I'm proud to announce at Elisson has dug deep into his 100 Words Or les Nessman stories and decided to record a few for your listening enjoyment...

My buddy Dave struggled with his weight for years.

Name a diet; he'd tried it, with dismal results. Weight Watchers. Jenny Craig. Atkins. South Beach. Ultra Slim-Fast.

A few months ago, someone told Dave about Transcendental Meditation. Worked wonders, they said. Your guru would assign a mantra, a specific random word that you would repeat to yourself to focus your meditation. Having the right mantra was critical to help you concentrate, avoid distractions, achieve your goal.

Dave's goal was to lose 85 pounds.

His mantra was "Hersheybar."

Last time I saw him, he was at 325 and heading north fast.

Elisson serves up a tasty dish today...

The card showing today's special at the company cafeteria read "Geek Salad."

Fucking typos, I thought. Nobody takes pride in their work anymore.

I stepped up to the counter to place my order. A big bowl of salad would be good. Feta, anchovies, the whole works. Mop everything up with a hunk of pita bread.

That's when I noticed the whacked-out dude behind the counter, biting the heads off live, squawking chickens and spitting them into a big tub of lettuce and dressing.

Huh, I thought. No typo after all. But at least this guy takes pride in his work.

Elisson shares another 100 word tale from the ancient archives...

Father Dominic was beginning to come unglued.

The Offertory had gone just fine. Sanctus, likewise. Lord's Prayer, no problem.

The Agnus Dei had never sounded sweeter.

It was after Communion that things began to get sketchy. Congregants started milling around aimlessly, bumping into each other in the pews, cracking ankles on the kneelers, eyes glazed. It took three hours to herd them all out the door after "Missa est."

By now, Dominic felt pretty strange himself. Bizarre lights flashed; weird howls echoed. Was God speaking?

Later, he found out that an altar boy had spiked the Communion wine with LSD.

Now that he's doing music, I'm going to want to do music.

Who wants to write and record a theme song for me?

Elisson develops a new breakfast cereal...

Harrison lifted the spoon to his mouth and started chewing. His face contorted into a mask of disgust.

"Jeezus! What is this shit?"

"Exactly," replied Johnston.

"We did some research. Turns out most mammals do a lousy job of extracting nutrients from food. Plenty of stuff just - goes to waste, you'll pardon the expression. We're simply running it through a second time.

"Plus, the ingredients are practically free. Think of the variable margin - like printing money!"

Harrison considered this briefly, rolling a kernel of corn around on his tongue.

"Add a sugar frosting and put a bear on the box."

Elisson follows the tragedy and triumph of one man's search for a job...

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.

Elisson hits the fashion world...

It was only a matter of time before she branched out into a new business.

Name recognition? She had that - in spades. Her online journal was massively popular: on the rare occasions when she accepted comments, hundreds would sprout, like mushrooms after spring rain. She was eagerly sought out for interviews. Television. Newspapers.

But writing was becoming a bore, so she now turned her prodigious talents to the world of fashion design. Within months, her pocketbooks were being introduced in the hottest salons of Beverly Hills and Salt Lake City.

Yes, ladies: Now you, too, can own a DooceBag.

Elisson took the word pomposity and played with it for a bit...

Pope Papadapoulos the Portly stood at the window of his basilica, surveying his domain, reflecting on his life's work. He was pleased.

Singlehandedly, he had effected what had been thought impossible: the healing of the Great Schism. Now, Greek, Roman, and Russian churches all obeyed a single authority, kissed a single ring. His ring.

With the elaborate ceremonies that were to mark the historic relocation of the Holy See from Rome to Buenos Aires about to begin, the Holy Cheerleaders were in position, clutching their pompons.

Papadapoulos strode forth. It was time to deliver the first Bull of the Pampas.

Elisson didn't duck the theme of the day when he wrote about... well...

He had been waiting a long time for this evening.

Everything was ready; he'd seen to that. The chilled Champagne, the candles, the flowers, the scented oil. The freshly laundered sheets.

And now she was in his arms.

His chest pounded with desire. He forced himself to breathe.

She nestled her head in his lap, sought him greedily. He moaned, pleasure building within him like a breaking wave.

AFLA-A-A-A-A-CK!

Afterwards, Donald lit a Mallardboro and exhaled slowly, blowing flattened smoke-rings. The night would not be cheap, but so what? His credit was good. She would put it on his bill...

