Many people think the miniature golf industry is beyond saving. They say, “they did this to themselves, they deserve to suffer.” The American people have always been uneasy with the whole concept of miniature golf. It's the smallness. They can't understand how there'd be interest in anything not large or on the way to enlarging. It's regarded as something for dull children, just a stinking half-assed playground built too close to the highway that charges too much for flavorless ice cream with visible freezer burn and features an all-cousin staff. A lot of folks are waiting for a bank auction where they can get a life-sized cement elephant for cheap. And they're all probably right. All you ever hear about miniature golf is the state ordering the courses...

This is the lesson people like me never learned. This is what America wants. America wants 30 cents off coupons for roast beef sandwiches. America wants a state shaped like a dog. It wants to go to church. America wants barrels of immigrant pee stored underground in salt mines, just in case. America wants to be cross-eyed. The people of this blessed land of ours want these things. They wouldn't put forth so much effort if they didn't. Americans want to boil zebras in swimming pools just to see if the stripes come off. They're disgusting. And if you really are smarter and better and better smelling than them, you'll just have to make peace with all of this and find somewhere to hide when they start forcing everyone to eat corn dogs.

The age of the novelty calculator is over. The age of the novelty anything is over. The local rotary businessmen's auxiliary council voted overwhelmingly to bar any decorative display but the stars and stripes. Collectible Dora the Explorer cigarette lighters are out. Shampoo dispensers shaped like birds are no more. Even my three wise men Salt, Pepper and Other shakers are now forbidden. From now on only Old Glory and one variation – Old Glory with a snake superimposed over it – are allowed. The postman is supposed to drop off a set of markers tomorrow and I'll be correcting the color of several boxes of Cherrios prior to election day. What this all stems from: Local business councils are composed of Local Businessmen. Each was born with a head filled with a solid...

Spent all day working the drive thru at the wig shop. Capital Wigs it's called. We sell real human and horse hair synthetic blend wigs. Nothing medical, pure vanity. Catering to shallowness. It's a tricky job, the drive thru window at a wig shop. The health code says we can't let the customers handle any wigs unless they've made a purchase so the shop has a demo unit of each of the big sellers there on a rack. After you get the customer's preference over the intercom, you've got about thirty-five seconds till they pull around and expect to see you modeling it at the first window. First you have to find the right one. Many of the demo units' tags have worn off. Most of the time I just pick what I think looks pretty. Then there's always some that fall down...

Merciful Crocodile. Merciful God.
The spillway graffiti has taken an ugly turn. In big blue and gold lettering, stand reminders of common personal failures.
“You've let your ten-year-old self down.”
“Thank god mom isn't here to see this.”

“Compromise or humiliation?”
“None of them loved you.”
That last one has a thorny rose tangled through it. And just below it is a giant mouth with dice for teeth.
Due to Tea Party cut backs, the county can't afford any beige paint thick enough to completely cover it.