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The Voices Meeting In My Head Part Two

Today, I held the quarterly board meeting with the voices in my head. Although I am Chairman of the Board, the others have a vote on projects I will undertake and policy positions I will make over the next quarter. Unfortunately, my voice only has one in what I may or may not believe.

The meeting was called to order and attendance was taken. Kevin. Venus, Mahmud, Calliope, Raheem and I were all there. After dispensing of the reading of the minutes of the last meeting, the floor was opened to proposals, and Kevin was the first to jump in.

“I propose that Em start a club for octogenarians named ‘Kevin'” Then he will buy jackets with a club logo on back.”

Before the board could vote on the measure, I hastened to point out that I am not an octogenarian and my name isn’t Kevin, so I wouldn’t be allowed to join the club; neither could the other members. The measure was voted down. Kevin pouted.

Raheem introduced a proposal that we pass a non-binding resolution against the wars in Afghanistan and Syria and call on the toadstool in office to bring our troops home. It passed unanimously, and it was decided we would all work on how to make it binding for next quarter.

Calliope thought it was time redecorate my head, saying it was too pink inside. It was shelved til the next quarter.

Venus raised her hand and said shyly, “Uh…Em… I have a suggestion. I was thinking maybe you could lay off your brilliant nephew Brian for a while. You know, it’s OK if he doesn’t want to dance. In fact, my cousin Terpsichore has witnessed his gyrations and feel it would be a service to mankind if he were to refrain from dancing.” The proposal passed four to two.

Mahmud, the wise old scholar, once again brought up the proposal that I write a book.

“Look, Mahmud,? I said, “we’ve been over this before. I have been trying to write a book, but all you fuckers keep distracting me. If you’d just quit butting in, perhaps I could finish it.

“In fact, I have a proposal.” I said, “I propose that you all take a long vacation; I’ll even pay for it. I tell you what, I’ll’ send you to my ass for spring and summer, all expenses paid.”

They chattered among themselves for a minute, then Kevin said, “Can we talk out of your ass?”

“Yeah, sure, you’ve been doing it for years.

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Love In The Time Of War, Torn Between Love And Comfort

“It’s just not fair Ellen, it’s just not fair.” Regina Stanton cried into the telephone. “God, I love them both so much.”

Ellen’s brassy voice echoed in the small apartment. “Well Reggie, you gotta do something. This thing has gone on long enough. You have to tell him.”

“I know it, I know I do, but with him being in Afghanistan and all, I love him, and it just seems so bitchy to write him a ‘Dear John” letter. I feel so guilty.”

“I know you do girl, but you’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.

Regina picked at her flannel pajama bottoms with serrated fingernails as she cradled the phone between her shoulder and cheek, a nervous habit she’d had since childhood. “I never meant for this to happen, you know? It’s just that John’s been gone so long, and then they extended his tour. I was lonely so damn lonely. The walls of this apartment were closing in on me; I needed company. Oh, Ellen, I don’t want to lose either of them.”

“Listen baby sister, you knew how Hohn was when you married him. You knew he was a warrior. And, you can’t say you didn’t know about the other thing. You’ve got to tell him or you’re not going to be  worth a damn to either one of them.”

“You’re right sis, I know you’re right, and I will tell him. I’ll write him that letter. Thanks for being here for me.”

“Anytime you need me Reg, anytime at all.”

Regina hung up the phone and buried her face in her hands. “What did I get myself,” she asked the sofa. The sofa didn’t answer. She glanced at the desk, t her personalized stationary her father gave her on her last birthday hid in the drawer.

Before heading to the desk, Regina made a detour to the kitchen and poured herself a half-glass of Pino Grigio, hoping its lubricating effects might loosen her thoughts and help transcribe them to paper. She looked at the sink, two plates in soapy water, reminders of her dinner with Thompson only an hour or so earlier. Two. Two is what Regina had signed up for, not Afghanistan, not loneliness, not the heartbreak on one.

