Authorities aren’t sure exactly how many people here in St Clair Shores have been struck down by Almira Calhoun’s Disease, but they have forbidden all none-essential swimming and blocked off some streets altogether. The health department recommends a 72 hour cooling off period for all afflicted parties, so the barricades won’t come down until Thursday. And they’re probably gonna start grabbing the guns after that, anyway. They can have my guns, I don’t care. I have no interest in catching Almira Calhoun’s Disease or passing it on to the baby animals I’m responsible for down at the petting zoo. OK, OK, from Wikipedia: Almira Calhoun was a delightful woman who desired nothing more than to walk up and down stepladders all day while reading to the...
Author - Chris Weagel
Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.
Tomorrow is a big day for local hero Steve Loddiger. As called for by the town charter, the police look the other way each August 30 and let Steve have a day for himself.
How does Steve Loddiger spend his special day?
On three folding tables set up in the front yard, he lays out his personal library – including encyclopedia sets and cookbooks – and stands there all day yelling at strangers, pointing to his books, “LOOK HOW SMART I AM! LOOK HOW SMART I AM! GET OUTTA MY COUNTRY!”
Come August 31, though, Steve’s back under the afghan behind the couch, quiet as can be, well aware that it’s back to “open season” for the police and local toughs on “his kind.”
“Who doesn’t have anger inside of him?” The Fiak family finally decided to carve that quote on the grave marker. They paired it with a laser-inscribed picture of Jose’s motorcycle and a tearful rose. He was calm on the outside and friendly to all. He always wore button down shirts and neat, black pants. His room was organized with two bibles and two combs on the dresser. He was widely recognized as one of the county’s brightest young dirt shovelers. But he felt too much. He always took everything too personal. The stars were too bright for Jose. Humanity’s stench was too strong. A man can only put up so many baby animal posters. And even they aren’t strong enough to hold back the lies. Jose was twenty three when, emotionally distraught, overtired...
Horatio Fredjeff. Local Prophet. Publishes his own newsletter, released each month, featuring intense, detailed drawings of creatures he sees roaming the streets at night. There are 45 such creatures detailed in each issue. Each creature is presented in two views: 3/4 Isometric and Top Down. Accompanying each creature is it’s full Latin Name, it’s common, Michigan-ese name, and two paragraphs describing its traits, behaviors, migration patterns and odor. Fredjeff further offers thoughts on how best to defend yourself from each creature. This comes in the form of a list of which limb motions – punching, kicking, swatting, etc – repels the beast. Also on the page is a rectangular box labeled “Bite Pattern,” which Fredjeff claims belongs to that animal...
“IT IS WHAT IT IS.” One of the better common phrases here in America. Yet woefully unexplored. This phrase is incredibly useful for summing up issues that, because of their complexity, intractability and often plain ugliness, cause concern and worry amongst a population that’s otherwise powerless to do anything about. The phrase puts the issue to rest and just lets us get on with repairing our damaged lives. I did some research and actually found out what our local IT truly IS. Turns out IT is the fact that, in a recent frenzy, our fair town elected a giant sea lion as mayor. A filthy, stinking, mini-vanned-sized sea lion. Like out of the movies! And is it ever mean! Snarling and spitting and crashing around. The damn thing crushed three kindergartners during a recent...
While discussing recipes with neighbor Robert, his 12 year-old fat dog exploded. Right there in the driveway, without warning. It combusted totally and cleanly with a sharp yelp and minor flash.
Most of the dog’s anatomy was vaporized but some teeth sprinkled down onto Robert’s windshield and part of the tail landed near me.
“Oh let me get that, I’ve got a glove,” Robert said, without missing a beat. His “glove” was his hand in an inside-out K*Mart shopping bag.
“That’s one of the pleasures of this breed,” he assured me, although I never could discern the dog’s particular pedigree. “Saves us the heartache of smothering it when it grows feeble.”
The Cincinnati Bobsled team is dead. And I know what killed them.
It was pride.