Image: Pixabay
He: “I’m nuts about you.”
She: “You’re too nutty for me.”
He: “I got you nut ‘n honey cookies.”
She: “I got you nuttin’.”
He: “Want to watch The Nutcracker with me?”
She: “No, I’d like to crack your nuts.”
He: “You’re not so nice.”
She: “You’re nutso. Untie me!”
Image: Wikipedia
While eating a banana pizza, Roscoe watches the foibles of his favorite character in a sit-com. He licks his hairy fingers clean after eating and gets up to relieve himself in the corner of his room. As he finishes, he hears the familiar turn of the key on the steel door of his Plexiglass room. Time for another exam, he thinks.
“Hey, Roscoe, ready for your check-up,” the broad-shouldered man says as he corrals Roscoe out of the room.
They walk down a short corridor and go inside Dr. Shroeder’s “Fun Room,” as Roscoe has been told to refer to it.
“Nice to see you looking bright and relaxed this time, Roscoe.” A tall, slender woman, Dr. Schroeder smiles as she takes Roscoe by the hand and leads him to an unusually long indoor playground monkey bar. “Let’s see you swing across the length of the bar twice.”
Roscoe is excited to impress Dr. Schroeder of his athletic prowess, as he starts to show off.
Dr. Schroeder is joined by her associate, who asks, “How is our monkey boy doing?”
“Please don’t refer to Roscoe that way,” says Dr. Schroeder, somewhat taken aback. “I consider him as a human boy.”
“Just make sure you give him a full body shave whenever you decide to go public with your experiment,” replies the associate.
Afterwards, the associate leaves Dr. Schroeder, who is left thinking not for the first time if she would ever reveal Roscoe is her son.
Image: Pixabay
“I’m not here to bust your balls. I’m here so we don’t get our balls busted,” the new CEO assured his employees.
Six months later, he saved the shareholders $6 million by letting go 3,000 workers.
Outside the building, sitting on a park bench were two former employees, Sam and Hank. Sam snorted, “Our CEO sure had us by the balls.”
Hank responded, “Yep, he had the balls to make us believe that if we juggled our schedule to fit his deadlines, we’d be having a ball in no time.”
“Turns out he thinks we dropped the ball.” Sam rubbed his eyes so his friend wouldn’t see them misting.
“Got that right. It’s one new ball game these days.”
Sighing, they both stood up and left, scratching their balls.
Image: Pixabay
She inhales, deeply. Then coughs. A lot. Her eyes almost pop out. Slowly, she feels the effects. She inhales again, knowing another bout of coughing is inevitable. But the sweet pain shooting through her lungs is worth it for she’s sensing herself relaxing. She relishes the moment; she doesn’t have much time left. Her insides start to rebel, while from the outside her body becomes more still. What a sensation. So, this is death by smog.
[A trilogy of “seamy” stories about the lure of ugly sweaters. 3 of 3; see 2]
Image: Pixabay
Detective David LaFoote, along with his new junior partner, Detective Tobias LaFitte, shoulder their way in through the door. They look around the studio apartment, struck by the multitude of paper types pinned to a big bulletin board on the wall. Beneath all the newspaper clippings, invitation cards, and business letterhead is a large map of the metropolis. Different strands of colored yarn, connected by pins, point to specific locations on the map. Suddenly they hear a gasp and see a man cowering in the corner.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” the man whines. He is wearing a green sweater with a big snowman on the front, grinning back at them. “I’m taking what’s been due me for years . . .” He rubs his nose, as he asserts himself.
“Save your breath, buster. When I was growing up I was told to crochet my own sweater. I got a ball of yarn, while my classmates had their ugly sweaters already made.” LaFoote shakes his head, marveling at how his deeply buried memories so readily surface.
“I’m really sorry to hear what happened to you, but at least you were given some colorful material to knit something new. All I ever received when I was growing up was a picture of an ugly sweater from a mail-order catalog.” The man is now raving on and on.
“Spare me any more sob stories. You’re going down.” Detective LaFoote motions to his partner and speaks with authority. “Book him, Danno–for burglary and grand larceny!”
“Um, David. The name’s LaFitte.”
“Can’t you just be Danno for today? I’m really feeling like the 5-0 right now,” says LaFoote, harkening back to his grade school years of adoring the original “Hawaii Five-0” series on Friday nights. LaFoote strides away, glad but weary from the long hours of finally cracking open the Ugly Sweater Serial Stealer case.
[To see the first story, see 1.]
