25
Feb

A Christmas Promotion

   Posted by: Ben   in Humor

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, now I know it’s not often that you see a reindeer run head first into a tree, let alone nine of us in a row, but when we’re all tethered together to a two thousand pound sleigh, well, those of us in the back don’t really get much say on which direction it goes. I mean, if the lead deer has it in his mind to, I don’t know let’s say, slam on the breaks, swerve off course and smack into a blue spruce, well then the rest of us just have to grit our teeth and pretend we like the taste of gin. And actually, gin plays a pretty integral role in how we ended up all wrapped around this Christmas tree like lights, and, if it pleases the court, I’d like to take a few minutes to explain.

So I’m Donner, seventh reindeer from the front, and apparently the only one in this daisy-chained sideshow who can see that Rudolph is a complete fucking alcoholic. Oh, I suppose you think his breath smells fresh from sucking on candy canes all day – yeah, try peppermint schnapps. On his days off, he and that wino, flea bag, Saint Bernard just sit around the back of the elves quarters all day trading pulls from the brandy keg on his collar. Rudolf only barely hides it at work, and mostly because nobody wants to look. Seems like he’s always strolling around with some cup of hot cocoa, and it’s not the same kind the kids drink. Hell, his coffee mug might as well say O’Keeffe on the side of it for all the Irish cream he puts in there. And don’t even get me started on the eggnog. Look, I like Christmas as much as the next reindeer, but just because it’s the holidays doesn’t mean it’s okay to carry around the carton all the time.

I mean, what kind of example is Rudolph setting anyways? He’s lead reindeer for Christ’s sake, a real role model, and around here that gives him like David Bowie, star power, mind-control, or something. Blitzen is old enough to drink next month, and I don’t even want to think about what that party is going to be like. That poor kid looks up to him like some sort of father figure, which I guess makes sense considering. I mean, with a name like that, who could have guessed they have long family history of alcoholism. Where’d you think the term ‘getting blitzed’ came from?

Sure, Rudolph’s tried to quit. Says he’s going to practically every summer. He even auditioned for that Celebrity Rehab show with Dr. Drew, but PETA put a stop to that shit-show before it started. Man, I remember he was doin’ real good this one year, and hadn’t had a drink in like eight months, and everything was fine right up until we caught this crazy snow storm over Montana. I mean we couldn’t see shit. Of course Santa’s too stupid to realize why Rudolph’s nose isn’t red anymore, like he’s just got a headlight out or something. Rudolph tried to fight through it for about an hour and use his natural sense of direction or whatever, but of course that didn’t work.

So by some Christmas miracle, he picked up the glow off a neon sign from this gigantic Indian casino outside of Billings, and pulled over for a pit stop. Said he had to go to the bathroom, which he did, but only so he could pound half a liter of Smirnoff’s and then dump the other half in a jug of cranberry juice for the road. So then he came snake walking back out to the parking lot, and asked Prancer to hold his roadie while he hitched back up. At that point his nose was lit up like a stocking full of road flares. Then, and this is the best part, he fed The Clause this story about having a urinary track infection and how his doctor told him he needed to stop every hour or so for more cranberry juice. The Clause didn’t even think twice about it, and away we went flying through the night all crooked – probably looking like one of those conga line dragon things they have at Chinese New Year. But hey, Rudolph’s fog light was back on right?

Rudolph was so trashed that as soon as we landed back at the North Pole, he ran over to the bushes and threw up like a crime scene from all the cranberry juice. Then he grabbed a Sit & Spin a couple of the elves to go play ambulance with The Clause’s minivan in the parking lot. I found him the next morning passed out on the floor next to his bed covered in a dozen of those little White Castle burgers.

I figured the cop probably didn’t need all that for his police report, so I left it out at the time, but now I realize what truly bad shape my dear, good friend Rudolf is in, your honor, and I just want to make sure that he gets all the help he needs.

9
Feb

Good Dog

   Posted by: Ben   in Humor, Works in Progress

Ted was tired of being an accountant. He was tired of feeding the meters downtown, of pushing numbers around all day, and of dealing with the world and all the petty people in it. He was tired of the green bean casserole that he cooked for himself when he was out of hot pockets. The only excitement left in his life was wondering whether his dry cleaning would be ready by Monday or get pushed back to Tuesday. Ted’s life had faded to gray, so he did what any self-respecting, middle class, single man bored with his life would do. He went home and kicked his neighbor’s dog.

A woman, thin more like a heroin junkie than a supermodel, meandered along a walking path in the park. A black coat wrapped around her frame, and a ragged shawl hung from her neck. She carried a purse the size of a suitcase and wore a hat ugly enough for a museum. Her pale skin shimmered in the glow of a full moon as it clung tightly to her narrow face. She plucked a dry leaf from a clearly dying brown bush and pulled it close to her face for examination. Thin-rimmed glasses slid down her nose causing her to squint. The leaf crackled in her fist with satisfaction, so she snatched a handful and crammed them into her massive purse. They shared the space with a bunch of mushrooms, half-a-dozen earthworms, and two toads. The tail of a small dog hung out the back.

The woman stood at the kitchen counter grinding up mushrooms and mincing toads. The dog lay unconscious on the linoleum floor next to the coat rack. He whimpered a little while his legs twitched. He was chasing a rabbit, or a cat, or something in his sleep. He dove for the whatever he was chasing in his dream and knocked over the coat rack in reality. The coat rack slammed to the ground, and scared the piss out of him, literally.

“Where am I? What’s going on? Oh God, did I pee on your floor?”

The woman ignored him and chopped up the earthworms.

“Um, hello?”

Still nothing.