As she gathered her resolve and started for the desk, she caught the faint sounds of Thompson’s snores coming from the bedroom. It was the music of damp breezes played on ripe tomatoes. It was the music of companionship in the key of love major. The snuffling ear candy drew her towards the bedroom, but she resisted, knowing if she did not take pen in hand now, the stress of deception would crush her. After putting the wine glass on the desk, Regina withdrew her stationary from the drawer, grasp the comfort-grip gel pen in hand and began:

Dear John,

I miss you so much, and I’ve been so lonely, so please don’t be upset wth me because…I adopted a dog. I know you don’t like dogs, but I hope you love me enough to like Thompson.


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Gardening With Dogs, Cats, Two Squirrels, And A Duck

Early this morning, Mrs. Em informed me I was taking her to the gardening center so she could purchase mass quantities of flowers, plants, and pottery to add to our already festooned backyard. She loaded up on assorted flora, fertilizer, and garden doodads, thereby depleting the coffers of our estate treasury. A nice young man helped load the semi-forest in the trunk, and we returned to the estate.

After I transferred the garden goodies from the car to the backyard, Pathetic Bob, Sophie. Lily, Paco, and Papi. along with Bill the Cat, Randy and Milo (the two gay squirrels who rent the big oak tree next to the pool) assembled on the deck to check things out, curiously sniffing each plant and peeing on the bags of potting soil. Before we started gardening, Mrs. Em used this gathering to as an opportunity to give a lecture to one and all about the behavior she expected from all present towards her plants

Sophie, who had been caught digging up last’s year’s impatiens, was, in no uncertain terms, threatened with great bodily harm if she continued her mole-like ways. Lily and Bill the Cat were chided for sitting in flower pots and wrestling in the garden beds. Pathetic Bob bore special attention of Mrs. Em”s wrath for his habit of taking a dump in the tomato patch. Then, her smoldering eyes landed on Milo and Randy. “You two,” she said, ” I’m still pissed at you for eating all the jalapeno peppers I planted last year. If it happens again this year, I will consider terminating your lease.”

Big Head Ed escaped Mrs. Em’s vitriol, however, I had no such luck. “And you Skippy (She calls me Skippy when she’s being sarcastic) you might consider being more diligent about watering the plants this Summer. I know you’re overtaxed already thinking up weird shit to post on your blog, but I would consider it a personal favor if you could find the time in your busy schedule to help me keep these plants alive.” I looked down and noticed a pool of sarcasm at her feet.

The meeting was about to break up when Randy said, “Uh…Em…did you ask her about the duck?”

“Duck! What duck? she exploded.

“Well…uh…Honey,” I said sheepishly. “Milo and Randy met a duck named Sonia in Cabo San Lucas on their winter retreat, and…they were wondering if maybe Sonia could come stay for the Summer.?

Mrs. Em just stared at me, and then she looked at Randy and Milo. Great,” she sacasimized, “a duck, that’s just what we need around here. I mean what’s a ” zoo” without a duck. Do you realize how much a duck poops? It’s not enough we have dog poop, cat poop, and squirrel poop all over the yard, now you want to add duck shit to the pile. Actually,” she added, “a duck will probably add poop to the pool.”

“Look Mrs. Em,” said Milo “Randy and I will clean up if Sonia makes a mess, but I doubt she will; she’s almost as anal retentive as you.”

“What did you say,” asked Mrs., foam dripping from her lips.
“He’s just kidding,” said Milo.

I figured I’d better jump in at that point. “Hey Mrs. Em, Milo’s a kidder. He’s always liked you. Listen, here’s what I think we should do; let’s allow Sonia to visit and see how it goes. I trust Randy and Milo. Except for last year’s jalapeno pepper incident, they’ve been stand-up guys. What do you say.?

Pathetic Bob chimed in. “Yeah, Mrs. Em, whatta you say? having a duck around might be cool.”
Ms. Em was not smiling, but she reluctantly gave her assent. “Fine, just fine. Bring on the duck, but I’m telling you all right now if she craps in the pool. I’m gonna tie her to the oak tree with duck tape.

