You know the phrase The Customer Is Always Right?

Bullshit. This guy is an asshole.

For years, he's been plaguing me with stupid questions, begging for me to help him, screaming that he's losing thousands of dollars because of me.

It's because he's a stubborn jackass. It doesn't matter what instructions I give to him – he ignores them.

When I read the paper this morning, I saw his name on the front page.

Seems his house burned down and he died in the fire.

I guess he didn't follow the instructions again.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Forget cruises or eco-hikes.

This summer, going into exile is all the rage.

A good travel agent can put the whole package together.

A military coup.
The Swiss bank accounts.
That midnight flight to...

Well, whatever country will take you. Bribes and allies go a long way, you know.

Just make sure you can trust them. Otherwise, you may find your deposit turned over to the new regime or stolen by your travel agent.

And who wants to spend their exile on a godforsaken rock like Napoleon did on St. Helena?

If only he had a better travel agent.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Seven, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

The topic this week was selected by Craig from Wash The Bowl, who is going for broke with...

It's The Chair.

The excellent theme music is by Guy David

VOTING

Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

PLANET Z

Baby Bear looked at the shattered splinters of wood that were once his favorite chair and he wept bitter tears.

“Someone ate my porridge and broke my chair!” he growled. “I will have my revenge!”

“Son, don't get carried away,” said Papa Bear.

Baby Bear would have none of it. “When I am through with them, death will be considered a mercy!”

The outburst woke Goldilocks up. Heart pounding with fear, she leapt out of Baby Bear's bed and ran for the window.

It was painted shut.

Heavy paw footfalls on the stairs. Angry, muttered threats under his breath.

“REVENGE!”

FREEREED

cummings says... the artist is like the circus performer who sits on top of three balanced chairs. the three chairs are three facts of his life... "I am an artist, I am a man, I am a failure." my chair is an old wood swivel from the brother in laws garage. in that garage is art made by mikey who was murdered at age eleven. They never caught the killer. i think this chair knows who killed mikey This chair knows me. "I am an artist, I am a woman. I am a failure." Well, Off to the therapist now

RICH PALMER

A white room. A simple white room with no embellishments. One should look for windows, but there is no point. It is simply a white room. No curtains, no shelving, no tables. Just a white room. And the chair.

The chair that sits in the very center of the plain, white room.

The chair is nondescript. The chair has no ornaments. There are no intricately carved legs. There is no fine upholstery. The legs are wood. The back is wood. The seat is wood. It is simply a chair.

I sit in the chair. The white room has gone dark.

GUY DAVID

“Address the chair” said the head table. “I beg to differ” uttered the chest of drawers but the cupboard shushed her. The respectable window curtain walked in. An appreciative silence filled the room. The sofa moaned. “I think she ate too much last night” whispered a bed to a cabinet. The cabinet just shrugged and said “that sofa would be very hungry when there is no food left. There is a limited amount of unsuspecting people around you know.” The chair cleared his throat and said “We hold these truths to be self-evident: That all furniture are created equal...”

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

It first creaked as she rocked in summer's heat, waiting for the baby. Dad fixed it, but she wouldn't sit in it until he made it squeak again.

She rocked through my breastfeeding and tantrums. I showed up once
with teenage bravado and a cigarette. She stopped. I put the
cigarette out and heard the rhythmic creak again.

I missed it when I left for college. Squeaks lulled me to sleep when
I returned for Dad's funeral.

It's silent now. My wife asks if I'm okay.

The wind moves the rocker, and for a second I pretend that I am.

THOMAS

The chair, impressive once, sits in the corner. The center of the home for decades; but for several years, silent. After thirty years of marriage, the chair to the right of the once formidable recliner, is now the center of life.

The diminutive woman sits stoic: hands clasped. Behind her expression, sits tears, waiting to fall again. 'Til death do us part was their promise to each other. However, she knew he wasn't gone. Alone in the silence, looking at his chair, she could still see him. Faintly... briefly... but still he was there; a memory, a love, a promise.

EVA

Alma walked by that door a hundred times a day and even if she didn¹t break her stride, some part of her always lingered there for a thudding heartbeat or more. Sometimes she¹d pause for a moment to reach toward the knob and feel its warm burnished surface, or run a finger down the dark, grooved wood of the doorframe. She didn¹t have the key. But it wasn¹t like she didn¹t know what was in there: The room was completely empty save a single heavy wooden chair. She shuddered slightly and glanced at the clock on the wall.

JD

Near the access hatch in the deck, under a dim red overhead light, the chair sits.

A slender figure occupies the chair and has done so, unmoving for long ages.

The skin of the face, the texture of leather, is pulled tightly about the skull, the eyes nonexistent.

Holding a short wooden staff, sharpened to a point at one end, he appears ready to offer a challenge to anyone climbing from below.

John 316 grasp the last rung and emerges, only to slip and almost fall back at the sight of this ancient guardian.

The corpse grins with sightless eyes.

TOM

It took Allan and his guys two months to overhaul the Cronomotive. It was deemed too dangerous for Maria to return to the timepad. On departure day only Allan was present bidding Arnesto farewell. As Cervante moved through time a jolt rocked him backwards. When the time machine came to a rest there was Allan next to him PM Arnesto Arroway the third.

"Tell me of Maria, Allan."

Quartemain turned away.

"Come with me grandfather."

A chair was set out next to a statue

of Maria tearing open the easy bake.

"She did this to save her students."

Arnesto wept.

PLANET X

"The Chair has been watching you and wants your resignation on his desk now" Stella calmly stated to Frank the file clerk.

"Why me?" Frank retorted.

"Well, let's see…. " Stella replied.

"You come in late and leave early"

"You spend half your day around the coffee pot"

"You take three hour lunches"

"You're lazy"

"You're incompetent"

"You lie and cheat your fellow employees on the football pool"

"You've sexually harassed almost every female here, along with a couple of the men."

"Oh, and by the way, Frank" Stella continued

"Starting on Monday, you're hired back as a mid-level manager"

ANIMA

Management has always made an effort in improving workforce motivation.

The last Friday of the month, we gather in the board room for supermarket cake and a corporate cheer…

Recently, We've been playing " Musical Chairs".

The boss plays music, and we circle like a pony ride at a county fair. When it stops, we scramble for a seat. The job on the nameplate before you is your new post, until the next time we need "better morale".

Each month, there are more jobs and fewer chairs.