[A trilogy of “seamy” stories about the lure of ugly sweaters. 2 of 3; See 1 of 3]
Christmas music plays through the tinny speakers in the function room of the once popular downtown hotel. In spite of the worn carpet and faded drapes framing the bottle glass windows, the people getting ready for the Annual Ugly Sweater Convention are happily lining up chairs to create a stage. One of the highly anticipated events is the ugly sweater parade around the room and the judging. The grand prize winner receives an original, one-of-a-kind ugly sweater crocheted by one of the judges.
“I can hardly wait until you show us what you’ve crocheted, Henrietta,” Jody says to the petite woman helping her set up the chairs.
“Tell us the story behind what you’ve created.” Linda, another judge pipes in, as she joins them in getting their stage ready.
“Given that I had a whole year to think about it, I feel as if my hands connected well with my brain, because I just let them both go to town,” Henrietta says, smiling about the experience.
By this time, the rest of the judges have joined them. Henrietta beams at the attentiveness of her four colleagues toward her work. “The setting is classical–a wintry scene with a half-created snowman; that’s because Santa was interrupted by Rudolf the Red-nosed reindeer whose nose had fallen off. The elves are crawling about under a Christmas tree, which happens to be topped by Rudolf’s red nose.”
“How clever. It sounds intricate,” Donny, the only male judge says.
“Yes, I used a lot of different colors to make them all stand out.”
“We better get a move on. People are streaming in. Why, look at that ugly sweater.” The other judges look in the direction she’s gazing. Suitably impressed, they conclude all the sweaters are ugly. They disband and mingle with the crowd.
Soon after the end of the ugly sweater story telling event, the parade starts. About a hundred or so people walk around the room, proudly displaying their frontal artwork to the five judges, each absorbed and taking notes, some murmuring among themselves.
At long last, the judges come to their final decision. As the one who crocheted the prize, Henrietta announces the winner. She wheels in a clothes rack, which has a vinyl garment bag hanging from the top. Eagerly, she unzips the opaque casing. As she takes out the sweater, she gapes as she sees a plain red sweater without the swirls, pomp-poms, appliques, ribbons, and yards of yarn she has applied. She sputters, “This is not the sweater I made!”
One of the judges cries out, “Someone has stolen it!”
Never before in the history of the event has this ever happened. Without much experience in such matters, the Ugly Sweater Convention planners promise the good people that day that they will launch a full investigation. Leading the charge will be the famed Detective David LaFoote, well known in their town as the sharpest tool in the shed.
[A trilogy of “seamy” stories about the lure of ugly sweaters; 1 of 3]
Image: Pixabay
The air is full of excitement. Tomorrow is Ugly Sweater Day and everyone is looking forward to it. People are staying longer in the water dispenser talking about their sweaters.
“My sweater has one big boob on one side, covered with a green pom-pom. Beat that!”
“Yah, that’s ugly. But mine has the body of a penguin on the front, right under the neckline.”
Snatches of conversation followed by guffaws can be heard in every corner. Darren sits at his desk, working, but obsessing on how he still doesn’t have an ugly sweater to wear for the big day. He went to Target over the weekend but the prices for ugly sweaters had been hiked. He’s not about to spend $35 for a sweater he wouldn’t wear more than once a year. Then, he remembers the discount department store at an outdoor shopping mall, which is a 15-minute walk from his office park.
When lunchtime approaches, Darren hurriedly heads over to the mall. He is forced to walk because his car is at the garage and not available until tomorrow. As much as he dislikes treading over roads with no sidewalks, he hates it even more if he doesn’t have an ugly sweater to wear the next day.
Having successfully reached the store, Darren goes to the clearance rack. He pumps his fist up in the air when he finds what he considers the ideal. After paying for it, he practically runs outside to get moving. The walk feels long because he has to retrace the terrible route that got him here. He clutches his bag as he tries to avoid being run down.
Suddenly, he’s knocked off his feet and lands on the small strip of dirt, off by the roadside. Did he get hit by a car? He feels as if he’s been punched in the back. What was it? As he raises his head, he sees two feet running off. He realizes that he’s been pushed. He feels around for his bag and sees it’s been stolen. Close to tears, he gets up, dusts himself off, and heads back to the mall. Tomorrow he will wear an ugly sweater, come hell or high water.
Image: Pixabay
Everyone in the office was in a flurry. They all received the same white envelope with a blue seal.
“I can’t believe they’re going to do away with our tradition,” Dora says to Mary, whose office desk is just inches away from hers.
