Dee-oh-gee hoped out and came running back to his cage.”

I frowned and got into my car. I wondered? Was my beamer going to start with a tank full of foul smelling water diluted fuel? I held my breath and turned the key. The engine whined, rumbled and backfired. The car rocked as an image of black smoke appeared in my rear view mirror.

I pressed the peddle and ran it up to 3,000 rpm and held it there until the car stopped rocking and the smoke dissipated. I put the car in gear. I looked back at the woman standing in the door.

She was giving me the finger while her other hand was on the trigger of the double-barreled shotgun. My head jerked to the back seat, making sure Dee-oh-gee hadn’t snuck into my car.

Flying gravel, a whining engine and a cloud of dust, answered that question. I smiled and decided . . . someday, if I ever get a dog, I’m going to name him anything except, Dee-oh-gee.



4
1
0
Juice
32 reads
Login to post comments.
Advertisement  (turn off)
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
Tell me six impossible things that you believe in. Share me your list.
Written by Yankeedoodle30 in portal Fiction

I'll have a venti low-fat cinnamon dolce latte, no whip w/ one extra shot, a caramel drizzle, one Sweet'N Low - extra hot & double cupped w/

I believe that sometime in the future, (in the nineties and early aughts) people will be able to drive up to a window and order a cup of coffee to go in a paper cup with a logo, a snap on lid, a stir stick and a cardboard sleeve to prevent the customer from burning his hand.

I believe that someday, people will stand in line to order coffee from a detailed menu on the wall, and then stand in another line to get their order and then mosey over to a counter to add sugar, cinnamon, vanilla or other condiments.

I believe in the future, an unusual shorthand language will be required to purchase a cup of coffee. It will be such a unique language, older people will never be able to speak it fluently.

I believe that many years from now, people will intentionally buy cold coffee with white foam on top, and with a funny looking lid that looks like a snow globe.

I believe some day, people will order extra hot coffee that would burn their tongue and mouth and then wait until the coffee cools to sip it.

I believe in our future there will be three sizes of coffee and each will have such a silly name, but older people will still refer to them as: small, medium and large.

I believe someday, a super-sized cup of coffee, called the Trenta will be avaialble that will exceed the capacity of the human stomach.

I believe that someday, a major city in the state of Washing will start a coffee (not a tea) revolution and not one shot will be fired and no one will be killed.

I also believe that a typical $5.50 cup of coffee will also spawn the sale of over priced day-old pastry items.

I believe that someday, car manufactures will offer the option of a multiple cup holder, in both the front seat and back.

I believe in the future, you will be able to buy a horrible tasting cup of coffee out of a (heaven forbid) vending machine.

I believe in the future, companies will be forced to offer their employees, a 15-minute coffee-break to keep people from falling asleep on the job.

I believe in the future, a device using sophisticated technology will be invented by a man that wants to create jobs, so that while people wait in line for their coffee, they can stare at this device, exercise their fingers and even talk to, mainly to look busy so they don’t have to be cordial to the person next to them, whether it be a stranger, friend or family member.

I also believe this unusual rectangular device will eliminate the need to open your purse or pull out your wallet to pay for your coffee. The goal will be to speed up the ordering process but you will still have to stand in two lines.

I believe in the future, you will be able to use this unusual device to order your coffee ahead of time and then walk into a coffee store, go straight to the head of the line and get your coffee. This will irritate a lot of people who have already spent 12 minutes waiting to get their order.

I believe there will be no more tipping the person who serves you coffee and those servers will have funny names and will be paid, a common minimum wage, that all citizens must adhere to.

I believe that an entire culture will develop around the drinking of coffee, and it will especially appeal to those people that have an inclination to be social snobs and certain Coffee Companies will actually breed and encourage this kind of behavior.

I believe someday, people will buy expensive machines, costing as much as $1,200 dollars just to brew a cup of coffee at home. (No, I got carried away, this won’t ever happen in a million years).

I believe some people will become irate and downright rude if their coffee is not made to their exact specifications.

I believe in the future, there will be tiny coffee shops on the corners of streets that will not offer any indoor seating for those that wish to sit and enjoy a little conversation with their cup of coffee.

I believe in the future, that where the coffee beans themselves are grown and roasted will be more important than what they taste like.

4
1
3
Juice
38 reads
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
Tell me six impossible things that you believe in. Share me your list.
Written by Yankeedoodle30 in portal Fiction
I'll have a venti low-fat cinnamon dolce latte, no whip w/ one extra shot, a caramel drizzle, one Sweet'N Low - extra hot & double cupped w/

I believe that sometime in the future, (in the nineties and early aughts) people will be able to drive up to a window and order a cup of coffee to go in a paper cup with a logo, a snap on lid, a stir stick and a cardboard sleeve to prevent the customer from burning his hand.

I believe that someday, people will stand in line to order coffee from a detailed menu on the wall, and then stand in another line to get their order and then mosey over to a counter to add sugar, cinnamon, vanilla or other condiments.

I believe in the future, an unusual shorthand language will be required to purchase a cup of coffee. It will be such a unique language, older people will never be able to speak it fluently.

I believe that many years from now, people will intentionally buy cold coffee with white foam on top, and with a funny looking lid that looks like a snow globe.
I believe some day, people will order extra hot coffee that would burn their tongue and mouth and then wait until the coffee cools to sip it.

I believe in our future there will be three sizes of coffee and each will have such a silly name, but older people will still refer to them as: small, medium and large.

I believe someday, a super-sized cup of coffee, called the Trenta will be avaialble that will exceed the capacity of the human stomach.

I believe that someday, a major city in the state of Washing will start a coffee (not a tea) revolution and not one shot will be fired and no one will be killed.

I also believe that a typical $5.50 cup of coffee will also spawn the sale of over priced day-old pastry items.

I believe that someday, car manufactures will offer the option of a multiple cup holder, in both the front seat and back.

I believe in the future, you will be able to buy a horrible tasting cup of coffee out of a (heaven forbid) vending machine.

I believe in the future, companies will be forced to offer their employees, a 15-minute coffee-break to keep people from falling asleep on the job.