Their plan is working! With the mortgage due, I find myself very motivated…

ALMO

As he stood at the kitchen counter and slathered extra mayo on the bread, John heard the television announcement rather than saw it. The name was familiar -- a young, fit athlete. He had died of a heart attack while running. John took his plate into the living room and sat heavily in his La-Z-Boy. He leaned back, picked up the remote and changed to the football game. "You never hear on the news of anyone having a heart attack while sitting in his recliner, eating a sandwich and watching the game," he thought. John smiled, relaxed and ate.

CRAIG

“It’s something and yet nothing” Angie said, “what do you mean something yet nothing” I asked? She smiled saying” the peace you’re feeling right now.”

A terror overcame me, she knew what I was feeling.

I started jogging in place trying to slow my mind as my thoughts assaulted me from every direction.?

A hard stick struck my head with a loud whack. Angie grabbed my arm yelling “ open your eyes, you’re indulging your own fears, open your eyes.”

My eyes opened to see Angie completely alone in a field of opposites, offering me a chair in which to sit.

CALEB

He had a plan… a Brilliant Plan! But if only he could be heard over the screaming horde and the stupid band that would not stop playing! He could save them all… or at least most of those who couldn’t fit in the lifeboats. He knew about buoyancy. He knew a thing or two about structural architecture and if the remaining passengers could get all the furniture fastened to the outside, he could keep this thing afloat. But no matter how he screamed and tried to explain, he couldn’t convince anyone that rearranging deck chairs would help on the Titanic.

SOUGENT

The Chair. It sits there, in the center. Sometimes, it's the focus of a great deal of attention. Some call it the hot seat. To look at it one might consider it unremarkable. But it's not what it looks like that makes it special. Some see it as a symbol of power, others a curse. Many desire it, but few have what it takes to sit there. For him, it's where he belongs. If there is such a thing as destiny, then his is to sit right there. For Captain James Kirk, The Chair is the center of the universe.

LAIEANNA

Thesus walked up fifteen marble steps, bowed, and placed his offerings before the ornate chair of the goddess Nahmudida. It represented her place of power. Thesus opened the blue silk pouch to present, for his deity, two apples, rosemary sprigs, a lock of his daughter's hair, and five gold coins. The priest standing at his side held, in eyesight, a ceremonial knife. Slowly, Thesus took the weapon, but was quick to slice it against his skin. The blood poured down as he prayed. "Please welcome my dying daughter into your house. I shall take her place wandering in the wasteland."

The 100 word stories weekly challenge is where I post a topic and then you write and record a story based on that topic.

Sounds, simple, doesn't it?

Topics are selected by the winner of the previous weekly challenge. This week reveals the triumphant Planet Z bringing the topic of.... Gold.
Gold... Robot Cat Lobsters... um... wow... Sand Castles...

Gold Robot Cat Lobster Sand Castles?

How about just Gold? Unless... you really...

You have until midnight on Friday May 9th to get the following in my hot little hands:

• The text of your story so I can post it on the site. Just post the text of the story in the body of your email message. Do not put it in Word, Word Perfect, Sun Office, or any other document format. Just copy-paste the text into the body of the message. This will save me the hassle of firing off another program to read it and it will reduce the chances that gmail will flag your message as Spam.

• If you have a blog, podcast, or other site that people can go to so they can learn more about your handiwork, the URL would be appreciated.

• What you would like the topic of Weekly Challenge #109 to be. Failure to send in a topic with your selection will mean that if you win, whoever is in second place will be considered for the topic, and so on.

• A recording of your story in .mp3 format. Please use your name as the filename if you can, okay? Makes it easier to produce the show quickly.

If you do not feel like recording a story for the podcast, well, go ahead and send the story in anyway. I'll include it in the show notes, but it won't be eligible for choosing the topic or winning the magnets.

Send the stories to isfullofcrap (at) gmail.com and then add a comment here saying you've sent it in.

Once all the stories are in, I'll assemble them into a single podcast collection for your enjoyment.

Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.

Hear y'all in a week, and as always, keep it brief.

There's some kinds of hate that wash off like dirt in the shower, and there's others that go deep that you can't dig it out without killing the wounded heart it's wrapped around.

She wore Angry like a mask and Vengeance as a necklace, barbed wire around her ankle while she hunted us down one by one.

We knew she was coming for us. Like a force of nature, there wasn't a damn thing we could do but dig deeper and pray she passed overhead.

Someone calls you. Your phone's set to vibrate, but it rattles loud.

Did she hear?

Mark Brown. Spoiled rotten rich kid.

The worst bully in the entire school.

He pushed kids down the stairs.

Nobody ever stopped him.

One day, he tried to push me down the stairs.

But I saw him coming and ducked to the side.

Mark lost his balance and fell, tumbling down.

Crack... he broke his neck.

Laying there in the hospital bed, he tries to apologize to me.

“Say it like you mean it, Mark,” I say.

He's crying, looking at the ventilator hose.

My hand, crimping it shut.

“Cry for me,” I say.

There's a new bully in town.

All the ATMs are gone.

These days, whenever you need money, just ask a Grampa for it.

He’ll pull out his roll of bills, licks his thumb, and gives you one last look before he peels off what you need.

Need to deposit your cash? Just give it to a Grampa, and it goes right in his pocket.

There’s always a Grampa around when you need one.

Little, fuzzy-eared wrinkled old men, puttering around, smiling wide, enjoying the beautiful weather.

Nobody would ever think to rob a Grampa. After all, he’s our Grampa!

We love Grampa, and he loves us.

When you can't be there for someone, sometimes you do the best you can with what you have.

This wasn't much comfort to Sarah, but she didn't feel like wasting time complaining or getting angry over something she couldn't change.

She kissed the slip of paper, put it in an envelope, and mailed it to her one true love.

The mailman took it for himself and hid it away in a desk, bringing it out every so often when he felt sad and lonely.

A coworker discovered the letter and showed it to their boss.

He growled and mailed it.

Black Tie Martini Club is working on a landmark production that in a less-fucked-up-universe should cause tsunami-level waves across the podosphere.

Fuck Dawn and Drew.
Fuck Adam Curry.
Fuck Leo Laporte.

This is the shit podcasting was made for: crazy-assed insane "I've got a digital barn, let's put on a show" collaboration.

Yeah, this one's gonna get me lynched.

Fuck it. No matter how hard you tie the rope, you can't choke off my laughter.

Now I want to dig up some other old scripts and get them polished.

And, yes, I'll make sure there's more than two parts in them. Otherwise Daphne's gonna whiiiiiiiiiine.

