‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through my room
My friend Sam rolled around stirring, ’cause he ate a shroom.
My stockings were hung from his package with care
In hopes that I’d notice, and reach my hand down there.
–
Our friends were all nestled, warm in their beds
Visions of their friend Kyle dancing in their heads.
And Sam in his dick-sock, and I in my cloak
Had just set the bath for a totally straight Christmas soak.
When out from the lawn, there arose such a clatter
I looked at Sam, afraid, and he asked, “What’s the matter?”
–
Away to the window, I flew like a flash,
Nothing but moon light covering my ass.
Squinting through fragments of glimmering street light
I thought I saw something moving, grumbling in the night.
–
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
Wesley had struck a parked car. He wreaked of cheap beer.
“Where are your pants?” Wesley asked, in a rage.
“You don’t have to wear pants,” I said, “Not when you’re our age.”
Wesley began to undress, and I regretted my lie.
“Don’t act like you’re not jealous,” Wes said, “Don’t even try.”
–
We examine the damage, the damage was great.
“Death and damnation,” said Wesley, “That’s my van’s fate.”
Just at that moment, a new pair of head lights, twinkling and bright
Made their appearance in our Christmas night.
–
Derek came bounding out of his Saturn, ecstatic and enthused
Looking as an elf and heroin addict, fused.
“I just found a gun, and I think we should shoot it.”
“I just don’t know,” I said. “Let’s think a-boot it.”
“We can shoot it at graves, and things that don’t move,
We can shoot it at raccoons, rats, and things with hooves.”
–
Wesley reached out with his hand, and swiped the gun away.
“You can have this back when you’re not such a fucking weirdo,” he did say.
Derek struggled and whimpered and put up a fight,
But Wesley silenced him with a jaw-knocking right.
–
Things had gotten violent and a bit out of hand, so Sam decided to speak
“We shouldn’t be fighting. Holiday fun we should seek.”
We knew he he was right, his logic was sound.
No smiles could be found, no spirit around.
Derek began to cry, Wes started drinking.
I became worried; my Christmas was sinking.
–
Then who would come forth, but old St. Nick!
“Santa!” Sam said, pulling the sock from his dick.
Santa did a double take, then greeted us heartily.
Wesley finished off his 40 and threw it away, fartily.
–
Santa’s face was round and jolly
From his belt hung wreaths of holly.
He offered us presents, and treats from his sack.
“That’s what I thought!” I said. “It’s presents we lack!”
Santa gave us all gifts, he gave us all fun.
“Man I love presents!” Sam said. “Christmas is number one!”
–
We all hugged each other. We all were so happy.
Our Christmas was saved, and no longer crappy.
–
Merry Christmas
1
Dear Whiskey Kyle,
How pleased I am to see that you haven’t vandalized anything in recent weeks. This is a strange time for us, Whiskey Kyle. Our money is short, yet our desire to get absolutely shit-faced-plaster-eating-it’s-okay-to-slap-me drunk is great. What to do? I will help you. I will give you a great, great gift. I will give you jug after jug of cheap, poorly made wine. We both know that by the time you are at full strength, Whiskey Kyle, everything tastes the same, anyway. Remember that time Sam made you drink Windex? What a tremendous buzz you had! Never forget, Whiskey Kyle, anything ending with “ex” “ine” or “ol” or “poison” most likely should not be ingested. You got lucky with that Windex–vomiting profusely, thereby expelling it from your body.
Also, no one can drink a gallon of milk in an hour. Not even you.
Your friend,
Kyle.
2
Hey Kkyle,
Whiy don’t uy shut up!? I’m haviehn such a gud gtime with whiskeyy rite right now! Have you evr hreard of girls/? They might be better than whiskey? They might. Can you make whiskey have bubz? boobdf? Boobs? I think hyoiu can. next time get me wine wiff boobs on it? Anhyway OH SHIT ISA THAT A PEARLJAM SONG ON?! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH BEST BAND EVER! I just saw a dog and it looked at me and I think I yelled something at it.
love,
Whiskey Kyle
3
Dear Whiskey Kyle,
I’m so sorry to hear that you’ve taken such an antagonistic view of me. I’m also sorry to hear that you’re to the point of screaming at stray animals. What do you hope to achieve?
Whiskey Kyle, I assure you, I mean you no harm. I am your care taker. I have to rebuild what you destroy, be it relationships with women, relationships with friends, or your relationship with your stomach, liver, and brain. I have to do clean all the mysterious stains I find on your clothes in the morning.
Yes, I have heard of women, but no, I cannot put boobs on whiskey or wine. I’m not sure how you realistically expected me to do that. Did you really think I could do that? Were you kidding? I’m worried.
Your friend,
Kyle
4
Dear Fucker,
I’m sorry to see that yu’ve taken sush an ant-hand-against-it view of me! Why do you use those words I think you don’t like me? I peed.
Love,
Whiskey Kyle
5
Dear Whiskey Kyle,
First off, it’s antagonistic, not ant-hand-against-it. That doesn’t make any sense. And why do you keep ending declarative sentences with question marks? I can’t tell if I’m supposed to answer you or just listen to you jabber on.