I believe in the future, a device using sophisticated technology will be invented by a man that wants to create jobs, so that while people wait in line for their coffee, they can stare at this device, exercise their fingers and even talk to, mainly to look busy so they don’t have to be cordial to the person next to them, whether it be a stranger, friend or family member.

I also believe this unusual rectangular device will eliminate the need to open your purse or pull out your wallet to pay for your coffee. The goal will be to speed up the ordering process but you will still have to stand in two lines.

I believe in the future, you will be able to use this unusual device to order your coffee ahead of time and then walk into a coffee store, go straight to the head of the line and get your coffee. This will irritate a lot of people who have already spent 12 minutes waiting to get their order.

I believe there will be no more tipping the person who serves you coffee and those servers will have funny names and will be paid, a common minimum wage, that all citizens must adhere to.

I believe that an entire culture will develop around the drinking of coffee, and it will especially appeal to those people that have an inclination to be social snobs and certain Coffee Companies will actually breed and encourage this kind of behavior.

I believe someday, people will buy expensive machines, costing as much as $1,200 dollars just to brew a cup of coffee at home. (No, I got carried away, this won’t ever happen in a million years).

I believe some people will become irate and downright rude if their coffee is not made to their exact specifications.

I believe in the future, there will be tiny coffee shops on the corners of streets that will not offer any indoor seating for those that wish to sit and enjoy a little conversation with their cup of coffee.

I believe in the future, that where the coffee beans themselves are grown and roasted will be more important than what they taste like.















4
1
3
Juice
38 reads
Load 3 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Yankeedoodle30

The Alchemist . . . read why it's my favorite book

And so our story begins with a recurring dream. The dreamer sits under a sycamore tree that has grown out of the ruins of a long forgotten and abandoned church. The dream shows the dreamer there is a treasure where people, to this day, worship at the foot of an obscure Egyptian pyramid.

The treasure will lead to the secret of a life changing alchemy that can change worry into endless hope and anxiety into fulfillment. The secret he searches for is written on a stone called the Emerald Tablet that will tell the dreamer how to concoct a liquid, called the Elixir of Life, that has the power to heal all mental ills.

During a walk in the desert an omen of Love appears to him from the endless darkness. The wind and the sun coaxes him to follow this Love dream. He prays to the Hand That Wrote It All, and learns, truth cannot be veiled by smoke and mirrors — it will always stand firm. The “right” decision will always withstand the tests of time and the weight of scrutiny by others and he is told, don’t ever let others tell you what they want you to be, just know that everyone appears to have a clear idea of how you should lead your life, but at the same time, many of them lack the wisdom about living their own lives.

The voice tells him, there’s no point neither dwelling in the past, nor letting it define you, or getting lost and anxious about the future, but he must live in the present moment, knowing full well - how he engages with the present moment will direct his life.

The Maker shows him the true secret of life is to fall seven times and get up eight times, because the eighth time will be the breakthrough and define who he is allow him to focus on his journey out of darkness into the light.

And so the book ends with the man, having no more recurring dreams of fractured hopes. . . no more poems written looking back at a shattered life, only new words created that will shower his soul and describe the joy of things to come.

2
2
2
Juice
20 reads
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Yankeedoodle30
The Alchemist . . . read why it's my favorite book
And so our story begins with a recurring dream. The dreamer sits under a sycamore tree that has grown out of the ruins of a long forgotten and abandoned church. The dream shows the dreamer there is a treasure where people, to this day, worship at the foot of an obscure Egyptian pyramid.

The treasure will lead to the secret of a life changing alchemy that can change worry into endless hope and anxiety into fulfillment. The secret he searches for is written on a stone called the Emerald Tablet that will tell the dreamer how to concoct a liquid, called the Elixir of Life, that has the power to heal all mental ills.

During a walk in the desert an omen of Love appears to him from the endless darkness. The wind and the sun coaxes him to follow this Love dream. He prays to the Hand That Wrote It All, and learns, truth cannot be veiled by smoke and mirrors — it will always stand firm. The “right” decision will always withstand the tests of time and the weight of scrutiny by others and he is told, don’t ever let others tell you what they want you to be, just know that everyone appears to have a clear idea of how you should lead your life, but at the same time, many of them lack the wisdom about living their own lives.

The voice tells him, there’s no point neither dwelling in the past, nor letting it define you, or getting lost and anxious about the future, but he must live in the present moment, knowing full well - how he engages with the present moment will direct his life.

The Maker shows him the true secret of life is to fall seven times and get up eight times, because the eighth time will be the breakthrough and define who he is allow him to focus on his journey out of darkness into the light.

And so the book ends with the man, having no more recurring dreams of fractured hopes. . . no more poems written looking back at a shattered life, only new words created that will shower his soul and describe the joy of things to come.
2
2
2
Juice
20 reads
Load 2 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Yankeedoodle30

“One Time Offer”

I parked my car in the driveway, forever covered with oil spots from my slow leaking transmission on it’s last legs from foolishly down shifting at four thousand RPM. Not a good thing to do with a Volvo with three hundred and ten thousand miles on the speed-o-meter.

The front door was wide open. The door was always locked. My wife was paranoid somebody, in the middle of the day, would come in, ransack the refrigerator, rifle her purse for loose change, unfold all the laundry, write dirty words on the bathroom mirror with her favorite lipstick color, Unicorn Tears and then slip out the back door, leaving it open and allowing FiFi, our arrogant French poodle to escape.

I burst through the door and shouted. “Anybody home?”

I heard the TV blaring in the family room; dropped my briefcase, umbrella, rain coat, keys and the loose change in my front left pocket and sprinted in that direction.

I ran by the stairs to the three upstair bedrooms and hollered, “Anybody up there?”

The TV continued to blare. I heard a scream. I recognized it as my wife. I heard a thump, like a dead or unconscious body tumbling onto the floor. I tried changing directions and slipped on a throw rug. My feet slammed into a card table with a partially completed 2,500-piece puzzle of, the known world in the 13th century. Pieces of continents, countries and lots of blue, pummeled my body.

I jumped to my feet. My smart phone fell slid along the hardwood floor and stopped in front of the blaring TV. Before racing upstairs to rescue my wife, I retrieved my cell phone in case I had to call 911.