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A Lizard Procession For Cyrstal’s Big Toe

Forty-two, small, green lizards lined up to lick the big toe on Crystal’s left foot. She hated to disappoint them so she asked Roger to wait until the procession of reptiles had each had their turn before they left for the airport.

Roger, of course, complained in that whiny, nasal voice that Crystal had come to despise ever since she had agreed to accompany him on this trip to The Barbados.

“Fuck off, Roger,” said Crystal with a look of disdain on her freckled face, “Go take a cab by yourself. If I miss the plane, at least I’ll be spared sitting next to you on the flight home.”

Roger pouted. He pouted a lot over the past four days. Crystal hadn’t lived up to his expectations. She was not pliable enough; she was too…independent. “Fine, I’m going. You can stay here with those damn lizards, they’re cold-blooded, just like you.”

“You’re a dick, Roger, a real small dick. Now, get the fuck out of here before I turn you into lizard chow..”

As Roger stormed away, Crystal turned her attention back to the lizards. They were so cute, each one waiting its turn in the grass, just off the patio. When one would finish his licking, the next would waddle up and take its place. She found their ministrations to be more calming the Valium. Crystal leaned back in the deck chair, closed her eyes and realized her toe had an erection

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I Am An Alien Hostage On This Planet

I didn’t sleep at all last night. The pain in my elbow caused by a hairline fracture I sustained yesterday, was a thorn in my ability to go unconscious, but there was a method to the pain’s madness. The pain kept me awake so I could focus on the reason why, over the past few years, I seem to have been hell-bent on subconsciously breaking, slicing and even amputating my body parts.I have come to the realization that I am an alien hostage on this planet, and my run of bad luck has simply been my attempt to free myself from this hell.

Recovered memories are now telling me 60 years ago, a highly secret, pre-Sputnik, American space exploration program launched sophisticated probes to various stars and planets to “bring some shit back so we can look at it.” I was some of the shit. I don’t know for sure from where I was kidnapped, but Canis Major rings some bells in my head.

When Eisenhower was elected president, he found out about the program and quickly shut it down as part of his stance on the Military Industrial Complex. I was given a new identity and shipped off to live with family in Texas, who had already adopted three other illegal aliens. As I grew, I can remember thinking how screwed up this planet was, and I really didn’t feel at home here. I was a round peg in a trapezoid hole.

My family had my tail removed (at government expense), and I also remember yearly rides in black helicopters.The pressure to fit in was intense, but my otherworldly weirdness would blow discordant notes against the heartbeat of the Earth. I think perhaps over the past few years, my alien instinct to swim upstream and go home has come to the forefront, causing great stress fighting the instincts programmed by the government. My equilibrium has been shifted so much that the simple act of walking has become hazardous to my health.

I have decided to take two steps. When the sun comes up. I plan to climb up on the roof of the house and paint–in bright, yellow paint–a sign reading, “Help, Hostage on Board.” in hopes that some UFO (of which there are plenty in Texas) might spot it and rescue me. After I finish the sign, I plan to write the Department of Homeland Security and turn myself in as an illegal alien an ansk to be deported.

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Razor Camels and Short Hoppers Prepare For War

The blacxkfellows from Downchurch called them razor knew from where or when the camels arrived, but the group had be spotted in the lowlands nearly three years ago. Although no official tally had been kept, it was believed there were 23 of them mostly males. Razor Camels seemed an odd name for the indigenous people to call them; they carried no sharp instruments and didn’t have a cell phone. Thought of as mainly, desert animals, these camels preferred the seclusion offered by the forest. Seen so rarely, some said they were on specters, dromedary ghosts, that are better not be seen or heard, but when the dry, Australian night wind blew, you could hear them, and what you heard was frightening. Apart fro night-wind camel grunts, the group never bothered anyone; they kept to themselves and asked for nothing.