Sheesh.

Confession is good for the soul.

And for the community, too.

Every few nights, Max shows up with a bag of cash.

It scares me to think what he's done to his wife and daughters this time.

Over the years, we've renovated the church with that money. Put in a community center. Added computers, tutors for homework.

Last night, soaked with blood, all torn up. Hands me a briefcase.

“Make it last,” he says. “You'll never see me again.”

I don't even listen. I just put it in the bank, and watch the news as they bring the bodies out.

Willy said that they'd come away unchanged and unharmed, but just a little wiser.

Willy lied.

The fat kid drowned in the fudge vats. They didn't bother scooping him out. Choppy-chop!

The gum-chewer exploded into blueberry goo in the hallway. Gross!

The greedy bitch was crisped in a furnace, followed by her father. Good riddance to them both,

The TV kid survived. But he was only four inches tall. That makes it hard to treat for radiation sickness.

By the time they buried little Mike Teevee in a shoebox, Charlie and his family were moving into the factory.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Eight, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

The topic this week was selected by Planet Z, who is going for broke with...

It's Gold.

The excellent theme music is by Guy David

VOTING

Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

THOMAS

Melvin Goldberg was his name, but his fellow demons called him “Gold”. He was impatient. Plenty of work still laid ahead of him, but Gold loved his job. The campaigns were in full swing with everybody eager to sell their soul.

Just a flash of his smarmy smile and they were Gold's. Whatever promises he had to make he would. Democrat; Republican; hell, even Jedi! They would cast principles aside and sign on the dotted line. Winners and losers didn't matter. He was, after all, in sales, not fulfillment. That was somebody else's department.

So many politicians, so little time.

MCJC

Hip wears silver, family wears gold. She chose copper bangles, colored glass beads. On holidays she would receive gold hoops or rings, tennis bracelets, charms. She dreamt of melting them down into a bar as a door stop. Meaningless. Save, Lame' tops, frosted hair, big broaches at JC Penney. Save, time spent before growing apart. Each unworn piece, treasure of mall trips, and distant sisterhood. Friends, adorned in silver and hemp shirts, said titanium lasts forever. Yet gold survives, fluid like memory and love, familiar in the glow, the ancient desire to capture the sun, the warm, and the good.

JUSTIN

Ehh you, Golden Boy, dat's right, you. I've had enough of your shenanigans... makin' my boys disappear... I don't know where they go, but I don't believe you turn criminals into people that help the poor, and me and my bat here are going to settle this disagreement.

The thug swung the bat. The man with a yellow ingot symbol on his chest grabbed it. The bat turned gold, as did the man that held it. The Golden Boy then melted the body down, forming it into golden bricks, which he then sold, donating the money to the poor.

TOM

Bill Ray slid across the vinyl in the booth. Alma Sue fingered the crystal salt shaker. The smell of coffee embraced the acrid tinge of sweet crude. Billy flipped the edge of the tiny black velvet box. The glow in Alma’s eyes reflected the gold and diamonds his token of love. Irene glided between the couple and deposed a piece of absinthe pie. "Oh Billy such opulence," purred Alma sliding the golden ring onto her finger. The last rays of a golden sun was setting on loves labor lost. The tiny gold cross upon her neck glowed. "Oh Fuck ……………..Zombies"

STEPHEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

The machine goes ping and she stifles a laugh. They loved that movie.

His hands are cold in hers, so she is not surprised when the rhythmic
ping changes to a whine, then to the chaos of nurses and doctors
performing a full code. She allows herself to be ushered out to the
sterile comfort of the waiting room.

Couples fight silently overhead, the trash tv thankfully muted. Her
fingers caress the worn gold of her ring. She wonders if she will
wear it once he has gone.

She sees the doctor in the doorway, and stands to meet him.

HOTSPUR

How do I explain? I had no clues to his identity. To me, he was a wandering drunk that passed out in my rose garden in his own vomit. A man in my position has to show munificence. It’s expected.

So the servants made inquiries and sent him back where he came from.

The magnificent gift I received in return.. well.. I’m set for life, I thought. It was delightful transforming mundane into fabulous. Then I got hungry. And, well, you know the rest.

What will I tell her mother? And yet, she makes a lovely statue, does she not?

EVA

At last a small cove yielded up a crescent moon of smooth sand.

The crossing had been harrowing and the coast, after months at sea, taunted
them for days with impenetrable cliff walls. But the promise of a new land
of gold and riches kept them at the ship¹s rail.

Ernesto leapt from the boat into the foaming surf, ignoring the water
streaming into his leather boots. He scrambled up the rocks and gazed at the
expanse of small yellow flowers that carpeted the land to the line of
distant trees.

"Capitan!" he shouted, grinning, "We have found the gold!"

ALMO

The robber stood in darkness, flashlight in his teeth, and admired the exquisite inlay on the lid of the box. He ran his hand over the gleaming wood. He didn't know wood, but it felt expensive, smooth and warm to the touch.

What jewelry would the rich have?

He opened the box and was awed by the way the contents sparkled under his light. The diamond earrings were first to be plucked. Then the necklace. Antique. Valuable.

Finally, he took the gold wedding band and let the lid of the casket drop as he slipped away into the night.

MIKE

Thousands have killed for it; millions, possibly, have died for it. In leaf form, it graces countless domes at all levels of government, as well as untold numbers of universities and church buildings. Few things are as beautiful as the gilt accents seen in pottery, porcelain, and glass, as well as on the edges of the pages of a fine book. I speak of the most desired of metals - gold.

But the gold that stirs my heart and fires my blood are the flecks that dance in the eyes of my one true love, every time she smiles at me.

JD

Johnathan stands next to the creek and watches the water wash through his homemade sluice.

His left hand, holding the long wooden handle, pushes and pulls causing the wooden box to rock gently left and right.

Johnathan's eyes, ever watchful of the gravel in the bottom of the box, glints at his first sign of color.

His right hand, quickly diving into the water, grasp the nugget and lifts it to the sky.

The nugget sparkles in the sun.

Behind Johnathan's back Ellen climbs onto the big stallion with the dark stranger and rides away.

Truly, this is fool's Gold.

ANIMA

"Here you go," says Jason, holding out the glass amphora to his cousin, King AEetes. A metallic pinging emanates from the jar.

The arrogant youth prates on, "I'm ready to take over the throne, like you agreed to…"

"What are you babbling on about?" Asks the king.

