Saturday, August 28, 2010


They met at the bar.

She was an aspiring lawyer who was taking the exam.

He was a former McDonald's owner--one of the truly disenfranchised. A born again skeptic of reincarnation, he could remember nothing of the deja vu experience he was having.

He said: "Haven't I seen you someplace before?"

She said: "No...I've never been anyplace before."

He said: "Let's blow this pop stand."

She said: "Let's buy a soda first."

He said: "Now is the hour."

She said: "Just give me a minute."

They lived together on Easy Street...until one day they came to a fork in the road. Feeling like she could stick a knife in his back, she spoon-fed him the truth.

She told him to go take a short walk off a long pier--which he tried, several times, but found that he could never quite reach the end.

"Stop dead in your tracks while I find something to murder you with," she cried.

"You kill me," he laughed.

She said: "There can be no other words for what you other make me sick and I'm going to ralf!"

He said: "I knew there was another man!"

She looked around and said, "Where?"

"This is all too confusing," he said. "I want a divorce."

She said: "If you need a good lawyer, I'm available."

"You're available? he said.

She looked him up and down. "Say...haven't I seen you someplace before?"

Saturday, August 21, 2010


You think that the president is a Muslim
You think that toilet paper is for wearing on your head
You think that the president is a Muslim
You believe the bogeyman is underneath your bed

You think that the president is a Muslim
Your cake was left out in the rain
You think that the president is a Muslim
Because the bedbugs ate your brain

You think that the president is a Muslim
What he's told you doesn't matter
You think that the president is a Muslim
Cuz you're mad as a hatter

You think that the president is a Muslim
Because it feeds into your psychosis
You think that the president is a Muslim
Didja know ya got halitosis?

You think that the president is a Muslim
Now you're off to sniff some glue
You think that the president is a Muslim
Because there's something loose...and it's a SCREW!

Monday, August 2, 2010


She's not a hooker. Not exactly. About twenty. Petite. Panamanian. A worldly look that belies her age. Yes, she approached me on the street, but all she seems to want is a place to crash. What the hell--I've got room, and always willing to rescue a fair--or dusky--damsel in distress.

There's room, yes, but very little of it on the rollaway bed--the only piece of furniture in my place--loaned to me at that by a landlady who correctly pegged me as newly arrived and traveling light. It's an attractive apartment, though, here in the old city--and the neighbors! I am next door to the governor's mansion, La Fortaleza, and directly across the street from famed cellist Pablo Casals. I never actually see the reclusive genius, nor has the governor invited me over for drinks, but it makes for some good name-dropping nonetheless.

In the mornings I wake to gentle sunlight streaming through the shutters, and the tickling sensation of tiny lizards thrashing about in my hair. Tourists stroll by and comment on what they can see of my little place from the outside. Governor's staff residence, most likely. What if they knew that inside on a musty smelling rollaway sits a burping, scratching, hung-over Americano in his BVDs--smirking at the irony of it all?

Her name is Tina. She knows my name, but prefers to call me "Stupido." I consider it to be a term of endearment.

She stays over. I leave for work in the mornings, and she heads off to God knows where. In the evenings, she returns. It's a tight fit, the two of us on a rollaway built for one--tight but cozy.

One night she shows up with a friend. A rather rotund American chick named Rosie. The connection between the two of them is unclear. Rosie needs a place, just for the night. I say, "Okay, but as you can see, you'll have to sleep on the floor. " She says no problem. No, I don't mind at all.

We settle in for the night. Rosie seems content, sacked out in the corner. I have no mat, or even a blanket to lend her. She's fortunate, though, in that her girth should serve as something of a buffer. The floor is hard, but the pavement is harder.

In the dream, I am being smothered...crushed underneath some formless, nameless weight. I wake with a start. The nightmare is real! Rosie has clambered onto the bed, sprawled across the two of us like a giant tortoise that's discovered the ideal nesting spot. What's more, she is out cold. The tiny bed groans and strains under its burden. Somehow, I manage to slide from underneath the intruding beast and tumble to the floor.

Bleary-eyed, Tina raises her head. "Stupido...wha's going on?" she murmers.

I don't bother to explain. It is three o'clock in the morning and to say that I am annoyed would be an understatement. I grab Rosie by her shirt and literally drag her off the bed, depositing her back on the floor.

In the morning she is apologetic. "I don't know what got into me," she says.

"That's okay," I reply, beginning to feel like a heartless bastard. That is, until I consider the alternatives: Tina and Rosie in the bed--me on the floor.


Tina on the floor--me and the tortoise in bed.

TOTALLY unacceptable!

"I'll be good tonight," say Rosie.

In the evening, we assume our rightful places--Tina and me on the rollaway, Rosie--the obedient dog--on the floor...and all's right with the world.

2 a.m. Rosie is on the bed.

I get up, grab her by the arms and pull. She offers no resistance, nor does she move of her own volition--she is simply dead weight that needs to be transported from one location to the other. I drag her off the bed and back onto the floor.

"STAY! STAY DOWN!" I scold.

4 a.m. Rosie is back--sprawled across the two of us again. I take hold of her legs. ready to give her the old heave-ho. But now she is desperate, clinging to the side of the bed with all her might. I tug. She tightens her grip. Finally, I win out.

THUMP goes Rosie's ass as it hits the floor.

In the morning, I deliver Tina's dose of reality. Rosie has got to go.

That evening, as I turn the key, there is only stillness inside my little abode. Sure enough, the two of them have packed up and moved on.

A couple days later, I see Tina back on the street. Yeah...I suppose she is a hooker.

Anyway, I'm sleeping better now than I have in a while--with just enough room on the rollaway for me...and the lizards.