The troubles began a few months ago shortly after the Great Roo War of the far outback.When the dust had settled on the bloody uprising, surviving malcontent insurgents were driven from the west by King Longtail’s army. started arriving in the area.  most of them bearing war scars and nasty attitudes.They came in pairs or groups of up to thirteen, most of who carried war scars and nasty attitudes. They became known locally as Short Hoppers, and they were looking for a place to heal and plot revenge.

At first, the Short Hoppers settled at the edge of the forest, but it was clear they has aspirations on the forest itself; it was the perfect place to build a terrorist encampment.The fact that a homeland had been claimed by the Razor Camels, made no impression on the battled-hardened Roos; they believe their cause justified and any action they took to further it was Loki’s will.

The Razor Camels were not unaware of the Roos’s presence and intentions but abstained from direct confrontation. For the time being, they preferred to remain aloof, hidden and calm. For the people of Downchurch and its environs and the people were growing apprehensive; by the end of the months the Roos’ numbers had swelled to more than 350, and the tension in that part Australia was palpable. Small gangs of 15 to 20 Roos would occasionally be spotted in town, lounging on street corners, smoking weed and whispering secretively to one another Dogs would whine whenever the hoppers appeared.

It was the first of November that the tension escalated, and the first casualty occurred. Henry Pontic, the old shepherd from the Boswell Ranch found a Razor Camel near the treeline of the forest on his way into town. The camel was dead, the victim, it seemed, of a savage tail thumping. Henry, a spiritual man, buried the camel under the watchful eyes of a dozen more camels.standing at the edge of the forest. When the camel was interred, each of the other came out one by one and stamped a hood on the grave. The last to emerge thanked Henry for his kindness and said,”Please send word to the Hopper,s and tell and tell them if they hop into the forest, they will be hopping into Thermopylae.

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Embrace Your Farts, It Might Be The Most Fun You Have All Day

Pathetic Bob channeled  me through the potted plant today. “Hey Em. guess what?”

“No, I don’t want to guess cause I know it will be something stupid.”

“Stupid your ass, It’s about the funniest thing people can do to crack themselves and others up, It’s about farts. Yeah, farts, both smelly and loud and quiet and deadly. And don’t tell me you or Ms Em don’t fart. All animals fart…except birds.”

I couldn’t believe I was stepping into this conversation, but I had to be truthful. “Farts are part of a ritual that vault men into boys. Flapping your slats in front of a bunch of guys.and they will guffaw with pleasure. As they become men, the funny-fart instinct never goes away. I remember my father when he ripped a long one would remark, ‘Whoa, I got to get that tuned,’ followed by a hearty laugh.”

“I’ve noticed,” said Bob, “Women don’t like farts; they find them disgusted.When they have to fart, I think they go into the closet a squeeze a tiny ‘poot, and act as if nothing has happened”

“Bob, I foumd this really interesting article by Candida Moss in The Daily Beast. in which she tells the story of how a fart killed 10,000  people. In fact, she writes more about farts and farting than any woman I’ve ever known. “The killer fart took place before Passover. According to the historian Josephus, he tells us that an irreverent Roman soldier lowered his pants, and ‘spoke such word as you might expect in such  position’. It caused a riot that led to the deaths of 10,000 people..’That gives a new meaning to “silent but deadly.”

“Wow, that was a powerful fart.”

In some civilizations, the fart had spiritual tone, but for the most par,t it has enjoyed a humorous status. Great writers such as  Shakespeare. Chaucer, Aristophanes, as well as Mark Twain have used farts tp get a laugh.”

“Jeez Em, you sure know a lot about farts”

“Not really, this comes form Candida Moss’  essay. I love this passage “Arguably the most successful comedic purveyor of a fart joke,,was Roland le Sarcere, also known as Roland the Farter, court minstrel to King Henry II of England. Roland performed a dance that ended with the simultaneous execution of one jump, one whistle, and one fart. For his talent Roland was gifted a manor house in Suffolk and 100 acres of land. Roland was so beloved that subsequent chroniclers repeated his story and expanded his biography, a process that inadvertently extended his lifespan to 120 years.”