Elisson reminds me that I'm overdue... for a pizza.

Technology always was a double-edged sword, and the Orgasmotron was no exception.

That was the popular name for it. The geeks that created it called it the Cerebrostimulator, and it swept the world.

A minor surgical procedure was all it took to implant the socket. The control unit was about the size of a Blackberry. You could stimulate every pleasure center in your brain with a touch of a button.

Hamburger. Pizza. Orgasm.

Aaaahhhhhhh.

76 countries banned it, even before people started dying.

700 consecutive orgasms, no food for weeks. They died like flies, but with smiles on their faces.

Elisson sent me this story on Easter Sunday, so I may do some reshuffling in the Scheduled posts... we'll see, and you'll see if it shows up Sunday.

Furtive whispers in the dark.

Thirty pieces of silver change hands. In moments, the purported Messiah is in irons.

He is led in chains through the streets of Jerusalem, where the mobs howl for his death.

"Behead him! Behead him!"

He is led to the hill at Calvary, where stands the grim scaffold. The axe falls.

Two thousand years later, James Avery enjoys a successful business selling miniature Chopping Blocks, and on Good Friday, Christians everywhere commemorate the Decapitation.

In this world of Humane Romans, the Nicene Creed reads:

"He lost his head so that you could lose your sins."

Elisson keeps the Easter spirit alive....

They carried his broken, bleeding body to the cave, weeping with every step.

They laid him down, bade their farewells, and sealed the cave entrance with a massive rock.

Three days later, he arose, clad in pure white raiment. He leaped to the mouth of the cave, rolled the rock away, and stepped into the blinding sunlight. Almost as quickly, he retreated into the depths of the cave, shaken and fearful.

That terrible dark shape on the ground! He shivered in horror. Could it have been the Devil himself?

No matter. After six more weeks, Punxsutawney Jesus would try again.

Complete with podsafe music (cough cough cough), it's time for a heroic story from Elisson.

Superman's forehead glistened with a film of sweat as he strained with momentary effort.

Clink. House note.

Strain. Clink. Car note.

Strain. Clink. Electric bill.

Every month, the same routine. Scarf a few charcoal briquettes, crap out a few water-white diamonds. That was how the world's most famous superhero kept the wolf from the door. Couldn't very well knock over a bank, could he?

The system worked. Most of the time, anyway.

Of course, there was that grim Tax Day back in 2016 when Lex Luthor doped the charcoal supply with plutonium. Where Metropolis had stood was now radioactive glass.

Of all the groaners Elisson has come up with, this one will never quite get out of my mind. You've been warned...

Dr. Zimmerman shook his head in frustration.

Since hanging out his shingle, he had had hundreds of patients. Not a single one ever came back a second time.

It was a damned shame. A poor choice of specialty. Prostate exams...

He had been a football player in his younger days. With hands the size of Smithfield hams, he could snag almost any pass. But when a knee injury buried his NFL dreams, medical school beckoned.

Crap, he thought.

You don't need a weatherman to see which way the wind blows...or that the world has no need for a Meaty Urologist.

Elisson tells the tale of something that's gotten lost...

Eldrick was furious.

He had recently scored a set of classic persimmon-head clubs. Not for work, he had told himself. Never for work. These beauties are for pleasure.

Their heads glowed with a deep varnished luster, the brass screws set perfectly flush. Four gorgeous clubs: driver, brassie, cleek, and spoon. Products of a bygone age.

And now they were missing.

How can they be missing? he asked himself. How many golf club thieves can there be at an Oceanographic Institute on the south shore of Cape Cod?

Eldrick groaned, thinking of the headlines. "Woods Loses Woods at Woods (Hole)." Crap.

I dare say that this one by Elisson ends on a musical note.

My people, they are a stiff-necked people.

Been that way for thousands of years. Back in the Sinai days, Moses had it all figured out. You think he climbed up Mount Nebo to die, giving up on his dream to enter the Promised Land just because God told him to?

Think again.

He simply couldn't stand any more of the constant bitching, whining, and nagging.

"It was better back in Egypt." "This manna sucks! I want meat!" "I'm thirsty!" "We're all gonna die!

So Moses said, "Enough, already!"

Can't say I blame him. Other people may complain, but Jews harp.