Before you do anything stupid tonight, go through all the possible repercussions. Think to yourself, “If I do decide to sign these papers, officially making Derek and I equal partners in a civil union, will I still find it humorous a week from now? How about twenty-four hours from now? How about two hours from now?” Before you let Angela slap you, ask yourself “Should I at least ask her to take off her wedding ring?” And finally, before you try to do a wicked jump off that handicap ramp, ask yourself “Is this safe? Do I have any experience in performing stunts? How did I get this motorcycle?” and most importantly, “Did I steal this motorcycle?”
One more thing of note. I know you have a propensity to spill. This would make white t-shirts a bad choice, but as I go through all the photographic evidence of your existence, that’s all I see you wearing. Why not wear something with some color? You’re not the Fonz. Change your shirt or wear a bib.
Your friend,
Kyle.
6
Dear Foop butt 
Here’s me:
I just tuk taht with camera. Am Ii Fsamakn>?
Wienerz
Whiskey Kyle.
7
Dear Whiskey Kyle,
I’m growing more and more concerned for your well-being. That is 90’s heart-throb Jonathan Taylor Thomas, not you. This is you:
This might be difficult for you to look at, as it would be for a vampire who has finally been allowed to see his own reflection, but I tell you, you must look at it. Did you know that this is how you look in your final transformation? Not very good, eh?
To answer your question, I don’t know because you’re not making words anymore.
Your friend,
Kyle
8
To my Sober Enemy,
I loOk like a bgadass!
8IIIIIIIIIIID
love,
Whiskey Kyle
9
Dear Whiskey Kyle,
I quit. Just try to not get cirrhosis.
Your friend,
Kyle.
—
The end.
I now have a site exclusively for my short fiction and script work. Check it out if you have time. It’s mostly serious stuff, but the comedic play I wrote is there too, and I’m working on some more humorous short stories to post in the future. HERE’S A LINK!
Christmas is a time of giving. It’s a time of taking. Don’t tell me it isn’t, because if people are giving things, somebody’s got to be taking them–unless we’re all just throwing our gifts into the ocean, but even then, Aquaman could get it.
Sweet underwater blessings!
Summary: Christmas is a time of giving and taking. This year, I decided to give a little more than usual and spend a few days doing some community service work.
I didn’t want to go alone, though, so I asked my friend Derek to accompany me. This is his favorite time of year.
Happy Holidays.
The first place we went to was a homeless shelter in Denton, TX. We can’t name what shelter it is because of A.) Legal reasons and B.) Neither of us remember what it’s called.
The building resembled a large, aluminum box. It had glass doors at the front and the faintest or faint odors wafted around us–a slight, acrid passenger riding along in the air.
“Derek, do you smell that faintest of faint odors? The slight, acrid passenger riding along the air?”
“Why do you always talk like a gay person when you’re around me? Why do you do that? Are you writing this down?” I was. I was taking notes for this blog. “Give me that paper. This isn’t for your blog. This is for humanity and the ten bucks you promised me when all this was said and done. Now, zip up your pants and fix your hair. You look like one of them.” Derek pointed to a few gentlemen standing outside the building, who were now only a few feet from us. One particularly homeless gentleman pulled out a small stick that he’d fashioned into some sort of primitive weapon. I prayed. God turned his back to me.
Once in the doors of the facility, we were received by the organizations coordinator, Mary Fielder.
“Hello, guys! We’re so thankful to have you.”
“We’re really excited,” I said.
“I’m not excited,” Derek said, turning to look at me. “Please don’t speak for me.”
She leads us to the kitchen area. We’re outfitted with hair nets, rubber gloves, and aprons. Derek almost immediately removed his hair net and gloves. Mary Fielder almost immediately told him to put them back on. He did.
We began serving the homeless their food. It wasn’t so bad–turkey, cranberry sauce, rolls, green bean casserole, something the color of khaki pants and with a similar texture. We serve for about half an hour, then noticed a lot of the patrons looking sick, holding their stomachs and complaining to senior staff members.
“This doesn’t look good,” Derek said.
“I know,” I scanned the cafeteria. “They look like they’re in a lot of pain.”
Derek, who was looking over the sneeze guard, seemed to hardly notice my words. “There are, like, no hot girls here.” He turned to me. “None.” He reached into the green bean casserole, grabbed a handful, and stood eating it like a gelatinous apple. An older homeless gentleman in a ratty brown jacket approached Derek, mumbling of stomach pain. Without a word, Derek reached over the sneeze guard and, using the man’s beard, wiped the remaining casserole from his hands. He then directed the man to Mary Fielder.
“Man, you can’t do that. You can’t wipe your hands on people’s beards. That’s horrible.”
“No,” he said. “This, this lack of chicks. This is horrible.”
Mary, almost running, approached us. “What did you serve them?” she asked.
“Exactly what you laid out,” I said. Derek removed his hair net again. Mary shot him a look that promised a thousand different kinds of pain and Derek put it back on.
“They’re all in horrible pain. Show me how you prepared everything.”
I showed her. I went down the line, explaining the cooking temperatures and times of everything I put out. When we got to the final item, the khaki-colored dish, her face turned a marble white.
“You fed them this?”
Confused and a little scared to answer, I said “Yea, this was next to the green beans.”
“THESE ARE CLEANING RAGS! YOU FED THEM CLEANING RAGS!”
Derek began laughing hysterically. He removed his apron, hair net, and gloves, and walked away, waving apathetically as he strode to the exit.