“Bob, if you really want to know about what people call farts, then turn to the Urban Dictionary, there is a list of 261 words or phrases that are euphemisms for fart. Some of my favorites include: ‘wrong way burping, turd honking, Triple Flutter Blast, Step on a Duck (I’ve used this), release an ass biscuit, a panty burp, ghost turd, doing the one-cheek sneak, and  ‘Hey did you fart? Because you blew me away’ (great way to get dates).

“You should copy this list and give it to women so they can enjoy farts as much as men do..”

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Paris Hilton’s Furniture Conspires to Murder Her

As soon as the deadbolt slid into place, and they were sure she was out for the night, Henrik Mussman leather sofa spoke up. “Listen up,all of you, I can’t stand it anymore, and I know some of you feel the same way.. It’s been going on for far too long, I say it’s time we put and end to it.”

“I’m pretty disgusted too,” said the $12,000 Machenspeil sideboard, “but what do you suggest we do.”

Several other pieces, including the Rococo hall table. the Tienda floor lamp and am 18th-century  Gruble side chair,”Yeah, the situation is deplorable, but what can wee do about it, we’re only furniture.?

“Well,” said the sofa,  “I cost $35,000, and she treats me like a cum towel. I’m tired of her leaking on me all the time.”
“Me too,” said a voice fro the bedroom, which everyone know was the oversize Van Allen bed. “She dresses me in these atrocious flowered sheets and let’s the little dog piss on me. Something must be done.”

“I’ll do it “Wait a minute, just wait a minute,” piped up the Diane Von Furstenburg dining table,I don’t really have any problems with her. Sure, there was the one time she   had sex on me with that
Greek kid and didn’t bother to wipe up, but that was it. I don’t think we should do anything drastic. And, I  think we should leave the little dog out of it. Poor thing, the way she treats it, dressing it up in those silly clothes and all, no wonder the dog has mental problems. It’s not his fault, so let’s be fair.”

The sofa coughed and said, “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. We’ll let the dog go for reasons of insanity, but not her, she’s going to pay, and pay dearly.

Some of the knick-knacks disagreed, and they were by the chandelier in the foyer, but the sofa said, “Their opinion doesn’t count because they were simply decorations and couldn’t really be considered furniture.”

Finally, the old, hand-woven, $70,000 Oriental rug spoke up. “Look, I’ve been here the longest, and I’ve seen a lot. I don’t mind that she walks all over me,, and I don’t

mind she has sex on me, but I absolutely draw the line at the leaking thing. It’s just rude and disrespectful. I say we kill her.”

A hush fell over the room. Some of the furniture had been thinking the same thing, but were reluctant to voice their opinions. Since the idea had been brought up, a murmur of approval arose.”Yeah, let’s whack her,” said the coffee table. “It’s not as though s he has an important job or something. Does she even have a job?”

“She’s a celebrity,” offered the ottoman, “a leaking celebrity. It’s time for her to go.”

A vote was taken, and Paris Hilton’s furniture decided to murder her. “But, how do we do it”? asked the rug.

“I’ll do it,” proclaimed the sofa. “The next time she sits on me, I’ll clasp my arms around her and smother her to death.

“But she’ll leak all over you, warned the armchair.

“That’s OK, it’ll be the last time,” said the sofa.

The floor lamp sounded a not of caution, “What if you get caught,”

“Hey,” said the sofa,”I’m not worried about that. If I get caught, what are they foing to do, reupholster me.?””

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Carl’s Good Day is Tainted By Monkeys

The first clue that it might be a good day was when Carl’s wife Jennifer rolled over on top of him at 6:00 am that morning and said, “Let’s have morning sex.”

Carl loved morning sex;his  man juices and erectile abilities were at their peak during mornings, but Jen’s libido was usually at its nadir. This morning, however, Jen was ripping it like an amateur porn starlet. “Wow,” thought Carl, “this might be a real good day.”