Any resemblance to many cartoon characters of great fame is purely a coincidence, this fable from Elisson.

It happened that there were two mouse-brothers.

Life was hard for these mice. Vicious cats roamed the neighborhood; other animals constantly made life difficult.

There was the duck, all harsh voice and shrill temper.

There were the dogs. One, though he could speak the language of people, was so dimwitted as to be a danger to himself and others. The other was, after all, a dog, and what dog does not enjoy sport with helpless mice?

It all changed when brother Mickey, after lengthy study, procured a Steamboat Operator's License.

Moral: Wish upon a star, my ass. Study to succeed!

Elisson explains the mysery of facial hair of a divine nature...

Yesterday, as the Missus and I were on our way to dinner, we saw a car in front of us with a decal in the rear window: Got Jesus?

It was clear, based on its design, that the decal was Yet Another Ripoff of the well-known "Got Milk?" advertising campaign, the one featuring celebrities sporting Milk Moustaches.

The Missus asked: When you Get Jesus, do you get a Jesus Moustache? And if you do, what color is it?

I'm no expert, but I'd say that between Ash Wednesday and Easter, you have a purple moustache...but on Easter, it turns white.

Elisson honors the hero of Cervantes' famous work.

After all these years, you think they'd finally figure it out. But no.

If I had to blame somebody, I'd blame that Cervantes fellow for getting it backwards. But what do you expect from one of these "creative" types? I'm a busy man, and I don't have the time to explain the intricacies of my profession to every Tomàs, Ricardo, and Hernàndez that comes along.

Especially when that profession is unusual.

Don Quixote is my name. Agricultural architectural restoration is my game.

What do I do?

I restore correct vertical alignment to air-powered size reduction equipment.

Yep. I untilt windmills.

Another fine twisted tale from the master of twisted tales, Elisson:

I was sitting at my desk in the Home Office, pounding out the PowerPoints, when I heard the buzz of a housefly.

We don't get flies in the house too often. Where had this fucker come from?

As I toiled, I kept hearing the buzz more often. It became evident that there were several flies performing reconnaissance runs through the house. What the hell was going on?

By nightfall, almost all of the flies were dead, their corpses scattered like raisins throughout the house.

Damn. I'm going to have to stop leaving that poisoned raw meat in my sock drawer.

Elisson tells us the unknown tale about a well-known hero...

Lenny Spiderman was the class clown.

We were kids together, growing up on Long Island. And Lenny used to drive the teachers nuts.

He'd build webs up by the ceiling in homeroom, and then swing up there and hide. Mrs. Hentoff never thought to look up, but he'd be hanging there making faces. It was all we could do not to laugh.

But when he got older, he got serious. "With great power comes great responsibility," that crap.

Peter Parker? Bullshit for the reporters. It was always just Lenny.

But I'm the guy who got him to use the hyphen.

Just in time for Friday, it's Elisson!

Asparagam stood, staring off into space, a tear running down his chlorophyll-stained face.

It had been a hellish season. So many of his family cut off in the prime of their lives. Flayed. Stuffed into the brightly colored body bags, then trundled off into cryogenic storage.

But he could not mourn for them. That was...forbidden.

It was in the contract. The hellish clothing, perversely constructed of stinging nettles. The omnipresent shit-eating grin. It was all there in green and white. He was sworn to obey.

Just the same, he thought, can't the Jolly Green Giant weep for his lost children?

Elisson tells it like only he can...

Gart snapped a fresh magazine into his pulse rifle, hoping the soft "click" would not be picked up by the enemy sensors. He raised one eyebrow, sniffing the dank cellar air. It wasn't getting any fresher in here, not with Jones's decomposing torso only ten paces away.

It had been a good three days, at least until Jonesy bit it. They had made some real progress, pushing back the Jeffersonians. The city limits were secure - for now, anyway - but someone had to work recon, and it was Gart's turn to draw short straw.

Sometimes it was hell to be Mayor.

When is Uncle's Day, anyway? Maybe Elisson will know.

As usual, I'm in the middle of something when they come through.

Thursday, I was pressing a suit. Today, I was measuring Goldberg for a pair of pants. 38 waist, 30 inseam, dresses to the left, if you're curious.

Hey, I don't spend the whole day in here. But somebody has to be there to put up a good front, and I got picked. Maybe it's because, in my other life, I really was a tailor.