“Thank you for the opportunity, Ms. Fielder.” I go to shake her hand.
“Get out.”
I got out.
Something is definitely off. Something feels distinctly wrong. But what?
I look around the class room I’m tutoring in. What could it be? A touch of cold air brushes my back with an eerily powerful depth of sensation, like an icy finger running against my spine. Slowly I turn and whisper to myself, enunciating each word with the delicate and deliberate care of a man in deep, fearful angst.
“What the fuck was that fucking shitty ass cold air shit?” What indeed.
The source of this unease soon made itself apparent or, should I say, himself apparent. Him.
Yes. Him.
“Balls…” I whisper.
“Balls…” Edward whispers.
“Balls!” Rodrigo Salizar yells from across the room.
“Shut up and get back to work on that crossword puzzle, Rodrigo! Jesus Christ!”
Edward’s eyes are as cold as ice but as welcoming as the warmest of holiday fires. His shirt is as tight as a runner’s buttocks and his skin the faintly cerulean color of a sock that got washed with a load of blue clothes. Maybe a shirt much like the one he’s wearing. Maybe a shirt like the one I am wearing. I look down to my shirt. It’s red. Never mind the part about my shirt. My shirt would have been more appropriate for this guy’s skin.
I approach Edward, waves of restrained passion exuding every inch of his frame–like tendrils of creepy-vampire-hotness reaching out, pulling me toward him, yet still pushing me away. The feeling made me want to hurl. I did.
“Excuse me…” I say, wiping spittle from my chin.
“Yes?” Edward says, averting his gaze.
Jesus, will you fucking look at me?
“Are you…” I pause, trying to collect myself. “Are you in this class?”
“Yes…” Edward says, still only showing me the crest of his forehead, staring blankly at the table.
I then hear the door knob click and turn to see who’s entering. It’s her.
“Bella!” I yell.
“Bella!” Edward yells, getting to his feet. All the other children have stopped working and are now looking at the tutor and the two students who look kind of older than the tutor.
“What–uh, what–ugh!” Bella says, running her hand through her hair.
“Bella, you don’t–” Edward reaches out to her. She pulls back. Not to be left out, I pull back too. I trip over a desk and knock a student’s work to the ground. Bella scrunches her brow, which I will later understand means she’s about to make talk-words.
“No, look I–what if–I–you can’t–meh!” Edward looks hurt. I look from Edward–to Bella–then back to Edward.
“Wait, do you–do you understand what she’s saying?” I ask.
“I never really have to say anything. I just hold out my hand, say ‘no,’ or ‘you don’t have to,’ then unzip my pants and get to screwin’.”
“That’s terrible,” I say. “If she has this much difficulty speaking, she could be retarded. I mean she could have some serious mental illness.” Edward purses his lips and lowers his head, once again averting his gaze from my own. “That isn’t a response, Edward. Edward!” He just rolls his head around and tries his weird puppy dog thing on me. A chilling gust envelopes me and I’m filled with anxiety and frustration. “That’s it,” I say, and reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone.
“No cell phones, Mr. Kyle! Put that thing away!” Rodrigo yells, pointing. I turn and slap Rodrigo across the face. He’s unconscious. I speed dial #3.
Into the phone, I plead. “Can you please come help me? It’s that Edward Cullen guy. Yea. Yea. Yea he is really dreamy. Oh god, I know, his eyes are like two pools of some magical liquid that can reflect all of my most hidden and true desires. What? No, I’m not–I’m–stop laughing. Yea, I like Queen, what does that have to do with anyth–okay, this conversation’s over. Just get here.”
“You’ll be okay, Bella,” Edward says, taking her face in his hand. Bella looks up to Edward, her face vacant. I think there’s some Oreo in the corner of her mouth.
“Bella, do you have a piece of paper with your mom or dad’s phone number on it?” I ask.
“What? My parents? But–They don’t–Edward–” She runs her hand through her hair again and shakes her head, looking at nothing in particular.
“Why can’t any of you make eye contact with anybody? Bella, I think you should come with me.” I hold out my hand to no reaction. I scramble for a solution. “Okay, Bella, look!” I remove a piece of candy from a student’s desk. The student protests for a moment, but remembering Rodrigo, stops. Bella runs to me and I hand her the candy bar. Edward stands in the background, furious. He steps forward, fists clenched. I think he actually hisses at me for a second. Believing this to be way too strange or pathetic to have actually happened, I write it off as post-mortem flatulence. Then he does it again.”Did you just hiss at me?” He nods solemnly. “Do you think that scares people?” He nods again, but with more trepidation than before. “To be honest, that just kind of pisses me off. Kind of makes me want to fight you more.”
Undeterred, Edward maintains a fighting stance and utters “She’s going home with me.”
“I don’t think so,” I respond, pointing to the door behind Edward, which now stands open. “Looks like my guest arrived.” An arrow is fired from a crossbow and finds its home in the half-living heart of Edward Cullen. A gurgling sound escapes his throat as he falls to the ground, transforms into Lady Gaga, then vanishes into ash. I tip my hat to my friend. “Thanks, Buffy.”
“You got it. Should I take her home?”
“As long as you promise not to fall in love with her,” I say, winking. Bella has fallen asleep on the ground.