I heard another scream and a dull sound like a bat, repeatedly hitting a hundred pound sack of brown rice, that supposedly has more nutritional value than white rice. I made it to the banister and with my right hand holding tight to the round wooden railing knob, I propelled myself up the first of twelve evenly spaced steps. I heard the scream of a small child; my daughter Mindy. I took three steps at a time. The TV continued to blare. I heard three words from the family room, I fell into a slow motion dream. My legs were frozen. I tried to scream but I had no mouth. My vision closed in. My hearing muted. I was sweating bullets.

I was about to slip into a black void when those same three words brought me back to life. They were: “One time offer”. My fate was clear. My destiny bound. I heard the message repeated over and over in my mind. It was being hammered home. I couldn’t continue going up the stairs, I threw myself to the bottom of the landing and crawled towards the blaring flat screen, wall mounted television.

My future now lay in hearing the phone number associated with those magic words, “One time offer”. I loved those magic numbers. Those elusive numbers were now the holy grail of my life, for the moment at least. My short term goal was to hear the number, write it down and/or memorize it, and then I could slow down and breathe my dream would be fulfilled. I heard the number. I also heard no more screaming or dead weight falling thumps, from the bedrooms above.

I found a red sharpie pen, flipped the cap off with the fingernail on my right thumb and grabbed for a copy of House & Home Designer magazine. Damn! It had a glossy cover. The ink would smear.

I turned the page and screamed, “Noooooooo!” 

Even more glossy pages. The idea of more more smeared ink, haunted me.

I searched. Where was it. My only hope lay in finding it. I heard the number again. The odds were not with me; the telephone number would most likely be repeated only one more time. A ten-digit number is not to be taken lightly. I had once Googled how many combinations there are for a 10-digit number. It was well over ten billion. I had no choice, get the number right this last time or lose all hope and face my doom.

My fingers fanned glossy page after glossy page until, eureka! I found it! A white card - made of real paper, whose only use was to entice the reader to subscribe to yet another glossy magazine. The white card with black printing fell from the pages and floated towards the floor. I grabbed it just as the voice repeated, “one more time, that number is: one eight hundred, three, six, seven, eight nine two, two.

I scribbled it down. I made sure it was legible. Of all the numbers that knock around in your head, this number, as I said before, was now the Holy Grail of all numbers. Forget my S.S. number, forget my bank account password, my pin number, my best friends number, the doggie vets hospital number or even the emergency number, 911, this number now trumped all the other numbers ever invented.

I looked at the number, and did a quick short-term memory recall; I had gotten it right. I relaxed. I had won. Everything would be fine now; no matter what I found upstairs, all was fine with the world with me, sitting on the floor of the still blaring TV.

I heard the man say, “Call the number on your screen today, what are you waiting for?”

I wasn’t going to wait. I dialed the number. One key at a time; this was no time to misdial. One eight hundred, three, six, seven, eight nine two two. I hit the green button. All things were a GO! I was about to experience the delight of another phone purchase placed with a real living person. There would be no buyer’s remorse this time.

I didn’t know any of the details of the offer but how could I let this one time offer go to waste? I waited as the phone rang and rang and rang. God forbid, did I dial wrong? Perhaps, no operators were standing by. Have they all gone to lunch? Maybe it was the yearly company get together or could it be the boss’s fortieth birthday and allthe employees were required to attend.

My breathing labored, the infomercial faded from the screen and then I heard the sweetest voice in the world say, “Hello, are you calling about our one time offer?”

I pumped the air three times, “Whoo whoo whoo”, and blurted out, “Yes, yes I am. I’m not to late . . . am I?

“No sir, you're not too late,” the operator suppressed a giggle. “We must have a million of those things in the warehouse.”

“My boss says we’d never run out of those things in a million years. How many would you like to order today, sir?”

I wasn’t too late. On this horrific day, I had lost so much but I was going to be able to salvage one last thing.

I asked the woman with the sweet voice. “I only need one, but before you confirm my order, what exactly am I ordering?”

“Please hold.” Oh no, I had been placed on: Hold Hell.

I heard nothing except long agonizing seconds of silence and then a click. The line went dead. “Oh God noooooooo!”

I hit redial; a disembodied voice said, “Can you hold please?”

I grunted. “Yes, I can hold . . . as long as I have to.”

Unfortunately, my life is still on hold.

5
1
0
Juice
15 reads
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Yankeedoodle30
“One Time Offer”
I parked my car in the driveway, forever covered with oil spots from my slow leaking transmission on it’s last legs from foolishly down shifting at four thousand RPM. Not a good thing to do with a Volvo with three hundred and ten thousand miles on the speed-o-meter.

The front door was wide open. The door was always locked. My wife was paranoid somebody, in the middle of the day, would come in, ransack the refrigerator, rifle her purse for loose change, unfold all the laundry, write dirty words on the bathroom mirror with her favorite lipstick color, Unicorn Tears and then slip out the back door, leaving it open and allowing FiFi, our arrogant French poodle to escape.

I burst through the door and shouted. “Anybody home?”

I heard the TV blaring in the family room; dropped my briefcase, umbrella, rain coat, keys and the loose change in my front left pocket and sprinted in that direction.

I ran by the stairs to the three upstair bedrooms and hollered, “Anybody up there?”

The TV continued to blare. I heard a scream. I recognized it as my wife. I heard a thump, like a dead or unconscious body tumbling onto the floor. I tried changing directions and slipped on a throw rug. My feet slammed into a card table with a partially completed 2,500-piece puzzle of, the known world in the 13th century. Pieces of continents, countries and lots of blue, pummeled my body.

I jumped to my feet. My smart phone fell slid along the hardwood floor and stopped in front of the blaring TV. Before racing upstairs to rescue my wife, I retrieved my cell phone in case I had to call 911.

I heard another scream and a dull sound like a bat, repeatedly hitting a hundred pound sack of brown rice, that supposedly has more nutritional value than white rice. I made it to the banister and with my right hand holding tight to the round wooden railing knob, I propelled myself up the first of twelve evenly spaced steps. I heard the scream of a small child; my daughter Mindy. I took three steps at a time. The TV continued to blare. I heard three words from the family room, I fell into a slow motion dream. My legs were frozen. I tried to scream but I had no mouth. My vision closed in. My hearing muted. I was sweating bullets.