The good had just started

At breakfast, Jen fixed Carl waffles something she hadn’t done since her brother and his family visited. Carl loved waffles.

“What’s the special occasion?” he asked Jen.

“Nothing special; I just love you, Carl, and you deserve waffles.”

With the warm sweetness of waffles and maple syrup in his belly, Carl went out and got in his 1987 Dodge Dakota pickup and he made it to the office in record time. “Amazing,” he thought.

Carl’s office was on the third floor, and as he boarded the elevator, his boss, Richard Nubb got on at the last moment. “Morning Richard,” said Carl in a voice a couple octaves above “happy.”

“Mmmm,” said Richard. “Oh Carl,” he added, “I need to see you in my office in about 15 minutes; don’t be late.”

“Damn,” thought Carl, “I knew this day was going too good to be true.”

But Carl was wrong.

When he arrived at Richard’s office, Richard told him to “come in and close the door behind him. “Carl, I’ve got something to tell you,” said Richard. Carl could feel the good was starting to fall away from his day. Richard was an asshole, and anytime he he told you something, it was usually bad news.

“Carl,” Richard said, “this just came down from the top floor last night. Congratulations Carl, the boys upstairs think you’ve been doing a great job and have decided to promote you to Vice President of Corporate Philosophy. You’ll also get a pretty nice bump in salary.” Richard Nubb smiled and held out his hand, “Way to go Carl.”

When Carl walked out of ,Richard Nubb’s office, he was dumbfounded. “Wow,” he thought, can this day get any better.”

It could.

As he was about to call Jennfer to tell her the good news, his phone buzzed. It was Jen calling to tell him the Publisher’s Clearing House had just been at the house and handed her a check for $100,000. “Holy shit, Jen, what’s going on? I just got a promotion at work and now this. Is this a good day or what.”

“Oh Carl, this is wonderful. Come home early an we’ll celebrate.

Carl breezed through the day, wrapping up projects he’d been working on and accepting the congratulations of his co-workers. At 3:00, Carl left the office and headed home.He noticed the gas gauge on the truck was so low; he decided to fill up at the Chevron station. He was feeling great as he pulled up to the self-serve pump, but when he got out of the truck and picked up the gas nozzle, he noticed a bit of discomfort radiating from his butt. As the fuel flowed into the near-empty tank, the discomfort rose into pain. Carl began to worry. As the pain increased, he almost panicked. Carl wasn’t sure if he was having an attack of diarrhea or his stomach was exploding. There wasn’t time to run to the restroom; the pain was too intense, so he unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants. Suddenly, the air around Carl began to whip and flash; he felt as if his insides were falling out.

A young woman filling her car at the next pump suddenly yelled, “Look, monkeys! There are monkeys flying out of this guy’s ass. Ewww,”

Quickly, Carl looked behind him and sure enough, winged monkeys were sliding out his butt and flapping their wings.. As Carl watched the horror, it finally dawned on him…there is a price for everything.

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A Vampire Throws Ed And Shirley A Curve

The vampire transformation couldn’t come at a worse time for Ed Rassmussen. The 84-year-old retired farm implement salesman living in Glaston, Minnesota was in ill health and looking forward to dying. Unfortunately, Shelly, the next door neighbor’s, teenage, idiot, vampire daughter had gone and bit him. Now, he was turning into a bloodsucker himself.

Ed thought to himself, “Why couldn’t that little, blond, belly-pierced cheerleader have bitten someone younger, or, at the very least sucked out all my blood and left me in a pile of dust? Fuck, now I’m gonna have to become a night predator…and I wear dentures. How the hell is that gonna work out?”

Ed’s wife, Shirley, was as upset as Ed. Her plans to spend Ed’s life insurance money on a cruise to Panama and a 70-inch 4k television, were now in ruins. It seemed there was little choice but to become Ed’s minion, carrying out his daytime errands and keeping his coffin clean.

Life sucked. So death.