It made tremendous sense at the time. The purchase of the helicopter. We had just sold the family farm. We would never again spend another summer digging up premature beets to paint red so we could sell them for a higher price as strawberries. Nobody told Granddad about the farm. He still had a sharp mind but we kept him busy reviewing patent applications and memorizing ketchup recipes. He didn't even notice Grandma's transformation into an end table. Granddad would not have been happy about a helicopter. Being near or enclosed by processed metals made him anxious. He was convinced it was altering his molecules. He was born, lived and died in a hand dug cave under the driveway. He only ever learned 23 letters of the alphabet and spent his time judging others. The helicopter...

Time for the shovels to come out! We’re getting together a burying party! YAYYY! What does this mean for your family? We get in this here van – original color: mountain green – and we drive around looking for things to bury without warning. We’ll probably start with lawn ornaments – bury them right where they stand. Move up to bird feeders then fish-shaped mail boxes and finally novelty cement creatures that adorn all the boarded-up ice cream shoppes. And when we do it, we leave no marking. No headstone, no cross made of sticks, no drug store teddy bear as a memorial. We don’t even leave a dirt mound. If there’s extra dirt, we eat it. We keep our mouths shut. It’s as if the item just vanished! Gone! If we have enough people –...

The gum ball machine industry is ripe for disruption. You’ve read about this too, I know. It’s all over the tech sites. We’re talking the spherical, simple, usually-only-accepts-dimes-on-behalf-of-the-Lions-Club-type machine. The more elaborate machines – those with the curly ball slide and the LED lights and are shaped like a sea horse – no those are basically untouchable. Controlled by elves. But the simple glass globe kind are bleeding potential. The first thing I’d do is make them electric. Plug them in. Leave them on all night, as a threat deterrent. And then I’d add a wrist strap. Mobile is king. A whole other line would not dispense gum balls at all. Just fill it up with beef gravy and offer the whole thing for adoption. And whoever wins...

Underside Carpet Murals. Usually of fish. Vivid, robust images of sea creatures, bordering on bawdy. Some in the ashcan style. They're large and painted at night. The whole point is that you don't see them. They're face down under your feet. The artists are ashamed of how they earn their living. Sometimes they'll draw an extra arm on one of the fish or paint a group of tropical fish entirely in gray tones. Local tradition (and now county law) insist the artists' work be hidden. We want the artists to paint – to stay active – as it keeps them from stealing. And not just money: an artist will kidnap your children and smother your wife if given the chance. The children will be sold for coal dust and drugs. They'll cut off your woman's hair and glue it...

Figure 1. Licensed Potato Therapist. Dear Thirty Year-Old Self, I am writing you from the depths of 8th grade English class. I will assume you are now an accomplished drum soloist and waste no further words on the matter. It is my hope that you've followed through on our desire to invent a new form of firework and have forgone profit, instead bequeathing the patent to “children everywhere.” I further hope that we have not developed a taste for candy canes or cursing on Sundays. I/we are on the path to owning a wig shop and I wouldn't want such weakness to stall the permitting process. Do you remember our music teacher having a stroke in class? Or the currently popular baseball player who was eaten by a shark? I hope we don't end up like them. I suppose it depends...