I was about to slip into a black void when those same three words brought me back to life. They were: “One time offer”. My fate was clear. My destiny bound. I heard the message repeated over and over in my mind. It was being hammered home. I couldn’t continue going up the stairs, I threw myself to the bottom of the landing and crawled towards the blaring flat screen, wall mounted television.

My future now lay in hearing the phone number associated with those magic words, “One time offer”. I loved those magic numbers. Those elusive numbers were now the holy grail of my life, for the moment at least. My short term goal was to hear the number, write it down and/or memorize it, and then I could slow down and breathe my dream would be fulfilled. I heard the number. I also heard no more screaming or dead weight falling thumps, from the bedrooms above.

I found a red sharpie pen, flipped the cap off with the fingernail on my right thumb and grabbed for a copy of House & Home Designer magazine. Damn! It had a glossy cover. The ink would smear.

I turned the page and screamed, “Noooooooo!” 

Even more glossy pages. The idea of more more smeared ink, haunted me.
I searched. Where was it. My only hope lay in finding it. I heard the number again. The odds were not with me; the telephone number would most likely be repeated only one more time. A ten-digit number is not to be taken lightly. I had once Googled how many combinations there are for a 10-digit number. It was well over ten billion. I had no choice, get the number right this last time or lose all hope and face my doom.

My fingers fanned glossy page after glossy page until, eureka! I found it! A white card - made of real paper, whose only use was to entice the reader to subscribe to yet another glossy magazine. The white card with black printing fell from the pages and floated towards the floor. I grabbed it just as the voice repeated, “one more time, that number is: one eight hundred, three, six, seven, eight nine two, two.

I scribbled it down. I made sure it was legible. Of all the numbers that knock around in your head, this number, as I said before, was now the Holy Grail of all numbers. Forget my S.S. number, forget my bank account password, my pin number, my best friends number, the doggie vets hospital number or even the emergency number, 911, this number now trumped all the other numbers ever invented.

I looked at the number, and did a quick short-term memory recall; I had gotten it right. I relaxed. I had won. Everything would be fine now; no matter what I found upstairs, all was fine with the world with me, sitting on the floor of the still blaring TV.

I heard the man say, “Call the number on your screen today, what are you waiting for?”
I wasn’t going to wait. I dialed the number. One key at a time; this was no time to misdial. One eight hundred, three, six, seven, eight nine two two. I hit the green button. All things were a GO! I was about to experience the delight of another phone purchase placed with a real living person. There would be no buyer’s remorse this time.

I didn’t know any of the details of the offer but how could I let this one time offer go to waste? I waited as the phone rang and rang and rang. God forbid, did I dial wrong? Perhaps, no operators were standing by. Have they all gone to lunch? Maybe it was the yearly company get together or could it be the boss’s fortieth birthday and allthe employees were required to attend.

My breathing labored, the infomercial faded from the screen and then I heard the sweetest voice in the world say, “Hello, are you calling about our one time offer?”

I pumped the air three times, “Whoo whoo whoo”, and blurted out, “Yes, yes I am. I’m not to late . . . am I?

“No sir, you're not too late,” the operator suppressed a giggle. “We must have a million of those things in the warehouse.”

“My boss says we’d never run out of those things in a million years. How many would you like to order today, sir?”

I wasn’t too late. On this horrific day, I had lost so much but I was going to be able to salvage one last thing.

I asked the woman with the sweet voice. “I only need one, but before you confirm my order, what exactly am I ordering?”

“Please hold.” Oh no, I had been placed on: Hold Hell.

I heard nothing except long agonizing seconds of silence and then a click. The line went dead. “Oh God noooooooo!”

I hit redial; a disembodied voice said, “Can you hold please?”

I grunted. “Yes, I can hold . . . as long as I have to.”

Unfortunately, my life is still on hold.

5
1
0
Juice
15 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
Write what you want to do when you grow up or what you do. Maybe even a dream you had. Don't forget to tag me @Famewriter!
Written by Yankeedoodle30

My dream job, when I grow up, is to be a . . .

full-time barista at Starbucks, and since I’m only sixteen, I won’t be needing their health insurance cuz’ I hardly ever get sick, unless I eat too much mayonnaise, straight from the wide mouth jar. This should push me to the front of the line because I will be saving the corporation hundreds of dollars a year for their sub-par health insurance.

My mom says I have an excellent memory; it’s almost photographic because it’s in black & white and not color. Right out of the gate, I've got that going for me, which is good cuz' I’m going to learn all 87,000 different drink combinations so I can make them without hesitation; well, maybe half-a-hesitation.

My Mom says I have a 24/7 cheery demeanor, which makes me extremely easy to live with, as long as I stay in my room, which I do most of my waking hours unless I’m in school or at the mall, or the movies, or the amusement park, Starbucks, Yamba Juice or Subway. That litter personality quirk is going on the first line of my resume right after my educational history.

My goal is to become a supervisor of a local store and then a regional manager of a small chain of Starbucks; probably not more than ten.

 My Mom says when I put my mind to doing something, I can usually do it, if I really want to do it, and without having somebody tell me what to do, when to do it and how to do it. That’s how I learned to play the piano on my own. It took over seven years but now I’m really good. I can play the love song from “Frozen” with both hands and I’m so fast, I don’t need help turning the pages of the sheet music.

Yesterday I was surfing the Starbucks website when I discovered any employee, even the ones that mostly sweep up, take out the trash and clean the bathrooms and replace the empty toilet paper rolls, can send their suggestions to the big corporate guys that own the company and live in big houses in Seattle and drive nice cars. 

I read that for every legitimate suggestion sent in, those guys will personally send you a coupon for a free tall cup of the coffee of your choice. If they actually use your suggestion, then they give you half a day off with pay and a little trophy with your name on it; the kind I got for coming in 4th place in the last day of school sack race.

My first suggestion will be: A combination comfort station/coffee annex for overflow crowds. Every time the order line has more than ten people, a 2nd Starbucks Annex will be available in the men’s bathroom. It will be open to both men and women when no one is going potty. It will be staffed on a part time basis by the employees that mostly sweep up, take out the trash and clean the bathrooms and replace the empty toilet paper rolls. 

