Oscar

The USS Bronson departed the solar system on the first Wednesday in October, carrying 420 tons of prime marijuana for trade on the rim. Its wormhole jumps were automated.

By the first jump, the crew, consisting of Oscar Slama, was baked. He sat in the captain’s chair with a bowl of chips in his lap.

In front of him, he appeared.

“Wha…?” he said.

“Don’t freak out,” Oscar 4-6 said. “I’m just more you, in the fourth, fifth, and sixth dimensions.”

“Whoa,” Oscar said.

“Got a light?” asked Oscar 4-6.

After a second wormhole jump, as the ship navigated n-space on its trip to the rim planets, Oscar 7-9 joined the others, who, using a bong, were now ozzy. He immediately commenced baking brownies, a smoking blunt held between his clenched teeth.

Croned, the three talked about the meaning of life with others who joined them subsequently.

“It definitely has something to do with this yup yup,” Oscar 64-66 said.

“Dude, it’s like … like … life,” Oscar 90-92 said.

“Having trouble finishing my sentenc… ” Oscar said. Oscar 99-101 refilled his bowl with organic, unsalted puffed peas.

“How many are me?” Oscar said. “I mean, how many of dimensions of me are they …?”

“Infinite,” said Oscar 19948892…

More wormholes, more dank. Infinitely more Oscars, steetched.

“Let’s all squeeze in together,” Oscar said. “Dudes, I am so fazed …”

“Dude, not out here in n-space. You got to stay spread out in n-space.”

“No, squeeze in,” Oscar said with the frown of the chonged.

They burned the crops. They squeezed in, all infinity of them.

The ship flew on, empty of Oscars and budda.

The Oscars looked around.

“Where are we?” they asked themself.

“In this universe, we’re God,” said the part of Him most lit.

“Dude!” they said.

for Microcosms

writephoto: charmer

Silicon Valley Charmer

 

Think you can’t afford a home in Silicon Valley?

Check out this beauty! So close by in the Santa Cruz mountains, just off Leprechaun Parkway. Steve Jobs wanted it but it wasn’t available while he was still alive.

Priced to move! Tired of those several-million-dollar-plus pricetags? Offer a single, solitary million and be prepared to haggle! Owner returning to the auld sod. Must sell.

Bedrooms/bath/kitchen/playroom/dining room/living room/rumpus room/library/studio all in one! Schools close by, two hours by bus.

All the amenities: running water (during the rainy season); firewood and kindling nearby (except post-forest fires); food (deer, squirrel, etc.). Loads of parking space – right up to the cliff.

Diverse neighborhood: Trolls, dwarfs, elves, mountain lions, burnt-out coders, the homeless.

The area isn’t gold country, but dig and ye shall find! Pots of it! (Just don’t keep it!)

 

For Sue Vincent’s Writer Prompt. WritePhoto.

woman rides horse into club in her underwear

guest host: anne p.

hi. i’m anne, with an e. thanks to joem for giving me this forum.

joem is tight with ann r. i just want to be clear that i’m a whole different kettle of fish.

first, to set the record straight, that wasn’t my underwear. it belonged and belongs to my roommate and intended, jennifer. i myself don’t wear much underwear.

i had wanted to ride into the bar nude, but in deference to jennifer’s feelings of modesty, and perhaps because of her possessiveness toward my body, i chose to compromise by covering my sexy bits.

i rode in to propose to jennifer.

second, why in underwear? because we had had a tiff at breakfast. for some reason, the subject of lady godiva came up. jennifer knew nothing about her beyond the fact that she rode naked through town on a horse and had a chocolate candy named after her.

listen, jennifer, i said. if we’re going to be together till death does us part, assuming the conservatives don’t rise up and arrest all of us for getting married or using the wrong bathroom, you need to learn a little history, not just the names of every rock band in the universe.

jennifer, i said. at least get an idea of each century. godiva was in the domesday survey with her old english name of godgifu or godgyfu (gift of god). get to know something of  the little renaisance that occured in the eleventh century.

so i rode into the bar as godiva to give her an engagement ring and show her there were no hard feelings and she accepted.

i’m not going to go through life acting out history but i hope in this case, it was a teaching moment.

arches

I had a  wonderful life. Just didn’t realize how much of it depended upon my health. You’ve only got one body. Your body is all you’ve got.