But now, six hours a day, six days a week, I'm just the fucking doorman for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

Peering through the veil of reality is the eye of Elisson...

It had been three full days since he had last slept.

Damn finals...and that thesis defense. One all-nighter in a row was bad enough, but two? Jesus. His teeth ached as he gulped another cup of the e-Quad's stinking, bitter coffee.

Eyes...like baseballs of lean bacon. Crusty. Red.

The thesis defense was in two hours. Surely he would do a better job with a quick nap. He laid his head down on the cold carrel desk.

When he opened his eyes, the library windows were dark. How long had he been asleep?

Fuck this train wreck of a college career.

Elisson rolls the dice with this one...

He had marshalled his forces carefully, exactingly, for just this moment. Patiently building his strength for the perfect opportunity to strike.

Troops massed along the borders. The supply chains were long, but the generals in charge knew the penalty for failure.

His early conquests had come easily, with only token opposition. But recently, his fortunes had taken a turn for the worse. Every battle, a bloody meatgrinder. Every skirmish, a near-disaster.

Retreat, regroup. Retreat again, regroup again.

Well, all that was going to change. Had to change. It was his turn now.

With the next roll, Yakutsk would be his!

I've been meaning to post this one of Elisson's for a few days now. Finally, I get around to putting the three files together and getting it up on the site.

Vinnie horsed the duffel bag onto the counter.

He yanked the zipper, displaying the bag's contents to the proprietor, an elderly Chinese who had been doing his best to ignore the red splotch on the side of the bag. It glistened wetly in the fluorescent light.

The old man handed Vinnie a cardboard stub. "You come back tomollow aftah five, OK?"

The next day, Vinnie came by at 6:30. He handed over his stub and received two cardboard boxes, each packed with fresh, clean Benjamins, profits from legitimate businesses.

Chang smiled. He owned the finest Chinese money laundry in town.

Want to know what it takes to put these together?

1. I receive the soundfile and the story from Elisson.
2. I open Audacity.
3. I import Certified Fresh.mp3 and 100 Word Intro.mp3
4. I slide 100 Word Intro to begin after Certified Fresh finishes.
5. I import Elisson's story.
6. I slide Elisson's story to begin after 100 Word Intro finishes.
7. I add the ID3 tags.
8. I export as an MP3.
9. I FTP the file to the site.
10. I put together a post on the blog with the text of the story in blockquotes and a link to Elisson's site with some one-sentence intro.
11. I name the file in the extended entry.
12. I put the filesize in the Keywords.
13. I publish the post.

Usually that takes 5 to 10 minutes. So any whining I whine about not having the time, I'm just being a lazy jerk and I need to get on my fat ass and do it.

I've got a backlog of stories from the gang, so I'd better catch up quickly before I get further behind. Here's one by Elisson...

The world looks different when you have eyes on the side of your head.

That was the first thing I noticed. That, and my craving acorns.

The last thing I remember about my old life was the ground coming up at us. Fast. Those damned passengers - why couldn't they have just accepted the inevitable? Instead, it's "Let's roll" and we end up in a Pennsylvania field. It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

I really thought there would be seventy-two virgins waiting for me. Yeah, sure: all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Guess the Hindus were on the right track after all.

It's a little out of date, but Elisson was prepared for the word on June 6th.

Today is June 6, 2006, which may be variously rendered as 06/06/06 or 666.

Believers in the literal truth of the Book of Revelations are collectively Shitting a Peach Pit, for 666 is the Number of the Beast. Whereas, 36D is the Number of the Breast.

It is the birthday of Auntie Christ...and Uncle Christ will be in a world of pain, for he forgot to buy Auntie a present.

And it's the area code for Arkham, Massachusetts.

I will observe the day by coloring in my Coloring Book Out Of Space. There's a lovely picture of Cthulhu in there.

Elisson just convinced me not to get pickles on my next hamburger.

Manny had worked at the Pickle Factory since he was a teenager.

As the years passed, he developed a sick obsession. Day after day, a single thought pounded inside his head: He wanted to stick his dick into the pickle slicer.

Too bashful to discuss his obsession with his wife, he sought psychiatric help. But the drugs the headshrinker prescribed were powerful, filling Manny's head with an unpleasant metallic buzzing. He stopped taking them.

Eventually, Manny yielded to his impulses.