The actual toilet time, per each legitimate customer, will be ninety seconds so more coffee can be sold. In addition to offering specialty coffees from around the world, the annex will also serve freshly baked pastries, Italian pannini sandwiches and soups, as well as the usual Starbucks rest room's custom selection of toilet paper and soap. (but not in large quantities like you get at Costco)

I will also have a lounge area near the bathroom with hand carved signs that say: “The Land of Coffee”, for those legitimate customers  waiting to use the rest rooms. They can can sit and relax, or stand and listen to live acoustic music and poetry readings on Sunday’s by non-professional musicians and poets. If they can’t hold it any longer and just have gotta’ go, real bad, they will be encouraged to use the facilities next door at Jamba Juice or Subway. Just don’t tell them you are part of the toilet overflow crowd from the Starbucks Coffee annex.

Since Starbuck restrooms are 35% larger than Walmart’s, this extra space will be used to store: extra stir sticks, napkins, giant cases of artificial sweeteners,(like you can buy at Costco) and those fancy specialty gift cups with the STARBUCK LOGO that sell for twenty-five bucks and up, which I think is a rip off because you can get ten of them for twenty bucks at Costco.

If the rest room annex stations become popular, which I expect they will, I will suggest they add a secondary annex along the corridor leading from the main seating area to the rest rooms.

When I meet a barrista I like the smell of, and I want to spend the rest of my life with, I plan on getting married in the outdoor Starbucks Chapel and Courtyard, which will be another of my suggestions. I have already written the slogan: “Come for the wedding, stay for the coffee.” I’ve also included that near the top of my resume, right after my list of hobbies.

I also plan to suggest that Starbucks include a Starbucks Bank annex in every store so their loyal customers who shop at Starbucks can finance a year's worth of coffee, with low interest rates, no matter how bad their credit rating. They just have to sign an affidavit stating they will never sue Starbucks if any part of their body is scalded from ordering extra hot coffee.

I’m also suggesting the use of extra large tip jars which will mean more money to be divided amongst the workers and the supervisors and the corporate CEO”s who live in Seattle in big fancy houses and drive those nice cars.

I like soda and so I'm gonna' have the company invent a bottled coffee-cola-chocolate hybrid that will be sold as a “drinkable dessert”.

I can’t wait till I’m eighteen when I can apply for a Starbucks job. My mom also says when I turn eighteen, I can start drinking coffee.

  "Live long and enjoy the prosperous coffee business and may the froth be with you."

13
4
5
Juice
66 reads
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
Write what you want to do when you grow up or what you do. Maybe even a dream you had. Don't forget to tag me @Famewriter!
Written by Yankeedoodle30
My dream job, when I grow up, is to be a . . .

full-time barista at Starbucks, and since I’m only sixteen, I won’t be needing their health insurance cuz’ I hardly ever get sick, unless I eat too much mayonnaise, straight from the wide mouth jar. This should push me to the front of the line because I will be saving the corporation hundreds of dollars a year for their sub-par health insurance.

My mom says I have an excellent memory; it’s almost photographic because it’s in black & white and not color. Right out of the gate, I've got that going for me, which is good cuz' I’m going to learn all 87,000 different drink combinations so I can make them without hesitation; well, maybe half-a-hesitation.

My Mom says I have a 24/7 cheery demeanor, which makes me extremely easy to live with, as long as I stay in my room, which I do most of my waking hours unless I’m in school or at the mall, or the movies, or the amusement park, Starbucks, Yamba Juice or Subway. That litter personality quirk is going on the first line of my resume right after my educational history.

My goal is to become a supervisor of a local store and then a regional manager of a small chain of Starbucks; probably not more than ten.

 My Mom says when I put my mind to doing something, I can usually do it, if I really want to do it, and without having somebody tell me what to do, when to do it and how to do it. That’s how I learned to play the piano on my own. It took over seven years but now I’m really good. I can play the love song from “Frozen” with both hands and I’m so fast, I don’t need help turning the pages of the sheet music.

Yesterday I was surfing the Starbucks website when I discovered any employee, even the ones that mostly sweep up, take out the trash and clean the bathrooms and replace the empty toilet paper rolls, can send their suggestions to the big corporate guys that own the company and live in big houses in Seattle and drive nice cars. 

I read that for every legitimate suggestion sent in, those guys will personally send you a coupon for a free tall cup of the coffee of your choice. If they actually use your suggestion, then they give you half a day off with pay and a little trophy with your name on it; the kind I got for coming in 4th place in the last day of school sack race.

My first suggestion will be: A combination comfort station/coffee annex for overflow crowds. Every time the order line has more than ten people, a 2nd Starbucks Annex will be available in the men’s bathroom. It will be open to both men and women when no one is going potty. It will be staffed on a part time basis by the employees that mostly sweep up, take out the trash and clean the bathrooms and replace the empty toilet paper rolls. 

The actual toilet time, per each legitimate customer, will be ninety seconds so more coffee can be sold. In addition to offering specialty coffees from around the world, the annex will also serve freshly baked pastries, Italian pannini sandwiches and soups, as well as the usual Starbucks rest room's custom selection of toilet paper and soap. (but not in large quantities like you get at Costco)

I will also have a lounge area near the bathroom with hand carved signs that say: “The Land of Coffee”, for those legitimate customers  waiting to use the rest rooms. They can can sit and relax, or stand and listen to live acoustic music and poetry readings on Sunday’s by non-professional musicians and poets. If they can’t hold it any longer and just have gotta’ go, real bad, they will be encouraged to use the facilities next door at Jamba Juice or Subway. Just don’t tell them you are part of the toilet overflow crowd from the Starbucks Coffee annex.

Since Starbuck restrooms are 35% larger than Walmart’s, this extra space will be used to store: extra stir sticks, napkins, giant cases of artificial sweeteners,(like you can buy at Costco) and those fancy specialty gift cups with the STARBUCK LOGO that sell for twenty-five bucks and up, which I think is a rip off because you can get ten of them for twenty bucks at Costco.

If the rest room annex stations become popular, which I expect they will, I will suggest they add a secondary annex along the corridor leading from the main seating area to the rest rooms.