“Hey lady, where the hell am I?” he barked.

“Hush puppy.” she whispered.

He sat down on the tile floor and said, “Of course, I’m a dog. You can’t understand anything I say you stupid, scrawny, disgusting old hag.”

Her eyes snapped to him, hot as embers. She marched towards him with a rolled up a newspaper and slapped him across the nose. “Bad dog.” she hissed, then returned to her preparations adding, “That’s not a very nice thing to say to a lady.”

The dog was floored. His mouth dropped open and a floppy pink tongue rolled out.

“You can hear me?” he said.

“Of course I can. You’re barking up a storm?”

“I mean, you understand me?”

“Mmmhmmm. I see you’ve pissed on my floor.”

“Thank God. Look lady, I need your help. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I’m not really a dog. I’m a guy. I’m Ted from Philly. I’m an accountant, and I don’t know how –“

“I know what you are,” she interrupted. “I think you know as well. Tell me Ted from Philadelphia, have you been howling at the moon tonight?”

It started slowly sinking in.

“I’m a werewolf?” he said.

“No Ted. You’re a were-border collie.”

She tossed him half of an earthworm which he snatched out of the air and swallowed.

“Oh Jesus, why did I eat that? Why did you throw me that?”

“Shit, you’re right. You’re not going to just sit under the table and beg for scraps are you?”

“Very funny. So how’d I get here?”

“I found you knocked out in the park. It looked like you were chasing cars or something and ran into a stop sign. Nobody seemed to care, so I brought you home.”

“To your apartment?”

“It’s a den.”

“Whatever lady.” he said as he scanned the room. Lots of strange paintings, mostly portraits of old ladies in the woods, hung without frames from the walls. “So, how come you can understand me?”

“I’m the fucking dog whisperer.”

“Right.”

“You really haven’t figured it out?” She slid the diced toads, worms, and shrooms into an empty ice cream bucket and carried it to the living room. Ted followed a few paces back. She dumped the mix from the bucket into a crock pot just barely smaller than a Volkswagen, turned to Ted and said, “I’m a witch you idiot.”

“Yeah right. What do you fly around on, a Roomba? And what’s up with the Jacuzzi?”

She swatted him again with the newspaper and stirred the pot.

“It’s a cauldron, and I take public transit, pant sniffer.”

“Classy. So, since you’re the expert and all, how did I get to be a werewolf?”

“Were-border collie, and usually you have to do something bad to an animal. Running over a little kid’s new puppy is the most common cause, but sometimes it’s worse. Sometimes it’s really sick, sexual stuff. You didn’t, you know –“

“No, I certainly did not! Look, I just kicked my neighbor’s dog. That’s all.”

“Well, that’s not very nice of you Ted.”

“He shits on my lawn all the time, and I was having a bad day.”

“You pissed on my floor. What should I do to you?”

“Yeah, I’m real sorry about that, but let’s get back on track here. How do I change back?”

“The cure? What makes you think you deserve it?”

“Because I’m really sorry for kicking that dog.”

“That’s it?”

“And for peeing on your floor.”

She pulled a Wilson tennis ball from a drawer and began bouncing it off the linoleum. “Fine. Only if you think you truly deserve it,” she said smiling at herself. Ted’s head bobbed up and down, his eyes hypnotized by the bright yellow ball. He stood up, and his tail started to wag.

“Tennis balls? The cure is tennis balls? Please let it be tennis balls,” he said, panting now.

She bounced the ball off the hard floor more aggressively and said, “So you’re sorry, are you?” Ted was bounding up and down with excitement. “You want to be all better now?” she said as she waved the ball in the air. His nails hissed over the tile as he dodged back and forth fixated on the ball. “Who’s a good doggie?” she said, and the last string of self control in Ted snapped like a mouse trap.

“I’m a good doggie!”

She tossed the tennis ball underhanded across the living room, and Ted sprung into the air after it. He was a good dog, he knew it, and good dogs got tennis balls. With perfect form he caught the Wilson in mid-air, leaving him just enough time to look down and say “Oh shit,” before he plopped into the boiling stew.

“That’s a good boy,” the woman said as she stirred the brew.

9
Feb

Darryl’s Old Lady

   Posted by: Ben   in Drama, Works in Progress

“Darryl honey, do you think I’ll end up one of those old ladies with a wardrobe full of muumuus and fat pants?” his wife asked from the kitchen.

Darryl’s tired eyes stayed with the newspaper spread across the table. His hands, dry as sandpaper and tough as leather, wrapped around a cup of day old coffee. He shifted a bit in his chair trying to get comfortable in his Carhart overalls. A button on the back always dug into his ass whenever he sat in that chair.

“Honey, do you think I’ll be one of those old ladies with twenty-two cats in the house and a dozen mangy dogs tearin’ up the backyard?” she asked.

Darryl’s eyebrows bent a bit as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. There was an itch on the top of his right pinkie toe, but his steel-toed boots always took so goddamned long to put back on that he bit his lip a little and tried to ignore it or will it away.

“Honey, do you think I’ll be any good at bingo when I’m old?” she asked.

He flipped the sports section over and started in on the international news. It was the smallest part of the paper, which he attributed to why people in this town knew so little about what happened outside it. He learned more from listening to Jim and Rich bitch at each other every day at the Dunkin Donuts where they all went on their lunch break.

“Darryl dear, do you think I’ll die alone?” she asked.

“I think you can do anything if you put your mind to it,” he said.

On his way out, he kissed his wife goodbye just as he had every day for the past 15 years. With his left hand, he held her close a little longer than was necessary, looked into her eyes, and said, “Just foolin’. I love you, baby.”