His supervisor caught him in the act. Horrified, he fired Manny on the spot.

He fired the pickle slicer, too.

Elisson lived in a really weird neighborhood when he was growing up...

The little white truck rolled slowly through the suburban neighborhood, its arrival heralded by the intermittent jingling of bells.

Excited customers poured from the houses, clutching shiny quarters. They queued up, jostling each other for position. The truck halted; the driver hopped out, looking jaunty in his starched white shirt. The chrome-plated money changer on his belt caught the sun.

Jimmy was first in line. "Gimme a tube of Astro-Glide, please."

Mary was next. "I'll take the Warming K-Y."

The Lubes-On-Wheels driver smiled. Nothing put his customers in a Good Humor quite like the arrival of the Vice Cream Truck.

Just when you thought he was done with his latest creative spurt, Elisson surprises us once again...

Chef Jean Boudreaux was eager to be a part of the renaissance of New Orleans, and so he decided to open a restaurant in the French Quarter. But surprisingly, he opened a Chinese restaurant.

Precisely because it was such an unexpected choice of cuisine for its location, "Le Vieux Sécret Chinois" was a smashing success.

Another reason for its success: Chef Boudreaux's legendary sangfroid. Nothing bothered him.

One time, some dumplings caught fire in the kitchen after having been left in the wok too long. Responding to the excited sous-chef's shouts, Boudreaux was unflappable.

"Laissez les Won-Tons brûler," he said.

Elisson has a really sick and twisted story for you today...

A rabbit hopped into a bakery.

"Ya got any carrot cake?" asked the rabbit.

"Sorry, no," said the baker.

The next day, the rabbit came back.

"Ya got any carrot cake?" asked the rabbit.

"Sorry, no," said the baker.

This went on for days. The baker began to feel bad for the rabbit, and so he decided to bake a carrot cake - cream cheese icing, the works.

The next day, the rabbit came back. "Ya got any carrot cake?" he asked.

"As a matter of fact, I do!" said the baker with a smile.

"Tastes like shit, doesn't it?"

Elisson is digging deep with the puns again...

He was the best salesman north of the Arctic Circle, they said, and they were right. Yukon Will was his name, and he could sell anything to anybody.

When Seward bought Alaska from Russia, it was his great-grandpa that closed the deal. Will inherited the family talent.

He made a comfortable living for years, selling refrigeration equipment to the Inuit. Yep: iceboxes to Eskimos. But they loved him for it.

When he died, they carved his image on the base of a wooden pillar. "Who's that?" people ask, and I answer:

That's Willy - Lo Man on the totem pole.

Elisson has a little fun with some bold innovations in abstract art...

Jackson discovered, quite by accident, that if he ate nothing but spinach for a day, his poop would be green the next day.

Experimentation showed that a diet of beets resulted in dark red excrement.

Rice with plenty of turmeric ended up as yellow feces.

Carrots - lots of 'em - generated loaves with an orange cast.

He was ready.

He ate the biggest meal of his life, one food at a time, sequentially. Then he took a handful of Doxidans and stood naked over the huge blank canvas, waiting patiently.

In just a moment, thought Jackson Poolock, Art Happens.

Elisson engages in a little word play with an Iranian...

Eraj the Iranian was fussy.

He was fussy about his Farsi.

He liked Fanta, because it was fizzy...but it made him fat.

He shaved but rarely; his face was fuzzy.

He feared flatulence, but he was fated to fart.

He preferred Persian sausages, for they were Farsi forcemeat.

He had exceptional vision; he was a far-seeing Farsi.

He was a man who tilled the soil; he was a Farsi farmer who favored fava beans.

He had few faults, favoring facts over opinions.

Eraj, the fat, fussy, fizzy, fuzzy, flatulent, far-seeing Farsi farmer who favored favas, was a fine friend.

Finis.

Elisson decided to do a little musical number today... sort of...

I saw Mr. Wilson through the window screen Noticed he was looking just a little bit green And moldy 'round the edges. Then I started to freak When I remembered that he had croaked last week.

Well, you know them zombies gotta eat dem brains
It's the Standard Zombie Diet, in snow, sun or rain
Don't go for no Grape-Nuts, no yogurt or pie
Just wanna eat your brains and make you die

O Zombies, keep the hell away
O Zombies, keep the hell away from me
I'm hiding in my zombie-proof basement
With my computer and my color TV

I'll leave the beatnik poetry to Elisson and Caleb.