When I meet a barrista I like the smell of, and I want to spend the rest of my life with, I plan on getting married in the outdoor Starbucks Chapel and Courtyard, which will be another of my suggestions. I have already written the slogan: “Come for the wedding, stay for the coffee.” I’ve also included that near the top of my resume, right after my list of hobbies.

I also plan to suggest that Starbucks include a Starbucks Bank annex in every store so their loyal customers who shop at Starbucks can finance a year's worth of coffee, with low interest rates, no matter how bad their credit rating. They just have to sign an affidavit stating they will never sue Starbucks if any part of their body is scalded from ordering extra hot coffee.

I’m also suggesting the use of extra large tip jars which will mean more money to be divided amongst the workers and the supervisors and the corporate CEO”s who live in Seattle in big fancy houses and drive those nice cars.

I like soda and so I'm gonna' have the company invent a bottled coffee-cola-chocolate hybrid that will be sold as a “drinkable dessert”.

I can’t wait till I’m eighteen when I can apply for a Starbucks job. My mom also says when I turn eighteen, I can start drinking coffee.

  "Live long and enjoy the prosperous coffee business and may the froth be with you."

13
4
5
Juice
66 reads
Load 5 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
You have a few days left to live. Only you know this. You are able to leave behind a note, letter, story or poem. It can be about anything you wish. Show us what you write. (Feel free to tag me. And by all means, don't feel that you're constrained to write something sad)
Written by Yankeedoodle30 in portal Fiction

For Sale: Gold Retirement Spoon (used)

To whom it may concern. 

Those of you who do not know me, may not know that at one time in the distant past, I was young and handsome, had a good job, had a nice and fast car, and I was popular with the ladies, and I was a snappy dresser and rich and famous, not celebrity famous mind you, just that the clerks at the Dollar Tree, knew me by my first name. I wasn’t really rich, I just had about $3,500 sewn into my mattress.

I am now old and broke and homeless and no one knows who I am. I wasn’t really handsome, pretty much average which is the reason I was popular only with two ladies, one had a hair lip and the other one was deaf. Nothing wrong with having a hair lip or being deaf, I just couldn’t understand the first one and the other one couldn’t understand me.

My car was nice and fast when it was new, I bought it when it was really old. I eventually ended up driving it into the ground. No really, I didn't see a big patch of vertical ground in front of me and I drove right into it. 

My career never really took off: I worked in a spoon factory and hoped one day to move over to the fork department but I kept getting passed by for promotions. When I retired they gave me a gold plated spoon. Turns out, it wasn’t gold plated at all, some wise ass spray painted it gold. So since I’m homeless now, anybody wanna’ buy a gold spoon painted with yellow paint?

12
5
2
Juice
60 reads
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
You have a few days left to live. Only you know this. You are able to leave behind a note, letter, story or poem. It can be about anything you wish. Show us what you write. (Feel free to tag me. And by all means, don't feel that you're constrained to write something sad)
Written by Yankeedoodle30 in portal Fiction
For Sale: Gold Retirement Spoon (used)

To whom it may concern. 
Those of you who do not know me, may not know that at one time in the distant past, I was young and handsome, had a good job, had a nice and fast car, and I was popular with the ladies, and I was a snappy dresser and rich and famous, not celebrity famous mind you, just that the clerks at the Dollar Tree, knew me by my first name. I wasn’t really rich, I just had about $3,500 sewn into my mattress.

I am now old and broke and homeless and no one knows who I am. I wasn’t really handsome, pretty much average which is the reason I was popular only with two ladies, one had a hair lip and the other one was deaf. Nothing wrong with having a hair lip or being deaf, I just couldn’t understand the first one and the other one couldn’t understand me.

My car was nice and fast when it was new, I bought it when it was really old. I eventually ended up driving it into the ground. No really, I didn't see a big patch of vertical ground in front of me and I drove right into it. 

My career never really took off: I worked in a spoon factory and hoped one day to move over to the fork department but I kept getting passed by for promotions. When I retired they gave me a gold plated spoon. Turns out, it wasn’t gold plated at all, some wise ass spray painted it gold. So since I’m homeless now, anybody wanna’ buy a gold spoon painted with yellow paint?



12
5
2
Juice
60 reads
Load 2 Comments
Login to post comments.
Advertisement  (turn off)
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Yankeedoodle30

. . . or does it?

The first time I saw her, she was playing in the park, it was almost dark.

She was nine and and I was nine. 

When I turned ten, every time I looked at her, she looked like sleeping 

beauty dressed up like the sun.

                  "I just turned eleven and she is the love of my life."

 But in a month, she will laugh at me and stomp out of my tiny world.

Two years from now, when I’m thirteen she will give me hope and then kick me in the shins, and she and her snotty friends will all laugh at me.

Four years later,  when I turn fifteen, after a few hits and misses, we'll be back together again, but she'll play me for a fool, steal my stuff and sneak off again.

At sixteen, when I can drive, she'll meet me half-way and tell me she loves me and needs my help. I'll drop out of school and get a job, so I can: buy her next fix, help her take a hit, score her more coke, and watch her when she shoots up.

At eighteen, my friends will leave me behind and it'll just be the two of us and she'll be wasted all the time.

Halfway to nineteen, nothing will be left of my soaring love except an empty ache. 

She will be dead from a slow suicide of drugs and alcohol. Unfortunately, I don't know all this yet, because you see . . . 

                       "I just turned eleven and she is the love of my life."

13
3
4
Juice
48 reads
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Yankeedoodle30
. . . or does it?
The first time I saw her, she was playing in the park, it was almost dark.
She was nine and and I was nine. 

When I turned ten, every time I looked at her, she looked like sleeping 
beauty dressed up like the sun.

                  "I just turned eleven and she is the love of my life."

 But in a month, she will laugh at me and stomp out of my tiny world.

Two years from now, when I’m thirteen she will give me hope and then kick me in the shins, and she and her snotty friends will all laugh at me.

Four years later,  when I turn fifteen, after a few hits and misses, we'll be back together again, but she'll play me for a fool, steal my stuff and sneak off again.

At sixteen, when I can drive, she'll meet me half-way and tell me she loves me and needs my help. I'll drop out of school and get a job, so I can: buy her next fix, help her take a hit, score her more coke, and watch her when she shoots up.

