Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
We were at the store to buy supplies for my wife. I was bagging as she was paying. The whole thing was less than $20. She was going through her, taking things out and mumbling how hard it is to find things in her purse, a familiar song. I dove a hand into my pocket and whipped out a twenty.
My wife said, “It worked.”
“What?”
“I was hoping that if I took too long to get my money out, you’d pay.”
“I thought it was all our money,” I said.
She laughed. “Not when it’s in my purse.”
Trump wants a Peace Prize. I believe him worthy of winning an Ig Nobel Peace Prize this year.
As a man of peace, he has successfully orchestrated a roundup of violent people in the United States. These people were in the U.S. posing as farmworkers, housewives, day laborers, food plant workers, mothers, fathers, and children. Using the Trump branded ESP called TSP*, his minions swept up violent criminals who are illegally in the United States by using just the power of their nose to sniff out crime before it takes place. Most amazingly, with TSP, Trump’s ICE agents are capable of identifying child criminals just by their skin color. To buttress his need for Peace, Trump had the amazing Peace Confinement Base built in Florida. After befriending alligators, Trump trained the alligators to peacefully guard the Peace Confinement Base. Unfortunatly, evil opponents to Trump’s peace efforts use that fact to malign the place as “Alligator Alcatraz”.
Trump will do anything for peace. Searching for peace between Russia and Ukraine, he humbly employed his amazing skills at changing the past to show that Ukraine was the aggressor in that war and urged their leader to accept those new facts at any cost to win peace.
Trump’s third stake in the running for the Ig Noble Peace Prize is his use of America’s military force to launch a pre-emptive strike on Iran, bravely ignoring his own military intelligence’s insights and assessments of Iran to do so. In doing so, Trump modestly noted, “Might makes right, and we have the rightest military in the world.”
Finally, Trump deserves consideration for repetitive efforts to bring peace to others in the world by bringing them under his Umbrella of Peace**. This includes violently afflicted hellholes such as the barbarous and backwards New York City, the swamp of killing named Canada, the miasma of murder known as Greenland, and the Panama Canal.
Surely Trump’s words and behaviors have earned him the right to stand before the world and accept an Ig Noble Peace Prize.
Trump has won an Ig Nobel before, for his bold influence on medical science in 2020 after the COVID-19 pandemic began. He shared that prize with many others, though, who offered the same sort of impact on life in that trying period. I believe the time has come for D.J. Trump to stand alone and get recognition for his impact on peace.
Unfortunately, he will not win. The Ig Noble Prizes are satirical and made to make people laugh and think. There is at once too much and nothing to laugh about with Trump, and none of it is satirical.
But if he doesn’t win, surely a billionaire friend will create the Trump Peace Prize in his honor and make him the first recipient. Then they’ll need to retire the prize. Nobody else can ever be worthy. Unless they offer enough money.
*TSP: Trump Special Power
**Trump brand gold-plated Umbrella of Peace is available online for $25,000. Autographed editions are available for an additional $5,000. Order yours fast, as supplies are limited to the first 47 people. Made in China. Not subject to tariffs. Not available to Democrats or Liberals. All sales are final.
A woman entered the coffee shop. Not a busy place this day, I typed, half-watching her as I do with almost everyone who walks into my line of sight. I noted that she put down her small case and then paused, head swinging around, a small frown creasing her face. Picking her case up, she drifted toward the coffee shop’s center.
I knew the look. Walking over, I said, “Excuse me,” and pointed at the table she’d been at when I had her attention. “There’s an outlet in the middle under the bench.”
Seeing the outlet, she laughed and said, “Oh, thank you!”
Nodding, I answered, “I knew the look,” followed by, “You’re very welcome,” and headed back to my seat, feeling really good about helping someone else in such a small way.
Where is the fur
Where is the purr
Where is the regarding gaze
Maybe out in the sun
Somewhere having fun
Or resting in some shade
Then he arrives
Taking me by surprise
Leaping onto my lap
To tell his news
Through chirps and mews
It’s my buddy, my fur friend, my cat
The usual places are empty
Our air is still
No soft noises are heard
None are there for a treat or a pill.
Toys are collected and put away
Wondering if they’ll be needed on another day.
Food bowls are cleaned, beds are washed,
Unopened food is given away,
The others are tossed.
Quiet shadows every motion and move
You think of memories
Which help and soothe.
But the faces remain, always there
In the empty space, an empty chair.
They call it sticker shock. My wife and I labeled it a friggin’ kick in the head.
We decided to make brownies for our annual Fourth of July gathering. To give it an Independence Day flavor, red, white, and blue chocolate M&Ms would be added to the top. I hustled to the store to buy said M&Ms.
First stop, Bi-Mart, didn’t have them. Second stop, Albertson’s, did. One size: 38 ounces.
38 ounces. Seriously? Who needs that many M&Ms? But if I need to…I guess…
$15.99. On sale. Marked down from $17.99.
Get out of here. What are these, organic M&Ms hand-wrapped by virgins in gold foil?
Neither price was acceptable to me. As a boomer, I remember M&Ms as something I bought a little bag of for a quarter. Last time that I bought a pound of M&Ms, they were like $5. Even a pound bag seemed more than enough, and this wasn’t that many years ago. What are people doing, spooning M&Ms into their mouths?
The world has gone friggin’ nuts. I really am channeling the old codger in me, aren’t I?
Sunshine hangs long and hot. The temperature rests at 95 F. The sky darkens, heralding a fleet of clouds. The fleet burgeons as more clouds drift over to see what happens. Darkening and darkening under added layers of clouds, the sunshine skips out on the rest of the day. So dark at 4 PM, we’re forced into turning on houselights. Thunder cruises through with long throat clearing. We look out, talking out our thoughts, “Looks lik it’s going to rain.” “It’s going to storm.”
Wind dashes around and through the trees. Then it sinks.
The day grows still and dark. Feeling bored, the thunder slinks off. The darkness stays, the clouds remain, and the temperature puts it hat on 87 F, and stays there. Tension builds as we wait and look, asking each other, looking outside for clues, surfing the net for information. Friends share on the net, “weird weather.” No one knows nothin’; we wait.
It’s weather’s move.
The coffee shop had net problems today. Shrugging that away, I told myself, “Just write and check the net later.” Two and a half hours later, I’d finished 2300 words and the story had progressed as if I had some notion of what the hell was going on.
The Hunger Band was on my stomach’s center stage by then, their first notes careening through the rest of my bod. Coffee shop net still down, I listened to the Hunger Band’s sorrowful lyrics about dying of starvation and decided, “Yes, I’ve written enough. Time to go home and eat.”
Now to explore the kitchen to see what the Hunger Band will find acceptable. Salad? Maybe. Burrito?
Hmmm.
I had a haircut earlier this month. Really? Which one? *tish*
My wife said, “You look nice. Your hair looks really good.”
“Thanks,” I answered. I was leaving for the coffee shop. “I have a campaign to look less homeless. My hair is too short.”
“Looks good.”
“Too short. It’s shorter than it was when I was in the military because I have less of it now.”
“It looks good.”
“It’s too short.”
“It looks good.”
“Agree to disagree. See you later.”
“It looks good.”
Michael Seidel, writer 