“I won’t fall in love with her, I promise. I still only have one love.” She leans close to me, then pulls out a wrinkled picture of the Hamburglar. Confused, uncomfortable, and now a little hungry, I allow her to pick up Bella and leave the school.
As they walked out the doors and into the winter chill, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d done the right thing. Then Bella drooled from over Buffy’s shoulder and I knew I had.
The End.
Lost Beat Generation theater group recently asked me to write a piece for a Christmas dark-comedy showcase put on by their parent group, Scene Shop. It was performed last night, the fifth of December.
—
Science Bless Us, Everyone.
By Kyle Irion
Grayson (on phone):
Yea, yea. I’ll probably miss the first few minutes of the first quarter. I’m at this Christmas church thing Rose wanted me to go to. What? Wh—Jesus is really important to her. They’re just friends though, nothing serious. I’m kidding. No, I don’t think me being an atheist has anything to do with me being able to date this girl or not. She’s religious, I’m not, no big d— oh, no, I haven’t told her I don’t believe in god. Probably gonna hold off on that one for awhile. Well it’s not like I have anything against it, it just isn’t for me. Hey man, service is about to start. She’s here now. I gotta go. Yea, I’ll get there whenever this is over.
(hangs up)
Rose:
Hey, Grayson. I need to talk to you.
Grayson:
What’s up?
Rose:
Hey, I know this is short notice, but can I ask you a huge favor?
Grayson:
Of course.
Rose:
Well, I was talking to Mrs. Schultz, you know the little elderly woman over there?
Grayson:
(Almost to himself, looking in direction of Mrs. Schultz) There are a lot of Mrs. Schultzes over there.
Rose:
She just told me that the special speaker for the children’s time got sick and can’t tell them the Christmas Story. I remember you told me you worked with a lot of missions in the middle east and Africa and Asia and south America…and in central America, and then Canada and Greenland and Belgium.
Grayson:
Yea, well…
Rose: (interrupting Grayson)
And Michigan.
Grayson:
(Sighs) Yes. Yes, Jesus was on fire in all of those places. (Rose looks at Grayson, perplexed by the bizarre phrase.)
Rose:
Well, I told Mrs. Schultz about all your experience, and she thinks you’d be a great fill-in. I told her you’d be thrilled. You don’t mind, do you?
Grayson:
Pft, no. Of course not. I’m…psyched.
Rose:
OK, Just come this way, the class room is over here.
Grayson:
Jesus Christ, there are so many kids here.
(Rose glares at Grayson for using the Lord’s name in vain. Grayson sees this.)
Rose:
Grayson!
Grayson:
I mean, (As if addressing Jesus, looking to the sky.) Jesus Christ, there are so many kids here.
Rose:
(Speaks up to address the class) Okay everybody, this is Grayson. He’s going to tell you all the story of the birth of Jesus! Everybody pay attention. This is really important. Go ahead, Grayson.
Grayson:
So, hey kids! Merry Christmas! Yes, Christmas is a very old holiday. People have been celebrating Christmas for a long, long time. As we all know, Jesus is the reason for the season. He’s why we celebrate Christmas. Jesus was our gift from God, so, to be like god, we give each other gifts, like iPods and sunglasses. See? So Jesus is like God’s iPod—wait. Wait, no that isn’t right. Jesus is better than an iPod. All I want is to wake up to find Jesus under my tree on Christmas. Ah! No. No, not that. So—
So thousands of years ago, a (pauses to think, continues, unsure) paunchy pirate th—
Rose:
Pontius Pilate?
Grayson:
Yes! Pontius Pilate. A Pontius Pilate decided that he wanted to take a census. He needed to take a census because he was the best Pontius Pilate and the rest of the Pontius Pilates needed to add to their fleet. So, it was decreed that a census be taken to find the best possible Pontius Pilate in the land. But Jesus’s mom, Mary, and his father—(draws a blank) Jesus, senior—decided that they needed to get away, because piloting a Pontius is really, really dangerous.
Rose:
Grayson, I think you—I think you mean King Herod. King Herod ordered the census. Pontius Pilate was the man who ordered Jesus’s crucifixion.
Grayson:
(Epiphany) Oooh. King Harold.
Rose:
Herod.
Grayson:
Harold?
Rose:
Herod.
Grayson:
(Unsure) King…Harold.
Rose:
Herod!
Grayson:
So, wait, are you saying it wrong or am I?
Rose:
What? You’re saying it wrong, Grayson. You are.
Grayson:
(Whimsically suspicious) Are you sure?
Rose:
Yes, I’m sure.
Grayson:
B—
Rose:
Sure. I’m absolutely, one hundred percent positive.
Grayson:
Fair enough. King Herod.
(Rose sighs, defeated)
So then, Jesus and his family hide out in a barn for a really, really long time, surviving by eating hay and drinking rain water. Really Jane Goodall and all that.
(Looks to back of house as if a someone is asking a question) Yes, young man, you have a question? (pauses) Who is Jane Goodall? Jane Goodall was the woman who lived among the gorillas for a few years to understand their ways—much like Jesus lived amongst us for several years to understand our ways. Gorillas aren’t as smart as us, though, so they couldn’t build a cross to put Jane on. Lucky for her, right kids? The answer is yes, she was very lucky. I’ll go on.