At eighteen, my friends will leave me behind and it'll just be the two of us and she'll be wasted all the time.

Halfway to nineteen, nothing will be left of my soaring love except an empty ache. 

She will be dead from a slow suicide of drugs and alcohol. Unfortunately, I don't know all this yet, because you see . . . 

                       "I just turned eleven and she is the love of my life."
13
3
4
Juice
48 reads
Load 4 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
"...Neil deGrasse Tyson and Carl Sagan began smoking their blunt. The conversation that followed..."
Written by Yankeedoodle30 in portal Sci-Fi

Neil deGrasse Tyson, Is a Black Hole, Sucking the Fun Out of the Universe

“Carl, what are we smoking?"

“Well Neil, it’s one of my methods of escaping reality. I remove the tobacco from a blunt cigar and replace it with blond hash.”

“The reason I invited you here is, haven’t you given the press the impression that we have a close scientific working relationship and you consider me to be your mentor?”

“Ahhh, I may have mentioned it quite a few times but I didn’t mean it.”

“Okay, at least you know the difference between reality and fiction but I still consider you to be a 21st century celebrity scientist who has made minor contributions to astronomy.”

“Carl, that really hurts my analytical based feelings. I must say however, although I am a militant anti-drug person, this is good stuff.”

“Don’t you get tired of being a pop science media darling who lacks at maintaining the bare minimum of a general sense of decorum and dignity."

“You have no evidence to support your egregious claims.”

“Actually I do. I have video footage that reveals you have a questionable scientific background and a propensity towards spouting inanities, trivial sound bites and numerous downright falsehoods.”

“Not fair, I have a top notch staff of technical writers and editors. Psssst. How much does this stuff cost?”

“That’s the problem isn’t it? As a TV celebrity scientist, you haven’t published anything of note for over six years.”

“I dabble in science occasionally . . . can I get a couple pounds of this hash for wholesale?”

“Neil, you are nothing more than a media cheerleader for science”.

“Not fair. Your evidence is faulty and or out dated and no longer relevant.”

“You’re no different than the other pop culture icon scientists - Bill Nye and Michio Kaku."

“Is there a discount if I double my order?”

“Your critics call you an incoherent scientific “quote machine” and that you have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“This really is good stuff. Can I light up another one, please?” and could I bring home a few of those doobies for my friends, Mary and Jane?”

“No Neil, and I’m going to drive you to the airport and make sure you get on the right plane.”

“Can I put this thing out and light it up on the plane?”

“What do you think, Mr. deGrasse?”

“. . .do you think I can smuggle a Bic lighter on the plane”?”

“What do you think, Mr. deGrasse?”

10
4
3
Juice
66 reads
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
"...Neil deGrasse Tyson and Carl Sagan began smoking their blunt. The conversation that followed..."
Written by Yankeedoodle30 in portal Sci-Fi
Neil deGrasse Tyson, Is a Black Hole, Sucking the Fun Out of the Universe

“Carl, what are we smoking?"

“Well Neil, it’s one of my methods of escaping reality. I remove the tobacco from a blunt cigar and replace it with blond hash.”

“The reason I invited you here is, haven’t you given the press the impression that we have a close scientific working relationship and you consider me to be your mentor?”

“Ahhh, I may have mentioned it quite a few times but I didn’t mean it.”

“Okay, at least you know the difference between reality and fiction but I still consider you to be a 21st century celebrity scientist who has made minor contributions to astronomy.”

“Carl, that really hurts my analytical based feelings. I must say however, although I am a militant anti-drug person, this is good stuff.”

“Don’t you get tired of being a pop science media darling who lacks at maintaining the bare minimum of a general sense of decorum and dignity."

“You have no evidence to support your egregious claims.”

“Actually I do. I have video footage that reveals you have a questionable scientific background and a propensity towards spouting inanities, trivial sound bites and numerous downright falsehoods.”

“Not fair, I have a top notch staff of technical writers and editors. Psssst. How much does this stuff cost?”

“That’s the problem isn’t it? As a TV celebrity scientist, you haven’t published anything of note for over six years.”

“I dabble in science occasionally . . . can I get a couple pounds of this hash for wholesale?”

“Neil, you are nothing more than a media cheerleader for science”.

“Not fair. Your evidence is faulty and or out dated and no longer relevant.”

“You’re no different than the other pop culture icon scientists - Bill Nye and Michio Kaku."

“Is there a discount if I double my order?”

“Your critics call you an incoherent scientific “quote machine” and that you have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“This really is good stuff. Can I light up another one, please?” and could I bring home a few of those doobies for my friends, Mary and Jane?”

“No Neil, and I’m going to drive you to the airport and make sure you get on the right plane.”

“Can I put this thing out and light it up on the plane?”

“What do you think, Mr. deGrasse?”

“. . .do you think I can smuggle a Bic lighter on the plane”?”

“What do you think, Mr. deGrasse?”






10
4
3
Juice
66 reads
Load 3 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
Write whatever you like, but it has to be about dealing with soul-crushing loneliness
Written by Yankeedoodle30 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

“I’ll never say, never again”

I met him in a pool room somewhere between love

and yesterday. He took me back to his hotel. A fancy

room on the fifteenth floor. I was so drunk on rye

whiskey and unfrozen water, I couldn't make out the

number on the door. I had drunk myself dizzy, the

room was spinning, my head was dancing with stars.

He laid me on the bed and had his way with me, then

he left to party with friends.

I lay there naked, I was scared. My father died drunk

in his slumber and I knew I'd been drinking too much

and I'd probably be next. I broke the label and unscrewed

the top of a brand new room service whiskey bottle.

I never fell asleep, and soon the street lights blinked off

and the amber sun rose; it’s tinged with regret. As my

hangover strikes, I turn on the tap but the water's

too loud. There’s no fool proof cure for the morning

after, for a fool like me. I got mashed last night, just

like my college days when we would: pass the bottle,

put on a smile and get wild.

My head is pounding, no way I’m coming down.

Whoa! I've got an empty cup, I pour another shot.

The bliss is temporary and I realize, he never came

back last night, probably hooked up with a real looker,

lot's more prettier than me.

Alone with my pen, I face the ultimate truth and write

my last goodbye letter. Is it the cold that’s making me

shake or the whiskey and rye? I'm pretty sad but so what?

