100 word story: The Fatalist

Hanging on a ledge by my fingertips, I jeopardize myself like this, and I know this, but I’m not worried.

I could die today and it wouldn’t really make a difference.

Not to me anyway, and they would all get past it eventually.

Probably, really they’d be better off, and let’s face it so would I.

Imagine all the heartbreak and pain I wouldn’t have to experience, and all the disappointments I would never visit on my loved ones.

It would be simple, and I’d never hurt anyone again.

But I’m only ten, and it’s my birthday party.

Oh well.

100 word story: The Fatalist

Poem: Showdown on Baghead Rd.

It was me and Doc Leathery vs. you and Jeremy George Clinton,

Doc Leathery is a dog and Jeremy George Clinton is an octopus,

the game is Match Game, colon, who is funnier question mark.  The game has no theme song sorry,

the dog and the octopus are put in a sandbox, with spaceships and marbles and things,

improvization commences, Jeremy George Clinton spells his name in the sand,

and then he farts noisy bubbles, which is hilarious

but Doc Leathery just licks his own asshole, and wins in a walk,

dogs are more lovable than you or me, unless you are a dog.

In which case, what do butts smell like?


Future superstar psychologist, Dr. Freud (no relation),

the great-grandson of the dog that played “Eddie” on Frasier, L.K.F. (Little Known Fact)

he doesn’t pay any attention, just happily focuses,

a swirling nothing is the focus point, focal point if ya wanna be a dick about it,

but I digress, the doggie would heal everyone,

he’s a malfunctioning smile machine, kicked into high gear and unable to stop,

every bark ticks out a new millimeter, and Dr. Freud has healed you,

but I digress, when the duel was over, we all went to Red Lobster,

but we just get cheese biscuits, and no one tells Jeremy George Clinton what goes on in the kitchen.

Poem: Showdown on Baghead Rd.