Now, the night Jesus was born, an angel appeared to three shepherds. The angel told the shepherds about Jesus and the barn. The shepherds really wanted to see a baby that could eat hay, so they told all their flocks to “stay,” and went on to see the hay eating baby. It would be a Christmas day miracle. (Clasps his hands together warmly and surveys the children, smiling.) At the same time, three magicians were doing tricks in a wood shed when an angel came to them too. The angel told the magicians that it had also come to a group of shepherds, and that kind of hurt the magicians’ feelings. “Wait, why did you talk to them first?” the magicians asked. One of the magicians was crying. This made the angel a little uncomfortable, but he answered them. “Well, it was just easier. If I had come here first, it would have taken me way out of my way.” The magicians didn’t understand this. The angel told them of his route. The magicians told him that if he had taken the toll way instead of the highway he could have saved ten or fifteen minutes and got to the magicians first.
The angel thanked them for their advice and then said unto them: (in a booming “angel” voice) “A child is born who is the Christ, but his friends call him Jesus.” The magicians were frightened and they trembled before the angel, because they weren’t totally sure if they were on a friend level with Jesus or not. They didn’t want to offend the Christ with informal behavior—calling him “Jesus,” before it was appropriate—so they decided to win Jesus over they’d bring him presents. Each magician brought him a present. They brought him gold, myrrh, and Frankincense, the—Is there a question? (Motioning to the back) Yes, you. (pauses) That’s a good question. Frankincense is the plural of Frankenstein. They brought him several Frankincense. Understand? And all these Frankincense the magicians brought would soon become the men known as Jesus’s disciples.
Rose:
What?!
(GRAYSON holds his hand out to ROSE, steadying her. He continues.)
Grayson:
Please save your questions for after the story, Rose.
The Shepherds and the magicians both asked the angel the same question: “But how will we know where the barn is?” The angel told them to look to the sky, that a great star hung there that would guide them to the Jesus barn. “Wow,” they all said. “Wow.” One magician stepped forward and asked the angel if they would need sleeping bags. “Yes,” the angel responded. Another asked if they should pack for three or more days. The angel said “yes.” Finally, the third stepped forward and asked if the angel could just give them a ride or something. The angel looked down on the magicians, and all of a sudden, an expression of terrible wonderment appeared on his face and he pointed behind them. They all turned to see what the angel was looking at. There was nothing there. When they turned back around, the angel was flying away, and all could hear his mischievous laughter echoing through the dark night.
So the three magicians and the three shepherds set out to find the barn. They eventually crossed paths and decided to unite. To unite and form a fellowship. The fellowship of the King. The six walked bravely through the lands of…(lost on what country this all occurs in)…the land of…(mixing up the names to sound ambiguous) Jerusalemnazarethbethlehemrometexas. They had to fight harsh terrain, harsh weather, and harsh language from that one shepherd with the drinking problem and all the body odor.
Finally, they came upon the barn. It stood proudly on the great…hill. The magicians said “We must go first to give him our gifts.” The shepherds responded “Wait, were we supposed to bring gifts? Can we just give him money?” They all got (using baby talk kind of voice) veeeery nervous that Jesus would banish them aaaall to Hell. Hell is where all the mean people go. But Jesus didn’t banish them to Hell, because they were sincere in their desire to see him eat hay and he trusted them that they would never, ever put it on YouTube.
Jesus wants us all go to Heaven so we can hang out with him for eternity. Jesus likes to party. (very serious) Jesus. Likes. To party. BYOB. Thank you, kids.
Rose:
What was that?!
Grayson:
What was what?
Rose:
That story!
Grayson:
Oh that old thing!
Rose: (Stands, staring at Grayson, waiting for him to continue. He does not.)
Well?
Grayson:
Well what?
Rose:
Grayson! You told me you had done mission work all over the world! You should know this story like the back of your hand.
Grayson:
And I do!
Rose:
First off, you said that Pontius Pilate was a pilot that flew Pontiuses. What is a Pontius? Did you really think they had aircraft in 2,000 bc? Then, you said the “magicians,” who were actually magii or wise men, brought Jesus a bunch of Frankensteins and that those Frankensteins became the twelve disciples! You said that Jesus was born in Jerusalemnazarethbethlehemrometexas, which doesn’t exist, and you capped it all off by saying that Jesus requires everybody to bring their own booze to his party.
Grayson:
(Feebly)
He wants everyone to share.
Rose:
Grayson!
Grayson:
(Struggles to find his words) Okay. I don’t know the story.
Rose:
How do you not know the story?
Grayson:
I’m an atheist. I was raised an atheist. I faked being a Christian because you seemed really into the whole religion thing and I really like you. All I know about the birth story is what I’ve picked up second hand through the years.
(Rose seems amused)
Grayson:
What? What’s funny?!
Rose:
Grayson, I’m agnostic!
Grayson:
Egg-nog-stic? What, are you a worshiper of seasonal dairy-based beverages? (Winks at Rose, proud of his corny joke) You get it? Because people drink egg nog…(Rose stares back, face like slate.) Sorry. You’re agnostic—please continue.
Rose:
Yea, I’m just not sure if there’s a god or not. So I’m hedging my bets with all this church stuff. I figure if when I die I find out there is a God, maybe He’ll give me participation points.
