Category: Dark humor

A Package

The Mid-Michigan Word Gatherers writing prompt:

What is it that I want, today, now? More specifically, what is it that I want that could be delivered in a box? Well one thing I really want is a box from all the people who deliver my boxes, with a message inside saying that they are not going to leave my packages on my steps outside to get rained on anymore. They have all been notified to leave all packages inside the door, but again and again my packages are left outside to notify the passers-by that nobody is home.

Five years ago, I came home to find my door much more easily opened than usual. Then I found stuff on the floor that I didn’t leave. Then I noticed my jewelry box was gone. They left my outdated laptop. Then I noticed that the wine-colored Egyptian cotton American sewn Israeli owned company sheets I had ordered from JC Penny were sitting outside, on my steps. Invitation to break and enter.

He left the sheets.

The idiot could have walked in the unlocked basement door. But no, he had to break my 100 year old lumber, which of course is not available in the same dimensions anymore. Yes, I am blaming the post office.

More introspection here. Should I blame the Post Office more than the cops, who have failed to apprehend the perp? There were multiple additional B&E’s in the neighborhood in that time frame. I don’t know to whom I attach more blame. More importantly, what do I do with this feeling of needing to blame?

I feel compelled to invest my limited energy in different directions, that feel more meaningful to me, but this is one that really stirs up my aggravation. So I guess I should be grateful to the US Post Office, UPS and FedEx for showing me this unenlightened part of my greedy, egotistical self. At least that’s what the Buddhists would say.

Forget the Kool-Aid

Keep your eye on that little pot between the two plates…. From Left, junior priest, or “pandit,” my friend’s son, female relative, wife of my friend’s older brother, my friend’s older brother, who shaved his head and beard after not shaving for six months, in anticipation of this Bhagwat ceremony. The nose of my friend, Dharmendra (white scarf on his head) is poking out from behind the fancy red and tinsel shawl of his wife.

One of my current colleagues sometimes makes fun of himself by admitting he drank the Kool-Aid. Of course that was a sad time that most of us of a certain age remember, when the members of a religious cult drank cyanide laced Kool-Aid and died. Well, I am still alive to write this, so it wasn’t cyanide.

But it was a bit of shock to find out what the little pot contained, after my friend, Dharmendra, who has yet to approve a single sugar cane juice vendor, after 4 trips with him over 20 years, had waved his arm at me and the other two western women attending the Bhagwat (see Bhagwat- Day 1) – to indicate that yes, we should be offered spoons of the blessed holy liquid. It was quite bitter. I figured it was asofeotida (a special spice used in Indian cooking, whose name is not only casually linked with the work “fetid”). Well, ok. As I have previously noted, India is the land of surprises.

When the priest lifted the jug of golden liquid to fill the pot, the first French woman joked that it was whiskey. But no.

“C’etait l’urine de vache,” the second French woman informed me.

Really? I just drank cow pee?

Yes, it was a shock. For at least a minute. Then I remembered that my Zoroastrian friends had been discussing how the new excessively Americanized generation did not want to try this extremely healthful ritual. Mary Boyce, a reknowned, scholarly writer about the Zoroastrians, said that cow urine was the only disinfectant that the early nomadic herders had available.

Ok. Great. That really made me feel a wonderful relief.

I wonder if drinking the holy water was the cause of the very strange and vivid dreams I had last night. Not scary. Not seemingly prophetic. Just very strange and vivid. And one after another.

Well, if I am still alive to visit my Zoroastrian friends again in the future, I guess I can tell them I survived the ritual of their ancient cousins.

Curmudgeon’s Lament

Daily Prompt: Cur

Almost always been a grouch. Since the age of four, according to my mother.

I think it is because I was very sick that year, perhaps had a near death experience. That’s my after-the-fact explanation, anyway.

Decades later, I learned the word curmudgeon. One of my mentors was known as “the curmudgeon’s curmudgeon.” He had a heart of gold, and he became a good friend. Never had to paste a fake cheerfulness on my face when I was with him. Yet, he called me “Sunshine.” Haha. I really felt that was funny. This was still during the multiple decades when my first thought every morning was “Fuck. I’m still alive.”

Things are significantly better now. I have even had some stretches of months where my first thought was “at least I can understand waking up and thanking the Great Spirit for bringing me back to life.” But I always sink back into my curmudgeonly ways. It’s not that I’m ungrateful for the comforts I experience. I simply can’t overlook the enormity of the suffering caused by obstinate adherence to outdated moral codes. That is the biggest thing holding most of humanity in bondage, and however blessed I find my person, I wish the Great Spirit would give up its attraction to horror movies.

 

Alphabetical Advice

This was from a prompt to write a piece of advice for every letter of the alphabet. It was surprisingly easy. Of course, not all advice is suited for every situation! But I would guess that I have done most of these at some time. As far as killing my enemies, it’s been insects and woodchucks. Woodchucks are definitely my enemies!

After you have an epiphany, stop to make an aphorism.

Bring a cake when you go to a funeral.

Create something new every day!

Do the right thing!

Every deed requires its own remedy.

Fuck off!

Good people can still act like assholes, and it’s ok to demonstrate that for the benefit of the narrow minded.

Have a happy day!

Into every act, put intention.

Join at least five clubs, especially if you are anti-social.

Kill your enemies. Go ahead. Do it. It will give you karmic experience.

Let the other people worry about it.

Mean what you say and say what you mean.

Never shed a tear for a fascist.

Open the door to your heart.

Pop your corn in an air popper.

Quell your fears.

Rest in peace.

Step aside.

Top it off.

Uncover your light.

Vindicate yourself.

Wait for the right time.

X-ray your castings.

Yell when you need help.

Zip your lips.

 

To quote Janice Joplin…..that was my statement of great social import! 🙂

Super Flash Fiction

Before the end of the news broadcast, Sophia sat calmly on the couch. She rolled the tent peg loosely in her hand. As the anchor started to sign off, Sophia’s glazed eyes regained focus. “I warned him,” she thought. The meticulously detailed plan sprang into life before her.

Her grip tightened on the tent peg.

“The death will be gruesome,” she told her pet goldfish.

“After this, they will allow knives again,” Goldie answered.

THE END

 

I combined prompts from two writing exercises: “murder by tent peg,” and “before, after.” The rest of my writings from this morning were, as we say, “the compost from which the beautiful flowers of our writing might bloom.” This idea of being willing to write “compost” comes from famous writing guru Natalie Goldberg.