Elisson and Lisa team up for this special 100 word story. It will certainly hit you right in the... heartstrings.

Red was a man who believed in an orderly life.

Perhaps it was his military background, but for whatever reason, it was "a place for everything, and everything in its place."

His gun cabinet was carefully arranged, weapons sorted by type and caliber. You could eat off the floor of his garage...provided you cleaned up afterwards.

And his butt-plugs? Meticulously shelved by size.

To those who questioned his orderly outlook, Red would always say, "There's nothing wrong with being a little anal."

To those who questioned his personal proclivities, Red would always say, "There's nothing wrong with a little anal."

Elisson tells a little Friday Night Lights tale...

"Kick their ass! Plant 'em in the grass! Hold that line! Catch that pass!"

You couldn't find a more unlikely football team than the Fighting Farmers of Lewisville.

As a Team Eponym, the Fighting Farmer is almost as ridiculous as the University of California (Santa Cruz) Banana Slugs. But these Farmers will make you laugh out of the other side of your face.

Fueled with Agrarian Animosity, they take to the field (the "Back Hundred") and become veritable Tractors of Truculence. In contest after harrowing contest, they plow through their opponents, reaping a rich harvest of touchdowns.

Only in Texas.

Elisson gets Biblical on your asses...

The Ark settled down on its resting place atop Mount Ararat as the floodwaters receded.

Noah threw open the doors. It had been an arduous journey, but he felt cleansed - cleansed down to his very soul. He smiled. Time to plant a vineyard and build a new world!

Three years later, a grumpy Noah sat around the fire after his thousandth postdeluvian meal of wine and fish.

"I sure miss all them critters, Lord. A steak once in a while would be nice."

A heavenly Voice boomed, "Don't blame Me, Noah. I quite clearly said 'animals,' not 'enemas.'"

"Oopsie."

Elisson is inspired by the Wacky Adventures of Abraham Lincoln with what could be the 101st episode of the series...

Freedom. So many have given their lives to preserve it.

For some, freedom meant an end to slavery. For me, it meant being able to use stem cells - and a heap of grant money - to perfect replicant technology. Cloned humans.

Think of the possibilities! Replacement organs. Better: being able to answer the age-old question: What if?

I had to know. It was a bitch getting the DNA, but somehow I managed.

He comes out of the gel-tank tomorrow. Twelve weeks of deep-sleep hypnopaedia, and he'll be ready for his stovepipe hat.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Abraham Linclone.

Elisson hits the books right in the funny bone with this tale of academia...

Philbert Philpott poked at the paleolithic midden heap with his polished pick. Perhaps, he thought, there'll be something interesting in this dusty stratum of detritus.

Philbert occupied an exalted position on the University staff. He would travel to the digs with the other professors of Antiquities and write his scholarly articles; but unlike that of the others, his work was filled with sarcasm and invective. Surprisingly, this made him popular.

He would rank on the Rosetta stone and lampoon the Lyceum. He pooped on Petra and said "Fie!" to Phoenicia.

Meet Philbert, chair of the Snarkyology Department at Mishegoss University.

Elisson originally wrote this for a Weekly Challenge, but the midget did it for him...

Miguel Cortez was born on Cinco de Mayo, 1955 at 5:55 a.m., the fifth son of a fifth son.

On his fifth birthday, his mother hit the Loteria and won 55,000 pesos.

Time passed; Miguel grew to be a handsome young man. He married a girl from his hometown, and in time they had five children.

On his 55th birthday, Miguel - now a successful American citizen living in New York (in a luxury apartment at 55th and Fifth) took $5,000 to Pimlico and put it all on the fifth horse running in the fifth race.

The nag came in fifth.

Elisson originally wrote this for a Weekly Challenge, but the midget did it for him...

Bradley sat back, Mai-Tai in his hand, looking out at the ocean seventy yards from his deck. He smiled.

He had purchased the beach house just a month ago. He hadn't been sure if he'd be able to swing it, but then this listing popped up. Prime oceanfront, it was a steal at twice the price.

Low in the sky, a mottled gibbous moon hung, making the water sparkle.

A low moaning sound made his head snap around. An army of many-tentacled horrors was shambling up the beach. They held out their scabrous, pitted palps towards him.