Grayson:
Participation points?
Rose:
Yea, like, in kindergarten when you’d get a ribbon on field day just for competing. I’m hoping that kind of thing happens when I die. Like god will just look at me, knock me on the chin a little, call me a knuckle head and let me stay in the low-rent section of heaven.
Grayson:
That seems like a gross distortion of the Christian ethos.
Rose:
It absolutely is, but it gets me through the day. We should probably get out of here before the parents arrive. And I should probably start looking for a new church. You want to go look at Christmas lights or something?
Grayson:
(Sigh of relief)
Yea, sure. How close to the story was I?
Rose:
Not close at all.
Grayson:
Oh well, I like mine better anyway.
Rose:
Me too. Let’s go.
It’s the second month of Paper Darts’s Flash Fiction contest. The two words that must be used this month are “corny” and “dog.” They don’t have to be used in any specific order, but you gotta use ‘em. You just gotta. Here’s my submission below. If you love me, take like two minutes, got to the Paper Darts Facebook page and “like” my entry. Here’s a handy link! LINK!
——
This Thanskgiving, my grandfather attempted to prove to me that his lawn mower was amphibious by driving it into a lake. The mower wasn’t amphibious, and neither was my grandfather, who sank like a rock immediately after hitting the cold water.
“Jesus, was that gramps?” my brother asked.
I sighed heavily. “Yes, that was …gramps.”
“Should we do something?”
“Save him?” My brother and I stood on the dock for some time weighing this possibility.
“He was kind of a bastard,” my brother said. He was right. Our grandfather was kind of a bastard.
“Here. I’ll jump in, swim around a little bit, then crawl out and look all disheveled. You run to the house and tell everybody that gramps drove into the lake but we couldn’t save him.”
“What about Thanksgiving dinner?” This we also weighed heavily.
“We can just make some corny dogs when we get home,” I say. “I don’t want to eat a big meal surrounded by mourners.”
“Fair enough. Let’s do this.”
I’m drunk. Does that give you any clue as to how great my Thanksgiving was? YEA YOU DON’T KNOW! *swings wildly with right. falls down. starts to cry. apologizes. mentions about being friends forever.* Anyway, You wanna hear about my Thanksgiving? Of course you do.
—
I wake up to the familiar smell of turkey. I love turkey. Every Thanksgiving I sleep with a turkey on my head. Another Irion Thanksgiving tradition is for my family to spend much of the night prior trying to find my turkey-helmet so they can keep me from sleeping with my head in it. The next day, I wake up and try to get my dad to put my turkey in with the one we’re already cooking.
“Come on, there’s room for both!”
“Kyle, that turkey smells rotten. You smell horrible.”
“You smell horrible.”
“Throw the turkey away or I’m going to purposely burn this meal and blame it on you.”
“But dad! You can’t!” My father reaches over to the temperature knob on the oven and slowly starts to turn it.
“Okay, okay! I’ll throw it away.”
I throw it away.
Next up on my Thanksgiving agenda is a lovely time watching the parade. The Macy’s Parade never ceases to entertain me. I love watching B-list celebrities lip sync songs I’ve never heard from Broadway shows that I’m not even sure exist. Like this, Perez Hilton singing Forever isn’t in My Lunch Box, from his upcoming musical Cut-off Overalls Make My Butt Look Happy.
After a few hours of that stuff, I usually take a shower and get ready for my family to come over. This year, though, my family is doing something a little different. This year, we’re to my grandmother’s to have Thanksgiving dinner with my extended family.
A natural showman, I love to enter rooms with a bang. I have my brother go in a few minutes before I do in order to warm up my family with a few jokes. He also sets a small boom box on the living room end table. As he walks in, I think someone sees me and waves. I act like I don’t see them, pulling out my phone and pretending to answer a call.
“Yes, Mr. President,” I say.
After the crowd is sufficiently warmed up and ready to be wowed, I give Nick the signal (Banging loudly on the front door and screaming the word “Now”). He flips on the stereo to our pre-determined entry-track, Clay Aiken’s If I Was Invisible. I turn the knob and the door and push it forward a few inches, then kick it open.
“Give some thanks for ROCK!” I scream, covered in feathers imitating a turkey’s plumage. I also have a waddle under my chin, but it just looks like a pair of fire-red testicles, so I take that off pretty soon after entering the room. Everyone claps unenthused, appeasing me in an attempt to get me to stop. A fan of any kind of applause, even the fake kind, I bow graciously and remove my costume.
Lunch was delicious. My family was delightful company. The day was beautiful and the Cowboys won. Also, dad didn’t hit anybody this year and grandpa didn’t try to convince everyone how his lawn mower was amphibious by driving it into a lake when no one was looking.
Happy Late Thanksgiving.
It’s the biggest shopping day of the year. Millions upon millions of dollars will be spent by millions upon millions of people–all trying to get the perfect gift for somebody. It’s a nice thought, really. So many people enduring so much for their loved ones. However, as we all know, the road to hell is paved in good intentions–and great bargains.
–
My brother, Nick, and I arrive at Target at around 5am. It’s cold, around 40 degrees. There are already a few hundred people in a line stretching across the front of the store. We take our place at the end of the line, which is by this time twenty or thirty yards from the entrance. CAN’T WAIT FOR THE BARGAINS!
