Typetrigger Entries

At TypeTrigger, you get a prompt every four hours and space to write up to 300 words.


Food. You need it to live but it can also kill you.

Follow these simple food rules to thrive. Disobey them at your peril.

1. Food can make you fat, which is known to be unhealthy. If you find yourself fat, eat less food.

2. You should eat a lot of green food, but not all green food is good for you. Sniff the green. Does it smell funny? Don’t eat it. Scrape the food. Does the green come off under your fingernails? Don’t eat this food.

3. Have you found foods that you can snort, smoke, or inject? Do you crave these foods to the exclusion of all other thought? Check yourself into a facility before the police check you in first. Here you will switch over to cold turkey.

4. Not enough money to buy food? You will find abundant packaged produce and other good food in the Trader Joe’s dumpsters. Access can be tricky. Hopefully, your extreme hunger will make you super-sneaky!

5. We are always asked about the practice of licking whipped cream and strawberry jam off the bed partner. Will this make you fat? Are you ingesting germs? When does the practice slide over from “unusual” to “just plain weird”? Well, suppose we told you that the licking would make you fat, and you are ingesting germs, and doing it a real lot is manifestly weird. Would you stop?

6. What are the benefits of using food for purposes other than consumption? Complexion creams and oils, dolls made out of potatoes, apples, etc., fruit baskets at graveside instead of flowers, so forth. We encourage such interactions with food. Keep food around, like a good friend. Every so often, you might just take a bite out of it (the food, not the friend).


“Is this useful?”

“Well… I  thought it would be. If one is good, two is better, right? Anyway,  that’s what I was thinking.”


“Listen, thanks for attaching it! I mean that. It’s a real… well… conversation piece. I’ve had a couple of dates where… I warned the girls in advance, of course, so they’d be prepared. Only it turns out, you know, it’s hard to actually come face to face with the two of them. If you know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I’d want to confront them, if I were a girl… Is it a problem that one is rather small and the other is so large?”

“No, I told you I wanted to go large and I’m glad I did. No complaints. Worth every penny…”


“I know that with all your patients, you have to maintain confidentiality.”


“But if another patient gave you permission to give out their phone number or email address?”

“You want me to ask another of my patients whether you can contact them or not?”

“Is that something you could do?”

“Which patient?”

“Well… after my operation, I’ve now got two. I was wondering if you might have a… you know… female patient with… you know… two, too.”


“You are my…”

“I’m not your anything. Get lost.”

“No, it’s a good thing. You are my…”

“Stop following me around. Go away.”

“What if I sing it. La la. You are my…”

“Don’t sing it. Don’t hum it. Do not use the word “You” again where I can hear it. I mean it.”

“Tu are my…”

“Not in any language, singular or plural, formal or informal.”

“Mmm are my…”

“No, do not use “my” around me either. Same rules as “you.””

“Mmm mmm mm…”

“No talking, singing, humming, gesticulating, gesturing, or stylized importunements of any kind… Don’t look at me… No, don’t sniff me. Don’t sniff the air… Don’t prick up your ears. Get that cowlick under control… No chin-quivering. Control those goosebumps of excitement… Wait… Is that… Really?… Yes, I get it. You’re glad to see me.”


When I learned that I was terminal, I went through various stages of grief. This took several months, my last.

In the end, I convinced myself that on that final day, I would close my eyes, fall asleep, and wake up in some other place with a new life to live.

My therapist cautioned me that this mental state was based upon magical thinking. She explained that thinking something is true does not automatically make it true.

No matter. My affairs are in order. I’ve said my goodbyes. My thoughts are my comfort.


Dear John,

My love, it is time for me to move on. You know that I love you, but I can’t spend the rest of my life with one man.

Remember those happy days when I would teasingly call you a “geek,” a “nerd,” a “klutz,” a “boob,” a “fool,” and an “impotent reject.” How we’d laugh! Even though it was so true.

Don’t take this personally!  😉

Love, Mary


Dear John,

Yesterday I wrote to you, “kissing you off.”

(Is that offensive, “kissing you off?” I don’t mean it to be. Also, sorry for the typo in my email.  ;))

(That last ) is just the closing ), not a )) meaning a really big smile. ;).)

(I know you’re one of those guys who hates the ;), but jeez, John, really? That explanation of yours about the ;)? I know you’ve got a life, or you had one before I dropped you, but really, get a life! ;))

(But seriously, that’s not why I left you.)

So I got your text. Who is it? you ask. I won’t lie. It’s Fred.

Fred! you going to go. Fred!

I know. He’s a drip. But now he’s my drip. 😉

I’ve traded a drip for a drip! What’s wrong with me?!? LOL

I’ll always love you, John, sort of. Fred says hello.  😉

Love, Mary


“Drink your milk. Don’t make me say it again.”

“Aw, Ma. Please?”

“It’s good for you. Mazie’s grain is       costing me a fortune.”

“She’s still a goat.”

“Goat’s milk is good for you. Its proteins form a softer curd in your stomach.”


“I am not letting Mazie’s milk go to waste. This is the most I’ve got out of her yet. I’m getting good at milking her.”