"You said, if I brought back the golden fleas, I'd get my throne back. You never thought I would go all the way to the gates of Hades and pluck them from Cerberus. Man, does he have stinky dog breath…."

"You Greek goof, clean your ears. You're to bring me the GOLDEN FLEECE!"

GUY DAVID

Chaketo have really grown. Mama Chirapa always worried about him, so thin and pale. “Why can't I go and play on the surface?” he would always ask. “The humans are suspicious of strangers” Mama Chirapa would say, “we can't risk them knowing about us.” Chaketo could never understand this, why would anyone be suspicious of anyone else? “When I grow up, I would find a way to earn their trust” he thought. Meanwhile, The Chirapa mind the gold from the dipper underground tunnels in order to keep their cloaking devices operational. They really didn't want those Humans to discover them.

CRAIG

Walking into the local vegetarian restaurant I felt tension, was my leather jacket setting them on edge.

Placing my order I smiled, looking deeply into eyes that didn’t look back.

My order of a simple brown rice bowl came with a bonus, a side of silence, no charge.

In the restroom HOWL played in endless loop. I washed my hands mouthing

“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,”

“who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars”

“who cut their wrists three times”

I stood looking at my gold watch wondering about different roles, then left.

ELISSON

Theodoric was in trouble. Deep trouble.

As an up-and-coming young alchemist at the Magisterium, he had boasted openly of his ability to turn base metal into gold. Too openly...

...for when the Regent’s men overheard him, they were swift to pass word to their master.

Now he shared a fetid cell with a heap of leaden ingots. Transmute or die, they had told him.

Sweating, trembling, he closed his eyes, tonelessly reciting the incantation.

An ill-timed stutter on the last word added fifteen protons and twenty-seven neutrons too many, whereupon the Magisterium, along with the surrounding countryside, ceased to exist.

TERRENCE

Over the years many had feared Raoul. Many trembled at his mere presence. People fled from him. He was after all the most feared of all his brothers, even if he had been written out of the 'Good' book.

There was, however, the one time all that changed. People were not running or quivering at his presence. They were cheering him. This had not been his intent. He had hoped that his actions would lead to the damnation of millions. He would have never guessed people would be happy that he turned all those hopeful singers in to Golden Idols.

PLANET Z

For months, we sack and pillaged the New World, plundering the riches of Empire and carting away tons of finest Gold.

Cortez check his math.

“Did we plunder six or seven cities of gold?” he ask.

Some of the men say six.

Some say seven.

One say eight, but Pedro, one who say eight, he not so good at math.

“Do we go back?” I ask.

“No,” say Cortez. “We have enough. It give something to go back to, no?”

We load the ships, raise the sails, and head back to Cleveland.

So simple to rob Canada these days, yes?

The 100 word stories weekly challenge is where I post a topic and then you write and record a story based on that topic.

Sounds, simple, doesn't it?

Topics are selected by the winner of the previous weekly challenge. This week reveals the triumphant Thomas bringing the topic of.... Jimmy Buffet?

You have until midnight on Friday May 16th to get the following in my hot little hands:

• The text of your story so I can post it on the site. Just post the text of the story in the body of your email message. Do not put it in Word, Word Perfect, Sun Office, or any other document format. Just copy-paste the text into the body of the message. This will save me the hassle of firing off another program to read it and it will reduce the chances that gmail will flag your message as Spam.

• If you have a blog, podcast, or other site that people can go to so they can learn more about your handiwork, the URL would be appreciated.

• What you would like the topic of Weekly Challenge #110 to be. Failure to send in a topic with your selection will mean that if you win, whoever is in second place will be considered for the topic, and so on.

• A recording of your story in .mp3 format. Please use your name as the filename if you can, okay? Makes it easier to produce the show quickly.

If you do not feel like recording a story for the podcast, well, go ahead and send the story in anyway. I'll include it in the show notes, but it won't be eligible for choosing the topic or winning the magnets.

Send the stories to isfullofcrap (at) gmail.com and then add a comment here saying you've sent it in.

Once all the stories are in, I'll assemble them into a single podcast collection for your enjoyment.

Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.

Hear y'all in a week, and as always, keep it brief.

Right after breakfast, when it's time to go to school, Danny does this trick - he hits the garage door button and then watches the garage door go down and down and down...

When the time is just right, he runs for the garage door and rolls under it.

“Garage Door Limbo” he calls it.

One day, Danny's principal calls his mom at work.

“Is Danny sick?” he asks.

His mom races back home, sees Danny trapped under the garage door.

Stone cold dead.

She weeps. If the garage door didn't kill him, well, running him over sure finished him off.

Don't forget to check out The Diary of Anne Frankenstein, a demented screenplay made even more demented by Caleb and Will.

Hubert was bored, so he picked up a camera and hucked a pie tin through the air to make a UFO photograph.

After sixteen reports to the FBI, they stopped taking his calls.

Later that month, gigantic pie tins floated down from the sky and landed in Hubert’s cornfield.

Hubert remembered The Boy Who Cried Wolf and realized he was completely and totally fucked.

Then, he remembered… he was the pie-eating champion of Bucktooth County ten years running.

Hubert ran towards the pie tins and… was blasted into smithereens by alien robots.

Come Fall, someone else will be pie-eating champion.

I have a small favor to ask.

You may notice there's no ads on this site. And I don't rattle a tipjar, either.

No, I'm not changing that,

But what I am asking is that you take a moment and think of what you'd have sent in for a blogging tipjar to this site and instead put that towards buying Grace Buford's music.

She's playing a gig in my Second Life venue tonight, and what she raises in tips and the appearance fee is going to help towards filling out her new home. (She's been living the Gypsy lifestyle and hasn't carried much furniture around with her, so she and the kids could use a few shelves and other things... yeah, I've been there before.)

Okay, so some of you won't take my word for it that she's absolutely wonderful. Fine. Be that way. To hear some of the tracks before buying, you can listen using The SixtyOne. It's a rather weird Web 2.0 kinda music site with bumps and other stuff, but it's pretty straightforward on how to play tracks from performers and whatnot.

(Then, you can admit that you were wrong about not taking my word for it, eh.)

If you're interested in contributing more than just an album sale to her furniture fun, let me know in the comments or via email, and I'll send you a PayPal address where you can contribute directly.

Thanks, and.... um... METRO SUCKS!

Somewhere in the basement of the records office, I swear, you could hear clicking.

I dug around, opened up an old wooden crate, and found a telegraph key.