Six minutes pass. This sucks. I want to go home.
I hear a man screaming in the distance, I get to my feet and peek around the crowd to see who it’s coming from.
I’m pleasantly surprised to see that Target has employed the services of local madman Jeepers McGinley, who has abandoned his usual “The End Is NEAR” sign to make a quick buck. (I later learned that this Jeepers was in no way affiliated with the Target Corporation and was, in fact, trying to be ironic. It was completely lost on me, as I bought every single item on that board.)
The manager is seen approaching the doors. People get to their feet and quietly shuffle as close to the front of the line as they can. There’s an audible rise in tension as aggressive murmurs sprout so ubiquitously that it seems the air itself is whispering its appeals for haste. I hear the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked. Then I hear the sound of a cannon ball being lowered into a cannon’s shaft. This confuses me and I take a moment to look for the weirdo who brought the cannon.
Ah, okay. This guy.
I begin to ask the guy where he got his cannon, because I also have a few thousand dollars that I’d like to spend on absolute bull shit, but before I can get it out, my brother brusquely grabs my arm.
“It’s go time.”
“What?” He’s started pulling me forward. I begin to hear screaming in the distance.
“Keep your knees high. It’ll keep you from tripping over the fallen.”
“Wait, the fallen? Like people?!”
“Yes Kyle, fallen people.”
“Ah, okay.” I take a second to slip on my mob cleets and continue pressing forward. As we enter the store, the sound of a cannon firing rings out with a sound like the thunder of a storm that’s just overhead.
“Was that a cannon?” Nick asks.
“Yea. It belongs to this guy who looks a lot like Jennifer Lopez with a mustache.” I look back toward the entrance. “There’s no way he didn’t kill at least five or six people. You think we should call the cops or someth–”
“DEXTER DVD’S!” Nick yells. He runs up to the display, but it’s blocked by a woman and her cart, which is already full of goods. Nick grabs the cart and pushes it as hard as he can down the aisle.
“My cart!” the woman yells, and begins to run after her rolling presents.
“Ah crap. I already have this season,” Nick says, puts the DVD back, and begins to walk towards the clothes. In the distance, the woman seems to have fallen down and is being drug by her carts powerful momentum.
More explosions can be heard from across the store. I remark at how quickly that tiny man was able to mobilize his cannon. Then my mind stumbles across a horrific possibility: What if there’s more than one cannon in the store? As I finish this thought, several Target cops in full riot gear march past. A gallon of milk flies past them and explodes at my feet. At the opening of the jug is a rag with its end burnt. It seems someone didn’t understand how molotov cocktails work. I grab a bottle of wine, tear off a portion of my shirt, put it in the bottle and light the end. Then I throw the bottle back to where the milk came from, so they can see how to do it.
“Look out!” Nick yells. He pulls me into the women’s clothes department just as a flurry of flaming arrows strikes the ground where we had been standing. “It’s begun,” he says. Quietly, my brother removes a home made knife from his back pocket. He cuts a line down the middle of his hand and then smears the blood across his face. “Buyer beware,” he says in a gravelly tone.
“Shopper’s delight,” I respond, laughing smugly and raising my fist for a fist bump. My brother shakes his head, gently pushes my fist down and hands me his knife. I pick up a nearby package of Hershey’s chocolate syrup, cut it open and smear its contents on my face.
“Let’s move. I need a new sweater,” Nick says, scanning the area for threats.
“I’m getting Wesley Up for Christmas. You think we got a shot at it?”
“DVD’s? It’ll be a blood bath. You ready?”
“Let’s shop.”
We break away toward the electronics–leaving civilization and full prices at our backs.
To be continued.
In its first week, Sarah Palin’s book, Going Rogue: An American Life, sold 700,000 copies. Here’s the cover:
Freedom lies in open skies and track-jackets.
She’s currently on tour promoting the book. Her Texas stop isn’t until December the 12th. I, however, couldn’t wait that long, so I decided to go on the 24th of November, traveling all the way to Alabama to get a chance to meet with Palin. My Editor made the proper arrangements for me to meet with Palin at the Birmingham stop after she had done some book signings and made a brief speech.
I stand in line with a collection of lily-white, slightly overweight, conservative Americans. For a moment, there are whispers of a sighting of an African-American man at the event, but it’s soon revealed to be a regular white man standing in a shadow. The crowd is audibly crestfallen, but then seems to be slightly relieved. I ask a man in line why.
“Why what?” He responds.
“Why are you so relieved that there are no black people here?”
“When did I say that?”
“What do you think I said you said?
“That I’m relieved no black people are here.”
“Bingo. Consider yourself quoted.”
“Wait, what? What are you quoting?!”
!["[...] I'm relieved no black people are here."](http://ironkyle.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/maninline.jpg "maninline")
"... I'm relieved no black people are here."
Horrible. What a horrible man. Those concerned or angry can e-mail me for his name and exact number of how many copies of that stupid book he bought.
He also bought a Chicken Soup book. I think it was Chicken Soup for the Surly Old Soul That isn’t Quite Sure if it’s Racist or Not but Totally Is.
I decide to ask a woman in line what they think about Sarah as a politician, insofar as her political beliefs.
“What is it about Sarah’s politics that you like?”