It'll be over all too soon.

I struggle towards the bathroom mirror, I'm all tore up,

my mind is sore. I got dulled senses, aching bones,

and my heart is too frail to feel anything. It’s an ugly sight,

smeared lipstick, running mascara, and the telltale red eyes

of a drunkard.

I tell an imaginary bartender, give me a painkiller cocktail

and keep them coming, don’t water them down, make em' neat.

You know you’re lonely when there’s no one around to pass

you a bottle. I finish my note with a simple good bye, and I

drift off to sleep. I’ll never wake again but I know one thing is

for sure, I’ll never have to say, I’ll never take another drink again.

6
2
0
Juice
47 reads
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
Write whatever you like, but it has to be about dealing with soul-crushing loneliness
Written by Yankeedoodle30 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
“I’ll never say, never again”

I met him in a pool room somewhere between love
and yesterday. He took me back to his hotel. A fancy
room on the fifteenth floor. I was so drunk on rye
whiskey and unfrozen water, I couldn't make out the
number on the door. I had drunk myself dizzy, the
room was spinning, my head was dancing with stars.
He laid me on the bed and had his way with me, then
he left to party with friends.

I lay there naked, I was scared. My father died drunk
in his slumber and I knew I'd been drinking too much
and I'd probably be next. I broke the label and unscrewed
the top of a brand new room service whiskey bottle.

I never fell asleep, and soon the street lights blinked off
and the amber sun rose; it’s tinged with regret. As my
hangover strikes, I turn on the tap but the water's
too loud. There’s no fool proof cure for the morning
after, for a fool like me. I got mashed last night, just
like my college days when we would: pass the bottle,
put on a smile and get wild.

My head is pounding, no way I’m coming down.
Whoa! I've got an empty cup, I pour another shot.
The bliss is temporary and I realize, he never came
back last night, probably hooked up with a real looker,
lot's more prettier than me.

Alone with my pen, I face the ultimate truth and write
my last goodbye letter. Is it the cold that’s making me
shake or the whiskey and rye? I'm pretty sad but so what?
It'll be over all too soon.

I struggle towards the bathroom mirror, I'm all tore up,
my mind is sore. I got dulled senses, aching bones,
and my heart is too frail to feel anything. It’s an ugly sight,
smeared lipstick, running mascara, and the telltale red eyes
of a drunkard.

I tell an imaginary bartender, give me a painkiller cocktail
and keep them coming, don’t water them down, make em' neat.
You know you’re lonely when there’s no one around to pass
you a bottle. I finish my note with a simple good bye, and I
drift off to sleep. I’ll never wake again but I know one thing is
for sure, I’ll never have to say, I’ll never take another drink again.
6
2
0
Juice
47 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
Write about something that makes you absolutely pissed. Don't use any CONVENTIONAL cuss words, instead make up your own.
Written by Yankeedoodle30

Fast food is worse than a dickweed . . . . . pile-jacker!

A scratchy voice called out, “Hallo wecom to bugking maya takyou oder pease.”

I was late for work and responded, “Listen you freakin’ mudblood, your words are coming out of that tinny speaker all fickyficked up, give me a number two and a large black coffee."

A garbled voice responded, “Isa ordeor coreeeect on thay screep.”

I hollered, “Yes,” and drove to the first window. 

A pimply faced dickwhistle, wearing a but-wiper paper hat said, “That’s five thirty five.” 

I handed him a five and two ones.

He took another order and kept repeating the same words.

Dickwad leaned out the window. “Hey man, wanna receipt?”

“No, you fludder-whumpas, just give me my dandy-nerf change and my BK doo-doo.

and don’t give me no sparks.”

The kid . . . obviously deaf from birth didn’t respond and counted out my change one coin at a time.

I said, “Hey klattle-klack, where’d you learn money math, in some bratchin’ loafing center?”

He handed me my food and started taking next order.

I pounded the counter. “Listen you under age figgity-bumpkus, give me my thumpa-doo black coffee; I don’t have all plonking day you dumb spazz shiner.”

He handed me my black coffee.

I hollered, "You’re an inbred lard-rag,  get the twunt out of my face, you poor excuse for a wank-sniffer.”

I drove off and took a sip of my luke warm coffee. It tasted like klattle-klack sludge mixed with snapper-splatt.

                            Damn kid had spit in my in firthin coffee.

8
3
11
Juice
65 reads
Donate coins to Yankeedoodle30.
Juice
Cancel
Write about something that makes you absolutely pissed. Don't use any CONVENTIONAL cuss words, instead make up your own.
Written by Yankeedoodle30
Fast food is worse than a dickweed . . . . . pile-jacker!

A scratchy voice called out, “Hallo wecom to bugking maya takyou oder pease.”

I was late for work and responded, “Listen you freakin’ mudblood, your words are coming out of that tinny speaker all fickyficked up, give me a number two and a large black coffee."

A garbled voice responded, “Isa ordeor coreeeect on thay screep.”

I hollered, “Yes,” and drove to the first window. 

A pimply faced dickwhistle, wearing a but-wiper paper hat said, “That’s five thirty five.” 

I handed him a five and two ones.

He took another order and kept repeating the same words.

Dickwad leaned out the window. “Hey man, wanna receipt?”

“No, you fludder-whumpas, just give me my dandy-nerf change and my BK doo-doo.
and don’t give me no sparks.”

The kid . . . obviously deaf from birth didn’t respond and counted out my change one coin at a time.

I said, “Hey klattle-klack, where’d you learn money math, in some bratchin’ loafing center?”

He handed me my food and started taking next order.

I pounded the counter. “Listen you under age figgity-bumpkus, give me my thumpa-doo black coffee; I don’t have all plonking day you dumb spazz shiner.”

He handed me my black coffee.

I hollered, "You’re an inbred lard-rag,  get the twunt out of my face, you poor excuse for a wank-sniffer.”

I drove off and took a sip of my luke warm coffee. It tasted like klattle-klack sludge mixed with snapper-splatt.

                            Damn kid had spit in my in firthin coffee.


8
3
11
Juice
65 reads
Load 11 Comments
Login to post comments.
Advertisement  (turn off)