As I held it up to the light, looking for some kind or label, the switch clacked.

I nearly dropped it.

Maybe it just... you know...

It clacked again. And again.

Pretty soon, it was tapping a sequence. I put it on the crate's lid, pulled out a notebook, and wrote it down.

I'm not good with Morse Code, but I swear it said: “Get me out of here.”

Where?

And who?

Daily Splice interviewed some jerk who still thinks Adam Curry is an idiot and couldn't help but mention that Ed Roberts has 1,000 episodes, man!

It's all about the weird kinda community wandering around folks doing stuff connecting disconnecting playing over here hopping around yeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhh!

105%? Shit, what drugs was I on, man?

There's a chemical factory somewhere in New Jersey that can make any smell or taste you need.

Miles and miles of test tubes with lemon furniture polish, baked potato bubble gum, burning tire lip gloss.

Everything can smell or taste like anything else now.

In the labs below the basement, they mix the chemicals that can make any feeling that you need.

Here's a test tube with Sadness.
Here's another test tube with Joy.
Here's yet another test tube with Fear.

Mix them up in the right combinations, and you can live out your greatest dreams.

Or your worst nightmares.

We drag the madman out of the basement and let him loose in the back yard.

The neighborhood kids squeal with joy and wave their butterfly nets.

“ONE! TWO! THREE!”

The madman hears the counting and remembers…

He needs to flee!

“NINE! TEN! ELEVEN!”

Over the fence he goes, and he’s loose in the streets. He jumps over hedges, paws at a car door, kicks over lawn ornaments…

EIGHTEEN! NINETEEN! TWENTY!

The kids swarm through the gate, laughing and cheering.

They catch the madman at a phone booth, trying to call Saturn.

Perhaps, next time, we’ll release two of them.

Abe finished the straw dummy, stripped off all his clothes, and started to dress the crudely-fashioned mannequin.

General Grant, laying with his back to a tree stump, took a pull from his flask. "What are you doing, Abe?"

"My mind is like a piece of steel," Abe mumbled.

For the next hour, he poked and prodded at the stovepipe hat, never satisfied with the angle it rested on his simulacrum’s head.

“You can’t make him your Vice President, you know,” said General Grant.

Abe pouted and tore the dummy apart.

But he never did bother to get dressed again.

Yeah, I've been reading too much garfield minus garfield.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Nine, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

The topic this week was selected by Thomas, who is going for broke with Jimmy Buffet.

The excellent theme music is by Guy David

VOTING

Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

The rain patters cold on my shoulders, the post hole digger, the body of the bird wrapped gently in a Sponge Bob pillowcase. Sarah's soft sobs are muffled by Martha's torso, my daughter's arms tightly wrapped around her mother.

I am finishing when Sarah touches me, the last clod softly packed down
with my booted foot.

"Daddy, is Heaven something like Margaritaville?"

I look at Martha; her look away and the mention of Bob's favorite song
says more than a strange man's jeans in the wash.

"No," I say, crying with her as Martha goes inside, "It's nothing like that."

TOM

The skin burned like hell. It filled the arm from the elbow to the shoulder. The salt shaker, the blender, the parrot, the stupid grinning face of Jimmy Buffet. Of course it was a beauty, a Caribbean Cute, how it got there he hadn’t a clue. He had been upending 151s with a guy name Raoul in a drive by the docks in Trinidad. The last thing he remembered was the tail end of a Bembe this girl name horse with those vacant eyes. Some say that woman’s to blame, but he knew its his own dam fault. Fuckn …. Zombies.

SPACE TURTLE

The sun shone from the sky onto the hardened face of a pirate. The pirate stared across the horizon as he reminisced the pirates life that had been for him as he stood on the bow of his ship, The Jimmy. The ship was buffeted by the crashing of his ship's wake into the wake of his sister ship, The Jolly Mon, who sailed along beside, sea spray sparkling into the air. Their goal was a salty piece of land they would call home. The pirate captain was looking to make this his last voyage, for he was fifty.

THOMAS

Leaving the banana republics, A son of a sailor, needed a drink. The Tiki Bar was open, so he ordered a volcano. At the bar was a smart woman, in a real short skirt.

He asked the barman, “Who's the blond?”

“I don't know and I don't care.” he said.

“Fine.”

Smoothing his pencil thin mustache, he sidled over, boat drink in hand and said, “My lovely lady, why don't we get drunk and screw?”

In a baritone voice she said, “Honey, I'll take you on a trip around the sun.”

The barman snickered.

Breathe in, breathe out: move on.

CALEB

Hello?

Mr. James Buffet?

Yeah that’s me man come on in, want a beer?

Its time

Aw c’mon!

Its time!

I got all the money in the world, can’t we make another deal?

No! Even in hell we aren’t that cruel. Come with me.

Okay

Step into the limo sir.

Aw hey! It’s Michael Jackson! How you doin, boy?

Hello James, about as well as you I suppose, when Britney wakes up, say hello to her too.

Hey driver? Is this the reason musicians always seem to die in threes?

Kind of but it applies to you three as well.

MIKE

The cutter Jimmy Buffet cruised the warm Caribbean waters, her radar turning ceaselessly. Until a few years ago, the area had been filled with wealthy tourists lazily cruising among the small islands that dotted the area. Rumors of raiders, though, launching deadly attacks under the cover of island music - broadcast from the ship's speakers, of all things - had caused that major revenue stream to all but dry up.

"Skipper!" came the cry from the bridge. "Radar return two miles to the northwest. Looks like a 35 footer."

"Come about - close from astern," the captain called, reaching for a calypso CD.

ANIMA

Imagine 4 college girls in a Ford Fiesta, escaping a midwestern March. Destination: Key West. A Jimmy Buffet cassette loops over and over.

Packing list: flip flops, bathing suit, dress. Check. Battery operated blender and tequila. Check and double check.

No one has money. Meals are bar snacks and the charity of frat boys. Everything that can be charged to Daddy's gas card, is. We sleep on the beach while we tan.

Tami goes missing She reappears at dawn, with a new tattoo, a boys address crumpled in her hand.

Parrots cackle as we head north, nursing well earned hangovers.

MISFITINA

Thin eggshell stripes framed the cool hell. Dry blonde hair was caught in the hinge of a bright blue beach chair, and the glaze of mid-day reassured him of absence, detachment. His phantom hands were sticky from sugar, Cuervo, and blood. It didn't breathe, and the silence compounded into a chorus, damning, damning... yet *Margaritaville* was thunderous above them, on the boardwalk. And fuck if he wouldn't love a cheeseburger, grazing in the sand with the Master of Parrots. As the body and the tide rudely obscured the circus scents, this anthem of regret, apathy, oblivion, served as *Amazing Grace*..

