Little did this sextet realize, they were all thinking the exact same thing: happiness is elusive.
Audrey Mangella sighed loudly as he sat down to a cold microwaved burrito on a slightly used paper plate. His sigh was a manifestation of all of his shortcomings, including most notably, his name, which was obviously designated for a girl.
Back in my day, there was no email. There was just mail, and it wasn’t called snail mail either.
After six days had elapsed, Esther Noh received a letter from her beloved Arthur Treacherous. Everyday since his departure, Esther would sit on the stoop, drink coffee, smoke a Cuban cigar and groom her fabulous mustache, waiting for the mailman, appropriately named Marple Postman, Marp for short.
Esther grabbed the letter and immediately ran up the stairs, two steps at a time. Her breath quickened as she held the letter up to the sunlight. Her shaky hands held the well-worn letter opener, and odd beams of light danced on the wall, corresponding to the rhythm of her nerves.
Ernie Hemingway was pissed off. Seriously. He was supposed to be alone. He was not. This was supposed to be his first vacation in eight years. He needed it. Instead, he was laid up at the damn county hospital with a swollen gall bladder, or cholecystitis.
“It could have been worse,” Dr. Pastrami said.
“How the fuck? Huh? How the fuck?” was what Ernie Hemingway thought and said.
Dr. Pastrami skedaddled, but not before saying, “Yeesh, what a grouch!” It is worth noting, his impression of Ed Norton was uncanny.
One of those hard to believe, but true facts. Whence the carnival comes to town, so too, do the carnies.
You know it’s an ass of a day when you have growing empathy for a piece of dog excrement because it’s not getting as much attention from the flies as the rotting carcass of a half-eaten raccoon. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
The park was littered with half-eaten cotton candy, corncobs, styrofoam and plastic-coated cups. The trashcans overflowed with crushed Mexican beer cans and wedges of dried out limes.
Where once was green grass was now yellow something or another. Large tracts of land matted down like old man hair. This was the aftermath of Hickory Heights Round-Up Days. Every year, like self-imposed psoriasis, the carnival came.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
The Art and Craft of Blogging
The latest news on WordPress.com and the WordPress community.
The Home Of DJ Sung Mo Koo 