Yeah. Some steal.

Elisson originally wrote this for a Weekly Challenge, but the midget did it for him...

Manny gripped one end of the elastic between his teeth and pulled. When the vein in the crook of his left arm looked just right, he stabbed the spike in. Pressing the plunger home, he sighed with pleasure. Aaaaahhhh.

Suddenly, "Pomp and Circumstance" blared. Rough hands lifted him, propelling him across a hastily-erected stage. A rolled-up piece of paper was thrust into his hands. After a quick handshake from a black-robed dignitary, he was booted off the platform, landing in a refuse can.

He unfurled the paper. Who knew that graduating from marijuana to hard drugs would be so formal?

It took me about four listens to come back to reality after listening to this one by Elisson.

There's a Chassidic guy With a patch on his eye And a wad of gum to chew You'll forget your troubles When you see kosher bubbles They call him Bazooka Jew.

Oh, he's used to stares
When he's saying his prayers
'N' blowin' bubbles, too -
Working his jaw
Like a mother-in-law,
My buddy, Bazooka Jew.

The rabbi said "It's pretty weird -
But the gum doesn't stick to his beard!"

He might be in Dallas
A-schleppin' his tallis,
Or Fort Worth - or Timbuktu.
And now and again,
When I hear "Pop - amen!"
I know it's Bazooka Jew.

My mind just went POP!

Elisson spins a tale and makes us all hungry.

Sometimes, after dinner, I crave a Berliner - That noble and perfect dessert.

But a gluttonous sinner
Will bite his Berliner,
An act that may cause it to squirt -

Take a napkin and pin 'er
Between your Berliner
And you. It will keep off the dirt.

Then enjoy your Berliner
(It won't make you thinner -
Your diet it's likely to hurt.)

You might want your Berliner
Washed down with some gin, or
Some human breast milk - you pervert!

I feel like a winner
When I eat my Berliner
Without getting jam on my shirt.

After dinner? Berliner!

Elisson comes up with another ding-dally-doozie of a story.

Abdul Abulbul Amir is revered for bringing East and West together.

Back in 2052, Amir was an impoverished cleric living in Dearborn. Many of his brethren denounced America. They could only envision a future of struggle, Islam versus the powers of the West. Theirs was a bipolar world of Muslim and Infidel, of which only one could be right.

But Amir had a vision.

"Surely, a country that can make a dessert this wonderful is no Great Satan!"

And so, he began preaching a new message of love for America from a true Religion of Peace:

"Imam and Apple Pie!"

Elisson heads out to the Wild West for a tall tale about a stool...

Eddie walked into Clancy's, looking for an empty seat. There - next to that platinum blonde with the Cosmo! Maybe she wasn't a Working Girl. Riiight.

"Ah wouldn't sit down theah effen Ah wuz yew."

The warning came from the end of the bar. Strange little guy, clad in buckskins, sporting a coonskin cap, reeking of pine.

"I'll sit wherever the fuck I want, Mark Trail."

With that, Eddie slid onto the barstool. It shattered into flinders, dumping him unceremoniously to the floor.

"H-h-how'd you know?"

"Name's Dan'l Boone, and Ah know more about B'ar Stools than jest about anybody."

Elisson rips out yet another squiggly tale for our enjoyment...

Walter walked the studio grounds, lost in concentration.

He needed a new character. Mickey had been packing theatres for years - not bad for a lousy cartoon short! - but rentals had begun to sag.

Face it. The Mouse was a victim of his own success. Originally a mischievous trickster, he was now good-natured and bland. Booooring.

What he needed was a foil. A character with a rotten disposition, to create dramatic tension. But who?

He almost tripped on the duck's carcass. It lay by the side of the pond, half-eaten.

Two months later, /Morty Maggot/ opened to rave reviews.

Elisson shares a special Christmas Story with us...

When I was ten, I wanted a Red Ryder for Christmas.

Miss Shields made us write a Christmas theme. I wrote five pages on the glories of the Red Ryder. She gave me a C, said I'd put my eye out.

Santa Claus at Higbee's Department Store? Same thing.

For weeks, I dropped "subtle" hints around the house. Must've driven Schwartz, Flick, and Kissel nuts at school. I was obsessed.

But when Christmas came, I got it!

Of course, within ten minutes, I had put my eye out. But I loved my Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Icepick.