CRAIG

Come Monday I’ll be heading to paradise for a cheese burger.

You may think me crazy for traveling for a hunk of cow but I’m here to
tell you it’s all about location.

Now I wouldn’t ever go to North Dakota for a Margaretta even if Jimmy
Buffet stirred and shook it just for me.

I would on the other hand travel to Cuba to find the trail of the pencil
thin mustache.

So if this story has got you feeling blue then jump right up on the
coconut telegraph and send me a dot and a couple of dashes

ELISSON

Seven-year-old Evan’s face glowed with happiness. This was the best birthday party ever!

All his friends were there, having the time of their lives. Mom and Dad
were enjoying the party as well, pounding down Margaritas with the other
grownups while the kids played party games and wolfed custom-made ice
cream sundaes.

Yes, ice cream sundaes. This place not only provided the ice cream, hot
fudge, caramel and butterscotch sauces, maraschino cherries, whipped
cream, and chopped nuts; there was row after row of multicolored
sprinkles to choose from.

Screw Chucky Cheese, thought Evan. Jimmy Buffett’s Jimmy Buffet was
waaaay better.

ALMO

The woman at the end of the bar had too much makeup and too little idea how to use it. Her smile was lopsided, as if she couldn't make the full effort. Her top had been tight once. It was too tight now. A lesser known Jimmy Buffett ballad floated through the tired little bar. The stool beside her was open and I sat there. I bought two drinks. When she started to talk I handed her one. When she tried to speak again, I lifted my glass in silent toast and she drank. We both looked down. Mom smiled.

TERRY TEE

It's been two weeks since I retired from my job of thirty-five years and in thirty-five years some things change, but then again, some things don't.

As an example, I've been going to Jimmy's barber shop for the last twenty-five years and no other barber has touched my hair in all that time. One thing Jimmy does is ask me each time how I want it cut. Oh sure, each year there's a little less to cut on top, but he still asks, "How do you want the top Terry?"

Now I say, "Well, Jimmy, buff-it to a high sheen."

DAPHNE

He took me to Paris, not in France but One Particular Harbor this 40 year old pirate knew. When we docked, the Last Mango Bar was selling Boat Drinks but we wanted Cheeseburgers and headed to the Paradise Grill that our friend with the Pencil Thin Mustache owned. We ate, drank and joked about Growing Older but Not Up and laughed at how We Are the People Our Parents Warned Us About. When we left for the night I look down and picked up a salt shaker turn to the bar and yelled "Hey Jimmy, were you looking for this?"

LAIEANNA

For years, Jimmy Peterson spent every day eating at his favorite Chinese buffet. A conveyor belt of wait staff brought plate after plate to his table which was not typical service at a serve yourself restaurant, except 862 pounds Jimmy hadn't left his bench in two years. Still, he served a purpose, greeting other customers with praise and jokes, using his size, about the great food. Nights he slept stationary like his days. Before closing, the owner would throw a hat on Jimmy's head and a blanket over his massive body with the words "Security Guard" stitched across the fabric.

GUY DAVID

It was a buffet. Zelda neatly put the cutlery on the table, her finest china. Jimmy, her husband, watched in horror, mixed with strange fascination. He knew they would have to leave soon, but Zelda was treating her guests to the best of standards. She always liked things perfect that way.

The guests started trickling in. They sat at the table and gobbled all the food greedily. What started out as order ended up as chaos. Zelda didn't mind though. As Jimmy reluctantly went to pack the suitcases, the guests dropped one by one as the poison gobbled their system.

PLANET Z

If there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that people take things too far.

I know these Jimmy Buffet fans who run this bar. Nothing but Margaritas and the noisiest blenders in the world.

Which, is a good thing. You see, these folks go overboard with the term “parrothead” by putting an actual parrot head in each pitcher of margaritas.

Rows and rows of cages filled with the damn birds are stacked in the basement of the bar.

They could use parakeets. They're cheaper, tastes just like parrot.

Nope.

I stick to bottled beer. And fried parrot fingers.

Delicious!

The 100 word stories weekly challenge is where I post a topic and then you write and record a story based on that topic.

Sounds, simple, doesn't it?

Topics are selected by the winner of the previous weekly challenge. This week reveals the triumphant Steven bringing the topic of.... Jobs?

You have until midnight on Friday May 23th to get the following in my hot little hands:

• The text of your story so I can post it on the site. Just post the text of the story in the body of your email message. Do not put it in Word, Word Perfect, Sun Office, or any other document format. Just copy-paste the text into the body of the message. This will save me the hassle of firing off another program to read it and it will reduce the chances that gmail will flag your message as Spam.

• If you have a blog, podcast, or other site that people can go to so they can learn more about your handiwork, the URL would be appreciated.

• What you would like the topic of Weekly Challenge #111 to be. Failure to send in a topic with your selection will mean that if you win, whoever is in second place will be considered for the topic, and so on.

• A recording of your story in .mp3 format. Please use your name as the filename if you can, okay? Makes it easier to produce the show quickly.

If you do not feel like recording a story for the podcast, well, go ahead and send the story in anyway. I'll include it in the show notes, but it won't be eligible for choosing the topic or winning the magnets.

Send the stories to isfullofcrap (at) gmail.com and then add a comment here saying you've sent it in.

Once all the stories are in, I'll assemble them into a single podcast collection for your enjoyment.

Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.

Hear y'all in a week, and as always, keep it brief.

It's been a long day.

I've got my beer and my hat, sitting out in the back yard, listening to a whole lot of nothing, and waiting for the sun to set.

Waiting. And waiting.

Lemme check my watch,

It's way past time for sunset.

And my beer is empty.

Time's passed.

If the sun's gonna take its time setting, well, I'm gonna enjoy it.

But just to check, I put my empty at the end of my lawn chair's shadow.

If it hasn't moved by the time I finish my other beer, well, I'll call...

Who do I call?

My bathrobe looks like it's breathing.

Maybe it's a trick of the light.

I woke up in the middle of the night, put on my bathrobe, puttered around a bit, pet the cat, and drank some milk.

Might as well go the the bathroom while I'm up, right?

I put my robe on the floor, take a seat, and after a few minutes, I'm looking at the robe... and... it's breathing.