“Well, she’s just a hockey-mom American like us. She believes in giving everybody a fair chance.”
“Focusing on your second point, because the first one only makes me want to burn this store down, you believe she gives everybody a fair chance? Would you elaborate on that?”
“She wants everybody to succeed, she wants everybody to go to college and have fulfilling careers and stuff.”
“Who doesn’t want that?” I ask her. “If that’s a point that sets her apart from everybody else, who is she being set apart from?”
“The left, of course,” She says. I immediately turn to my left, hands up in a karate-style defense. Nothing there. The left is a tricky, tricky bastard. I can understand what she’s afraid of.
“The left doesn’t want people to get a college education or to succeed?” I ask. The woman seems a bit confused, but in a stunning show of dialectic strategy, simply ignores the obvious flaw in her point and argues from a foundation of blindly-embraced ignorance.
“Of course! They all want the government to do everything! Socialists!”
“Socialshits are the worst,” I say.
She stutters for a moment, eying me suspiciously, then continues. “Before long, we’ll all be uneducated communists.”
“I’d hate to be an intoxicated commutits.” I snicker.
“Excuse me?” She hands her copy of her book to her friend who is standing nearby, crosses her arms and takes a step toward me.
“Hm?” I utter, suddenly afraid to make eye contact.
“What did you just say?” The woman, now displaying a sentiment that flirts with the line between anger and aggression, seems to have grown since approaching me. I’m visibly intimidated. I clutch the microphone tightly and take a step away from her.
“I said, let’s bring our boys home. Support the troops. Barack NObama. More like Al BORE! And then I said something about God hating mini skirts and Depeche Mode.”
“Well there you go! I’m glad young people have good heads on their shoulders nowadays.” She slaps me on my back and I almost vomit from a mix of terror and cognitive dissonance.
The signing takes about two hours, then Sarah speaks for another half hour. After she kisses a few hands and shakes a few babies she meets me in her luxurious tour bus. The air is alive with rampant desire. Her lust radiates from her as does the heat from a hot stove. She hasn’t arrived yet, but just the ora of the bus is enough to tell me that things might get a little…bipartisan, if you know what I mean. (If you don’t know what I mean, please e-mail Editor at bigdumbstupid666@yahoo.com) [Editor's Note: That's not my e-mail address, and everybody knows what you meant.] [Kyle's Note: That absolutely is your e-mail address. I made it for you. This is your new work e-mail. I deleted the old one.] [Editor's Note: Wait, how did...? Never mind. I hate you.]
“Where is this idiot?” I hear her saying from outside the bus to one of her handlers. She must have thought Editor was going to be with me.
Palin is preceded by the light thumps of her high-heeled shoes coming up the stairs of her tour bus. As soon as she turns the corner and sees me, she smiles and holds her hand out.
“Well hyello there! How are ya?” Wait, is Sarah Palin from up north? I thought the hockey mom thing was sarcasm.
“I’m good, I’m good. How are you?” I respond, putting away my only purchases of the day, a MAXIM and a calendar of cats dressed up as history’s greatest assassins. I was on John Whiskers Booth when she walked in.
“Oh you know,” she said, taking a seat across from me. “Anytime I get to be around the American people it’s a good day.”
“Oh yes, I’m constantly surrounded by Americans. That’s all I work with, in fact.”
“Well that’s nice.”
“I hate people who aren’t from America.”
“Well,” she begins, holding a calming hand out, “We can’t–”
“I just PUNCH EM!” I clinch both fists and stare down at the table, my face contorted in a visage of total rage. I think I’m winning her over.
“Can we?” Sarah turns, looking for an assistant, “Is he all right? Does he have somebody here with him?” For fear that Editor will be contacted, I snap out of my patriotism-induced acrimony.
“I’m all right, I’m all right. I just love this country. You know how that goes.”
“Oh you betcha. I sure do.”
“Let me ask you, I’ve seen you on the covers of Newsweek and Alaska Magazine, looking very professional in both. Recently, though, I saw a picture on the internet of you in an American flag bikini.”
“Well, you know how people can be with their computers and editing and things, you just–”
“Do you think I would look good in an American flag bikini?” Sarah Palin begins to blush. I begin to scrawl a small note on my pad that reads “Do u like me? [y] [n],” when Editor comes in. Anything even remotely resembling a boner immediately deflates and reverts into my body.
“We gotta go. Supposedly some of the fans have told event staff about some of the comments you made to some of the people in line. Did you really tell a woman her comments made you want to burn the building down?” I nod my head solemnly. “They also mentioned you stealing a cat calendar?” I clutch my calendar tight to my chest. “Well, they want you out of here–now.”
“Damn it, Editor. Couldn’t you stall them or something?” I ask.
“How would I do that?”
“Ask them to sign something or make them list all the possible reasons why I hate you.” I gather my things and begin to stand. Sarah looks up at me with a wordless longing. She knows she cannot keep me on the bus. It would be a black eye to her entire tour. “Goodbye, sweet dove of the right,” I tell her. “You’ve caused a great conservative movement in my pants area on this day.” Sarah holds out a hand, then pulls back, as if my skin were white hot.
“Goodbye, Iron Kyle,” she says. I turn from her and walk to the front of the bus. Editor is waiting there with a few burly security officers.
“Okay, John McCan’t. Let’s get out of here.”