Elisson comes up with another humdinger, ripped from the headlines...

Atlanta is in mourning upon hearing the tragic news that Gasper, one of the Georgia Aquarium's celebrated beluga whales and a favorite among visitors, has been euthanized.

Gasper had been suffering from osteomyelitis, a bone infection, and his condition had
deteriorated in the past several weeks.

"We rescued Gasper knowing that he was seriously ill, but were hopeful that we might have
been able to save him," said Bernie Marcus, Georgia Aquarium benefactor and chairman of
the board.

In related news, the Georgia Aquarium today announced plans to build a 50,000-gallon
capacity toilet bowl to facilitate disposal of the remains.

A little Jewish religious trivia from our old friend Elisson...

Last Sunday was Aseret b'Tevet - the tenth day of the Jewish month Tevet.

It's a day of religious significance mainly to observant Jews, who fast during daylight hours to commemorate the breaching of the walls of Jerusalem by the Babylonians, the first step in the destruction of King Solomon's Temple.

Even non-Jews know about Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. That's a full fast: no food or drink from before sundown until after sundown the following day. Twenty-five hours of hunger and penance.

But Aseret b'Tevet is not as big a deal. You might even call it a half-fast.

Elisson is ready with a new story today... let's see what's up in his world.

After the Great Protein Shortage of 2029, the genetic engineers started getting creative.

People needed protein, and the existing sources weren't getting the job done. Beef cattle were practically extinct after the BSE epidemics in the late teens. Fish were laden with heavy metals, poultry with pesticides. Legumes were fine - except for their unfortunate vaporous side effects.

But then a brilliant Belgian geneticist had a breakthrough. An excellent protein source: animals that lived in a farmable colony. Roughly three apples high, they made a perfect portion. And in time, people got used to the color.

Smurf and Turf, anyone?

Elisson sent this one to me a while ago and it would be perfect for Sunday, but I can't wait that long to publish it!

The Missus and I sat at the breakfast table, the scattered remnants of our waffles cooling on our plates.

She tossed her head, indicating the stairs.

"Well, we might as well go and get this over with."

She continued, "It's always so much harder to do it again if you put it off."

We looked at each other. A sly grin stole across my face.

"Are we thinking about the same thing?" asked The Missus.

"Aren't we?" I said.

"You're thinking about sex, aren't you?" asked The Missus.

"Well, yeah. Aren't you?"

"I was thinking about going to the gym."

Elisson heads up to the Great Loch Ness... or does he?

A mysterious creature glided in the depths.

Legends had circulated for years, but never any hard evidence. The creature belonged to the shadowy realm of the Possibly Real occupied by Sasquatch, the Ten Lost Tribes, and the /menehune/ of Hawai'i.

But when bowling ball-sized chunks of meat began boiling to the surface of the lake, each enveloped in a mysterious doughy casing, the locals called me in. Abe Schwartz, Dybbuk Hunter. Ghosts and Legendary Creatures a specialty.

After searching all my life, I had finally found her. The miraculous evidence left no doubt that it was the Kreploch-Ness Monster.

Elisson is ready to hail to... The King!

He had brought King Kong back alive from Skull Island at the cost of fifteen men and untold thousands of dollars. His attempt to exhibit the beast on Broadway was a complete flop, thanks to the kind ministrations of the SPCA, PETA, and the unions. And Ann Darrow was in therapy.

But big as he was, Kong was still a monkey.

Denham dodged as Kong lobbed a Volkswagen-sized turd. Moments later, ten gallons of hot Ape-Spooge spattered the bars of the gargantuan enclosure.

Eighth Wonder of the World, my ass, thought Denham. Still a fucking monkey.

Elisson serves up a delicious dish on the wrong side of the map...

Alfonso's was the best Indian restaurant in the Sierra Madre. In fact, it was the only Indian restaurant in the Sierra Madre.

[By Indian, of course, we mean East Indian, not Indigenous American.]

Gnarled, bewhiskered prospectors seeking a fine Chicken Korma or a piquant Lamb Vindaloo flocked to Alfonso's, where you could get anything from hot naan to creamy saag paneer. For dessert? Kheer, delicately scented with cardamom.

The only weak spot on the menu? Fritters. Alfonso couldn't make a fritter to save his life.

But did he care? No, he did not.

"Bhajis? We ain't got no stinking bh