It even sounds like it's breathing.

Or maybe I'm hearing myself breathe. It's late, and the mind plays tricks on itself.

Maybe it's the fan blowing.

The cat, perhaps?

Corn Goddess and the Sky God make war by the ocean.

Wind blows over crops, the people suffer and starve.

Thunder God makes rain, lightning.

Our homes burn.

Coyote the Trickster gives us salt painted like seed.

Fields are ruined, Earth Goddess boils with rage.

We survivors surround the chief.

“Why do we worship these assholes?” asks Runs With Wolves.

The Chief slaps away a bottlefly, courtesy of Insect God.

“Dunno,” says the Chief, handing out brochures. “Let’s pick new religion.”

As we discuss and reason with each other, the chaos subsides.

Their power came from faith. Withheld, it wanes.

Wanna hear something spooky?

I have an oversized novelty Coke bottle in my den. It's been there for years, up on the shelf, gathering dust.

Last year, when I picked it up to dust it, it rattled.

There were a bunch of pennies in the bottle.

The thing is, it's still had the bottlecap on it.

Sealed tight.

When I got it, it didn't have any pennies in it.

Okay, last week, I dusted it again, and I swear, it had more pennies in there.

How are the pennies getting in there?

Who's putting the pennies in there?

And why?

Sometimes, grocery shopping with Zelda the Enchantress can be scary.

“What kind of peanut butter would you like?” she asks.

Here's where it gets confusing.

I like creamy peanut butter.

But I also like crunchy.

Creamy! Crunchy! I can't decide!

“Spiders!” I shout.

“Spiders?” she asks. “Spider peanut butter?”

“I dunno!” I say. “I panicked.”

She shrugs. “Spider peanut butter,” she says. “And what kind of jelly? Spider jelly?”

“No,” I say. “Um... forget the spider peanut butter. And the jelly.”

“What about the bread?” she asks.

“Forget about the bread,” I say.

Oh great. Now I'm hungry for spiders.

Ladies and gentlemen, please turn your hymnals to Roger Chapter 5 Verse 3.

What? You nay heard about Roger?

Well, I photocopied it up and stuck it in your books, so shut yer traps and read along or yer all going to Hell!

“Two monkeys were fucking on a unicycle the other day, arguing over an ice cream cone.”

What are ye daft? Why are you lot looking at me like that?

Got a problem with the Gospels or something?

This is The Book of Roger. And Roger didn't mince words like all the other pansies who wrote The Bible.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Ten, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

The topic this week was selected by Steven the Nuclear Man, who is going for broke with Jobs.

The excellent theme music is by Guy David

VOTING

Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

CYBSTER DJ

One of my first DJ jobs was in a skating rink back in 1986. My standard look was a red shirt with the sleeves rolled up one turn, a narrow black leather tie, black stretch jeans and nike hi-tops. My hair was dark brown, long enough to reach the middle of my back and blow-dried in such a way that it boofed out like Gene Simmons from Kizz. Well it goes without saying that I was a hit with the ladies and I would often come down out of the booth during songs to fraternise. Yeees, those were the days.

TOM

The monkey avatar had had many jobs. Christ, he was 3000 thousand years old. He liked to think his best work was Deuteronomy, but some argue the Patriot Act was a work of pure genius. Sadly time was running out for the 100th monkey carpal tunnel syndrome and prespeopia were limited his job opportunities. He took another draw of single malt, the midgets quarters were cramped under the staircase in the Houston home. He was ghost hacking a 100 words a day. "A Jobs is a Job," his mum would say between writing breaks of the Ramayana. Zombies Oh fuck

STEVEN

Now.

PFC Fenti flinches, but there is no explosion. The driver glances at
him, then watches the road again.

Now.

Nothing. Bullets fail to come streaking from the windows. Simmons
lights a Camel - irony is cheap here - and blows smoke in Fenti's
face.

Spielberg would consider that a cue; the insurgents do not. Tense,
boring minutes pass. A drip of sweat falls from Fenti's head onto his
weapon.

Now.

No bullets. No IED. Nothing.

He says it: "Remember, it's not just a job..."

When the left side of the hummer goes in flame and shrapnel, it's
almost a relief.

Now.

GUY DAVID All In One RSS FEED!

The Chirapa needed to study the humans. They worked on improving their personal cloaking devices and used them to make themselves appear human. They walked amongst the humans and discovered they used currencies called “money”. Some of them argued that they could get jobs as humans for some of that currencies, which would enable them to purchase human computers and study them through the internet, which was just starting out back then. The elder Chirapa thought it too risky and decided they should build their own computers. Chaketo Chirapa, all grown up now, was put in charge of the project.

JUSTIN

Everyone wants to sell things these days the easy way, without a permit. It is my job to make sure this does not happen. We really don't need unlicensed goods roaming the streets, ending up in who knows what hands for who knows what purpose. The tax consequences alone are a good enough reason, as well. No making money under the table when I am around. If you so much as write down an idea to sell something I'll be on you, watching. The time has come for righting these crimes, starting with that little girl at her lemonade stand.

ELISSON

Ron had trouble holding down a job.

He was fired from the zoo after they caught him spanking the monkey. Even worse, there was evidence that he had also been whipping the lizard.

He lasted less than a week at the Tyson processing plant. Someone discovered him in the process of choking the chicken, a job he was unauthorized to perform. The SPCA was outraged.

All of this changed when Ron interviewed with the Staunton Amalgamated Chess-Piece Manufactory. He was hired, quickly rising through the ranks, eventually becoming CEO.

For nobody could wax a bishop as well as Ron. /Nobody/.

ALMO

Roger grimaced as he dug his hands into the box and felt the slime of raw meat. He pulled out a fatty lump and tossed it over the chain-link fence. Feeding time.

Roger didn't look anymore. He hated the sight of the flesh being torn and devoured.

"What's with you?" his partner Leon asked, noticing Roger's expression. Leon pulled hunk from the box and heaved it over.

"At least you've got a job," Leon said, jerking his head toward the mass of starving people on the other side of the barrier waiting for the next piece.

HOTSPUR

Ten tough jobs.

Dat's wat de judge gib me. Fo de 'crime' of lookin' at de woman 'wrong'. Dat's justice in Yoknapatawpha County. Man need sumpin done, suddenly someone lookin' at his wife wrong. Still, it's no lynchin'.

"Hercules, my lad, you are to report to Mr. Ruffin, for duties"

Ruffin, he a hard man.