“You must admit that they were kind enough to give us advance notice so we can start saving for our holiday dinner now.” Mary waves the letter from their company’s President, copied to Human Resources and their holiday ham supplier, “Ham Hocks ‘r You, Me, and Us, LLC”.
Dora sighs as she rereads the letter to Mary:
Dear Valued Employee,
As our company is known to be charitable and humanitarian minded, we will be donating on your behalf the holiday ham to those more in need. I am sure you feel the same as I that this is for a good cause. To save up to purchase your ham for yourselves this holiday, see HR to have additional deductions made from your paycheck.
In keeping with the giving spirit, your holiday bonus will be donated to the company’s annual holiday party. We can all look forward to this year’s buffet spread including two meat choices of roast and ham, plus two desserts. As a bonus, two more raffle items can be added to our usual three door prizes.
I look forward to seeing you all at the holiday party.
Holiday wishes,
Brent Grimbsy
President, CEO, MBA, BSC, NBC, DeET, LDA, MlPH
Image by blogetta
Will rises early, eager to please his mother, whose birthday is today of all days. He shuffles to the kitchen to make her a special breakfast. He looks in the refrigerator but finds it bare. He checks the pantry and sees cobwebs in it. Remembering another refrigerator in the house, he goes downstairs to the basement.
What a senile moment, he chuckles to himself. Of course, he stocks the downstairs fridge so no one can see the exotic food he keeps. He takes out a plastic container and brings it upstairs.
After fussing around the kitchen and making all the fixings, Will carries a tray of food down a short hallway. He stops in front of a closed door and knocks.
“Mama?” He calls out softly and gently opens the door. He sets down the tray on a dusty dresser and walks to the bed where a desiccated looking body is laying under a blanket.
“Rise and shine, birthday gal.” Will sits the figure up. “I made your favorite, scrambled brain, Mama.” He gets the tray and places it on the bed between the remains and himself. Sitting across from her, he talks about the things they’ll do to celebrate her birthday. Every year he finds it easier to face his mother because his vision is growing weaker. He doesn’t like seeing how his mother ages.
Image: Pixabay
Rich’s eyes water from fatigue, the bags under his eyes are dark from weeks of not being able to sleep through the night. The sleep specialist he had finally gone to see gave him specific instructions to reset his circadian clock. He cannot take naps and he has to stay up until 12:30 A.M. for the first week, and then get up at exactly 6:30 the next day. The amount of sleep he can expect will incrementally increase an hour each week until he can hold a six- to eight-hour straight sleeping pattern. Such a possibility inspires Rich to do all he can not to succumb to a quick nap on his recliner chair, where he has dozed off so many times. Before he gets too comfortable, he decides to go outside and take a walk. At 11:30 at night he can be assured of getting that extra hour of jolt.
Zing. Dodging a bullet from a drive-by shooting, he drops down to the sidewalk. Hurriedly, he gets up to cross the street before he runs into a group of drunken young punks who sound like they’re looking for a fight. He walks to the little patch of green they call a park in the area, breathing in deeply only to inhale smoke from a bum savoring the last tip of his cigarette. Quickening his pace, he goes further down a street he doesn’t think he’s ever been through. Always learning something new, he thinks, as a howl pierces through his thoughts. Sounds too close. He looks around. A few feet down he sees two glittering red eyes sitting atop a hairy animal face. Without further curiosity, he turns and tracks back to his home like he’s never done before.
Upon reaching his place, he opens the door and immediately shuts it. As he finishes locking the last of the three deadbolts, he hears someone clearing their throat. Slowly, he turns around. A very pale man with arched eyebrows smiles, revealing two particularly sharp teeth gleaming on either side of his mouth.
“How’d you get in here?” As soon as Rich asks, he simultaneously recalls going outside and not locking up because of the screech of tires and the shooting that followed.
“When the door is unlocked, it implies an invitation,” the man replies, walking toward Rich with arms extended, as if drawing him in. “As your guest, I thought I’d give you a gift.” He gets closer to Rich, who is paralyzed and mesmerized at the same time. Then, all becomes dark.
When Rich comes to, he finds himself sprawled on his La-Z-y Boy recliner. “Oh no, I took another nap,” he says, getting up from his chair and heading to the bathroom. He washes his face and looks at the mirror. He notices two puncture holes on the side of his neck. He shivers. Behind him is a pale man whose grin is not reflected in the mirror.
Karina Pinella 
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