“Dad says you should sell the goat and take up knitting. He says you spend way to much time fooling around with her.”

“Your dad is out in the garage with his head under the hood of that clunky Impala of his. I rest my case. And by the way, I want you to start helping with Mazie. If you drink her milk, you should be part of the team that produces it.”

“If my buddies find out I’m milking a goat, they’ll make my life miserable.”

“The next time one of them comes over, we’ll give him a glass of it without telling him what it is. Then you can tease him back. Listen, milking a goat is not as easy as it looks. I’ve got to go out right now and give Mazie an iodine teat dip. When I come back, that glass better be empty. If you pour it out, I’ll know and you’ll be grounded.”

“Can I put some chocolate syrup in it?”

“Sure. Dip a cookie in it if you want. There’s plenty more where that came from.”


First results of my “Famous Last Words” research:

Abraham Lincoln – “While you’re up, get me a coke.”

Beatrix Potter – “I should never have had that rabbit for dinner.”

Lazarus – “I’ll be back.”

Bucky (a pet mole) – “I see light at the end of the tunnel.”


I can do this.


I don’t need to be perfect. The first of many. What does Malcolm Gladwell say? Ten thousand times to reach mastery?

Is that ten thousand times going solo or can I count the times when I had guidance or a partner?

Ten thousand times… Jeez.

I want to get this right but I’m no perfectionist. Once or twice a day for a couple of weeks; I’ll settle for that, assuming I’m still alive.

Stop thinking and focus. Don’t get distracted and lose it. It’s all about balance. It’s all in the hands and arms and shoulders. And hips and legs. I guess it’s about the whole body. Including the brain. But not thinking too much.

All the daydreaming I’ve done about this. Ironic if daydreaming ruined it all now.

Lack of concentration. That’s my downfall. No will to win. No ambition. I’m a slacker.

Admit it. That’s why I’m doing this now when I’m not supposed to. I’m just taking a shortcut. I’m not ready for this. Just too lazy to put in the hours.

Doesn’t matter. No backing out now. Do or die. Come out of this in one piece and quit tomorrow, but come out of it alive.

Never again… No, wait. That was… I can do this. That was the hard part. A little practice and I’ll be able to do this in my sleep.

Whew. Once was enough. Or I’ll see how I feel tomorrow.

Single Mom Of 10 Went To Get A Turkey, Got Huge Surprise Instead

[Huffington Post]

My children expect a damn turkey at Thanksgiving. I got my first turkey at Bother’s Market way back before Rufus, my firstborn, arrived. I was fifteen at the time. Thanksgiving was coming on and my ma sent me down to the market to buy a turkey.

To my surprise, Mr. Bother did not want to take my money. To my surprise, he told me to keep the money for my own and not tell my ma. Mr. Bother told me that I could “earn” the turkey.

It wasn’t hard to do. It was a little uncomfortable, Mr. Bother being a big man, but it didn’t take long and soon I was on my way with the turkey and the turkey money too.

My next surprise came a little bit later when I learned I was in the family way. Ma had twelve of us herself at the time and no man in the house. She told me one more wouldn’t make any difference.

I spent the turkey money on underwear and flip-flops.

The next year, Ma sent me back to get another turkey . She didn’t give me any money this time so I guess when my underwear and flip-flops showed up, she figured out what had happened.

I earned another turkey and nine months later, my Edie-May was born.

What I’m saying is, after ten years of turkeys, a mother has the right to expect another one the next Thanksgiving. Ten children, ages one through ten, were at home waiting with their little mouths watering.

But Mr. Bother told me that Pearl, a fifteen-year-old from down in the hollow, had just earned my turkey for herself. Mr. Bother said that if I swept out the back room, I could earn a chicken, but that was the best he could do. My mouth just dropped open. Was it a huge surprise? Dang right it was. I was angry, disgusted, and frustrated.

I took the chicken, but I also came back the next day. I waited in the shade across the street from the market and when Baylee-Ann, who is fourteen, went into the store and Mr. Bother flipped the sign on the front door to Closed, I waited a few minutes and then went in and grabbed my turkey.

Man’s Hand Attached To Ankle In Emergency Procedure

[Huffington Post]

I don’t have to bend down to tie my shoes anymore, ha, ha.

But seriously, the only doctor who knew how to save my hand was tripping on windowpane at the time. I’m lucky he  didn’t attach my hand to my butt.

The good news: I’m right-handed and my ankle hand is the left one. Although it’s attached to my right ankle. Weird.

I’ve always been troubled a bit with a stiff back. Now I don’t have to bend down to pet the cat or pick up the morning paper.

Buying socks is difficult, though.

Twice while wiping, I’ve kicked myself in the groin. Such is the life of the man with a hand on his foot.

In the hospital while recuperating, I met a woman whose foot was attached to her wrist in an emergency procedure (same doctor). I tried to joke with her about our situations and she kicked me in the nose. Unexpected.

Speaking of feet, I’ve always been a “foot” man. In bed with my wife, I fondle her feet. Unfortunately, she says that when I’m lying there on my back with my head on my pillow, the feel of my lower hand edging over to her feet is “just plain creepy.”

It’s a lot harder to twiddle my fingers.