First, he say, 'go fetch the skin off'n dat mountain lion dat's killin' my cattle.'

Then, 'kill dat ol' snake gettin' in de henhouse.'

Dat's hard enuf, but dis job?

How's a body sposed to shovel all dis muck in a day, I asks you?

THOMAS

“Vegas, city of lights, buffets, and slots. Exciting yes , but being a good-luck troll has challenges. Getting dragged out of a purse smelling of Ben Gay and Musk. She then kisses me, sets me on her slot machine. Wanting a miracle, she tells me to work my magic.

“My brother lucked out, cruising and getting tan on a 76' Gremlin's dash, while I'm inches from a cigarette, covered in gin scented phlegm. She must have coughed up a lung.

“What? A jackpot! Oh no! Here come more toxic kisses.

“Why do I have to be so good at my job?”

CRAIG

Nice To See You Again

Shakti always woke early, then sat on the the bed doing Zazen.

My eyes would open to Shakti’s smile, she’d say, “nice to see you again.”

My hand would rise to meet hers, I’d pull her back to lay with me, are noses touching, giggling a little as we snuggled closer.

One morning she asked “ how do we take a journey?”

“There is no journey, no beginning, no end, remember it’s arising only” I answered.

Momentarily perplexed she started to ask then let go and kissed me.

Kiya Kiya she whispered through her wet lips, we fell back asleep.

ANIMA

Steven Paul?

Yes Lord?

You have done well for such a minor investment. I apologize for taking away the first company, all on account of a bad wager… Eminence gets so boring, we were just having a bit of fun. But you persisted, tormented a few employees, and look at you now! You're back at the helm, and you got to fire a dozen CEOs. Creating demand for gadgets people can't live without is such a nice touch. Indeed, a very lucrative return for the transaction of your soul. So... Jobs... how about a corporate discount on the new I-phone?

MIKE

She loved her job as 'point man'. Sure, the penalties were harsh: for repeated failure - starvation; for discovery - execution. The reward, though - first to eat - was priceless, and other mouths were depending on her.

Choosing her mark carefully - fat and likely desperate for companionship - she'd provided some, and promised more. Her tale of abuse and loneliness had gained a measure of trust; only the final act remained.

"C'mon, it's just us girls," she coaxed.

"Where are they?"

"The park." Wrong word.

"Too dangerous, girls or no," he said, and stepped into a crowd.

The young werewolf sighed. No supper - again.

PLANET Z

People say he's got the hardest job in the world.

I beg to differ.

Guarding him is the hardest job in the world.

I was the top of my class.
I broke cases people thought unsolvable.
That badge meant everything to me because it meant something.

Now, I'm just a babysitter for an old, crazy gimp who calls on his psychic when his mistress isn't there to get him off.

Have you looked at the First Lady? There's no veil thick enough for that one.

Once, he made me stand there and watch.

That shit-eating grin of his.

Roosevelt!

The 100 word stories weekly challenge is where I post a topic and then you write and record a story based on that topic.

Sounds, simple, doesn't it?

Topics are selected by the winner of the previous weekly challenge. This week reveals the triumphant Stainless Steel Matrushkya... not sending a story in?

I guess I'll need to put in a topic then. How about.... One?

You have until midnight on Friday May 30th to get the following in my hot little hands:

• The text of your story so I can post it on the site. Just post the text of the story in the body of your email message. Do not put it in Word, Word Perfect, Sun Office, or any other document format. Just copy-paste the text into the body of the message. This will save me the hassle of firing off another program to read it and it will reduce the chances that gmail will flag your message as Spam.

• If you have a blog, podcast, or other site that people can go to so they can learn more about your handiwork, the URL would be appreciated.

• What you would like the topic of Weekly Challenge #112 to be. Failure to send in a topic with your selection will mean that if you win, whoever is in second place will be considered for the topic, and so on.

• A recording of your story in .mp3 format. Please use your name as the filename if you can, okay? Makes it easier to produce the show quickly.

If you do not feel like recording a story for the podcast, well, go ahead and send the story in anyway. I'll include it in the show notes, but it won't be eligible for choosing the topic or winning the magnets.

Send the stories to isfullofcrap (at) gmail.com and then add a comment here saying you've sent it in.

Once all the stories are in, I'll assemble them into a single podcast collection for your enjoyment.

Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.

Hear y'all in a week, and as always, keep it brief.

He puts her in the ground, as he promised, and plants a tree on the spot.

Year later, he takes a branch and whittles a small boat from it.

Places a candle in the center.

Go to the water, light the candle, and let it flow downstream.

Every night, you can see dozens of candles floating by.

At sunset, it's so beautiful. And yet, every light is someone lost.

And someone who has lost.

When it is my time, promise me.

Plant the tree.

Carve a boat.

Light a candle in the center.

And remember.

As I have promised you.

When I'm having a bad day, I'll take off my belt and reverse it through the loops.

Instead of feeding it around to the right, I'll feed it to the left.

Does it change anything?

No. But it gives me a moment to breathe and think.

Now, if someone gets me so riled up that I take my belt off a second time, I take it off and beat them with it.

When I'm done, I thread it back the right way.

Get up. Go to the bathroom and clean yourself up.

And don't piss me off a third time.

Friday is the the third anniversary of this podcast.

I'm overdue for a haircut.

I've got every barber in town calling my cell phone.

They're bidding on the job.

Some of them are trying to sweeten the deal with things like limo rides, hookers, and a free shave.

This one stylist keeps sending me flowers. Huge flower arrangements.

In fact, when I open the door, the whole front hallway is just flowers.

How he got in here to fill the place with flowers, I'm not so sure.

Kinda scares me.

Maybe I'll just donate it to those cancer folks.

Or shampoo with Nair and let it all fall out.

Saturday May 31, 2008 - 8PM SLT

It's the third anniversary of the 100 Word Stories Podcast, which has the most episodes of any independently-produced podcast in the world. (Suck on THAT, Adam Curry!)

Idiot-In-Chief Crap Mariner will be sharing some of his favorite stories while leaving the microphone open to other contributors to share their own favorites if they so desire.

Head on over to The Lonely Yak on BlaksleeWorld for some good ol storytellin fun (we may head out to the beach if it's nice out)

This will be a Voice event. And if you're inclined to tip, contributions will go towards Relay For Life.

http://podcasting.isfullofcrap.com/
http://slurl.com/secondlife/BlaksleeWorld/228/220/25

Thanks,
-ls/cm