My wife and I would go out dancing. She loves to dance. I noticed that my feet were getting tired easily.

I’d play basketball with my boys and the bottom-insides of my feet would become painful and swollen.

Reaching to a higher shelf, it was hard to stand on tiptoe.

Then one day after a shower, I noticed my wet footprints on the floor. The whole foot was there, heel to toe.

I knew in a flash that I had fallen arches.

I used to have high, beautiful arches. I could run like a deer. Now, flat feet.

The thing is, my wife has always been a foot person. It’s mostly a guy thing, interest in the feet. Women will focus on the shoulders of a guy, or his hands or forearms, or his hair or eyes or chin. The feet, not so much. But Beatrice from the beginning zeroed in on mine. She’d run her fingers back and forth on my arches and… I’ll draw the curtain there.

All our kids have beautiful arches. Beatrice has beautiful arches, although I’d love her just as much if she didn’t. Just so long as she doesn’t have cankles. I don’t like cankles.

Now I wear slippers around the house. I never used to. I gloried in my naked feet.

I keep my orthotics, my shame, hidden.

I have some ungents but I don’t use them because you can smell them.

I joined a support group but I tell my family I’m going out for poker night.

I drink to ease the pain and heartache but I just claim to be an alcoholic.

I wear socks to bed, even in the summer.

At the public pool, I wear “pool shoes.”

I am consulting a podiatrist about having my feet removed, to gain sympathy, support, and acceptance from my spouse.

Say a prayer of thanks every day for the good health you enjoy.

 

For Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo

impromptu

Jeez, I have performance anxiety – but this will be good for me.

Putting on Chopin’s Impromptu #1, Op. 29,  the Rubenstein recording, available on YouTube.

Warming up: the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy red dog…. whatever…

Clearing my mind so this exercise will be done without being planned, organized, or rehearsed.

And… go!… wait. Five lines or less? This is it?… Rats.

 

For Patricia’s Place

fact

We live in a post-fact world.

I don’t pay any attention to facts anymore, and I’m a teacher.

I give the kids what they want – a smooth ride. Entertainment. Nobody cares about the teaching part.

Once in a while, a student will “fact check” me, but a word or two to them about their grade for the semester shuts them up.

I just say what I want to say. Whatever comes into my head, fact or fiction. Who cares? Folks just want to believe.

I may sweat a little in the doctor’s office, waiting for the verdict. You need your good health.

In the same way, I pay attention to my tax guy and my car mechanic. I’m not stupid.

The kids don’t have to worry about any of that, though. With them, I’m fact-free.

 

For The Daily Post

These boots are made for walkin…

How does that thing go? “I cried because I had no boots until I met a man who had no feet”? Or was it “I cried because I had no feet until I met a man who had no legs”?

Are those meant to be funny, or inspirational? I myself cried because I had no boots until I subsequently fell off a horse and got paralyzed from the waist down.

So if those sayings are meant to be funny, I’m not laughing.

But what I’m really not laughing about is these boots made for walking that you hear about. I was born and raised on a ranch in Montana and until I lost my legs, you couldn’t keep me off a horse. I was a true cowboy.

Now comes these cowboys who don’t want to hurt a horse. Won’t get on one. These cowboys walk everywhere. Their ranches are a lot smaller because they can’t get around. They’re turning into sheep herders.

It gets my goat (not my sheep) that Nike and New Balance and Adidas and Under Armor are selling these boots made for walking. Who wants a boot with a swoosh? Who wants a boot meant for a marathon? What’s happening to the Old West?

To be honest, though, I did cry because I had no legs until I met my friend Al.

 

For Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie