It was straight up midnight and I woke with a start. Was it a dream? A nightmare? Maybe a bit of both?
I had scheduled my #FridayFlash to auto-publish, but I had a nagging feeling that something was not quite right. It took a few minutes to boot up the computer and log in. At exactly 13 minutes into the witching hour I opened up otoh, but it was blank. Then suddenly, my Twitter page opened — or something that sort of looked like my Twitter page.
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Note: While you are here, can I impose on you for a few moments to respond to my “Writing for Snob’s” post? Thanks!
There are still some surprises left in the world. I don’t think anyone expected we would find a spider that makes the Goliath Birdeater Tarantula, previously believed to be the world’s largest spider, look tiny in comparison. Where else but in the Amazon, in itself a name that denotes a grand scale? And I’m quite certain that no one expected the Humongous Tapirtrapper Tarantula to be quite so tasty.
We in the “civilized” world would still be ignorant of the beast, and its culinary possibilities, were it not for recent incidental contact with one of the extant indigenous tribes. Brazil has the largest number of “lost tribes” of anyplace on earth. Some of these tribes have apparently been hunting and eating the spider for countless generations. Their favorite method is to chop off the legs, scrape off the hairs — which are really more like short spikes — and roast the body over an open flame. Then a glaze of guava or papaya is applied. It is served on a stone slab and carved into pie-shaped sections. The fangs are a particular delicacy and give the diner an experience similar to that of Japanese Fugu.
Just this week the five-star Restaurante de Roda Raiada opened in Rio de Janeiro with two Humongous Tapirtrapper Tarantula-based recipes at the top of their menu: Coxinha Aranha and Empanada Aranha. The spider meat is shredded, spiced, and encased in dough before it is fried or baked. Purists, however, complain that both dishes taste too much like anaconda.
I have developed what I think is a deliciously simple recipe for Humongous Tapirtrapper Tarantula and dumplings. The hairs are burned off with a blow torch and then the whole spider is boiled in a large pot with my special blend of vegetables and spices. The dumplings are steamed on top. Sure, it’s not exactly a traditional South American dish and I don’t claim that it tastes like chicken, but everyone gets a drumstick.
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What are the odds? I’ve always hated when people say that. Most of us have no real appreciation for matters of chance. We believe that things we want are much more likely to happen than they really are and things we don’t want are less likely. I didn’t wake up today feeling lucky. Or unlucky.
Odds of winning Powerball Grand Prize: 1 in 195,249,054. Odds of being struck by lightning in the United States in any single year: 1 in 700,000.
She has the softest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. We met in the grocery store when she hit me with her shopping cart. I’ll always wonder whether she did that on purpose, but I flatter myself at the thought. Anyway, we chatted a bit while a good size bruise formed on my leg. We made plans to meet later for coffee. I kept thinking, “Things like this just don’t happen to me.”
I know what you’re thinking, punk. You’re thinking “did he fire six shots or only five?” Now to tell you the truth I forgot myself in all this excitement. But being this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world and will blow your head clean off, you’ve gotta ask yourself a question: “Do I feel lucky?” Well, do ya, punk? ~Dirty Harry
I went on about my business for the rest of the afternoon with a bit more bounce in my step tempered by the pain of that bruise which was turning the most brilliant colors. Sure, we were just meeting for coffee, but that doesn’t stop a guy from considering whether there are more intimate possibilities. What? It could happen.
Star light, star bright,
first star I see tonight,
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Oh darn, it’s a satellite
Little did I know, just about then a 6.5 ton satellite was tumbling out of orbit. As it entered the atmosphere it began breaking apart and burning. Much of it disintegrated, but pieces scattered over a swath several miles wide and a few hundred miles long. One of those pieces hit me right in the head. Who would ever have thought that a burning chunk of space debris would be the last thing to go through my mind? At least I gained some notoriety in death that I never did in life.
According to NASA, the chance of a piece of UARS debris hitting anybody anywhere in the world: 1 in 3,200.
So twice in one day my life took a wholly unexpected turn. How often does that happen? I’m going to miss that coffee date. Here’s the funny thing though. Don’t ask me how I know this, but had I lived she would have broken my heart. I sure dodged that bullet.
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Tiberius arrived with a young man in tow five minutes before my office was scheduled to close. He always brings me the most difficult cases. Difficult cases tend to be the most interesting though, so I ushered them into the exam room when I finished with the last of my regular patients.
“Doctor,” Tiberius maneuvered his ward between us. “This is James.” I shook hands with each of them.
At a glance I could see that the boy had a sore thumb — to me it stuck out like a dangling participle. “What can I do for you, James?” I asked.
He looked at me, then at Tiberius who nodded encouragement, then back at me. “Hopefully, you can help me to better read and write words and do maths,” he said brightly. Or what I’m sure he thought was brightly anyway.
I offered my most reassuring smile and handed him a pad and pencil. “Write down this sentence for me,” I said. “You’re too kind to your two kids for their own good.” I observed the way he wrapped his fingers in a virtual strange-hold around the defenseless writing instrument — that explained the thumb. He stuck out his tongue at some apparently specific angle and hunched over the pad of paper as though protecting a small animal.
He only asked me to repeat the sentence once. That was a more encouraging sign than I had expected. When he finished scratching at the paper he handed it back to me. His eyes held expectations far out of proportion to his ability.
I examined the product of his efforts. “UR 2 KYND 2 UR 2 KIDZ 4 THERE OAN GUD LOL.” It was heartbreaking.
“That’s fine,” I handed the paper back to him. “Now, if you add up all the numbers in that sentence, what do you get?”
His tongue returned to its working position and then he muttered, “Two and two is four, and two is six, and four is ten, and one is…” He held out the paper again. “Eleven!” he announced.
A generation ago any doctor in my position would be arranging to have the boy sterilized. Back then the mottoes were, “Genetics yes, phonetics no,” and “If you can’t add, you can’t multiply.” In our more enlightened age, I am duty-bound to try and help him.
“Thank you, James. Tiberius and I need to step outside for just a moment, okay?” I unwrapped a lollipop and handed it to him. Part of me wanted to explain which end went in his hand and which in his mouth, but I figured that if there’s anything he can do on his own it is probably sucking.
I grabbed a clipboard and an IEP manual as Tiberius led the way to the now deserted reception area. “We know he needs some physical rehabilitation for the way he holds the pencil,” he began. “And remedial work in spelling and grammar… and the maths….”
“Dammit, Tib,” I hissed, “I’m a Doctor of Education, not a miracle worker!”
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Notes: The lovely and talented [and a little bit scary sometimes, but in a good way] R.L. Treadway asked me to write a post about being a black sheep. [My first ever officially solicited guest post!] That’s up today on her site.
My #FridayFlash for today is Web Dogz, my contribution to the Writer’s Pets Contest on the FridayFlash.org site. You have until 31 August to enter. Entries are limited to 250 words. You must be registered on the FFDO website and join the contest group. All the details are on this page. [And if you don't have a pet of your own, feel free to write about my pups.]
My pups
Web Dogz
Chrome the Wonder Dog and her faithful sidekick, Luò the Poofy Pup, sat and surveyed their domain. “What have you girls been up to?” I asked.
“Oh, you know,” Chrome said in her usual, understated way, “same old, same old. Saving the World Wide Web.” Then she yawned, turned around three times and curled up for a nap.
“Woof,” added Luò.
“Wait,” I cried, “don’t fall asleep without telling me that story. How, exactly, did you save the World Wide Web and who or what did you save it from?”
“Geez, don’t get your boxers in a bunch.” Chrome rested her chin on her paws and peered at me through half-closed eyes.
“Woof,” added Luò.
“Please, go on,” I said.
“It’s nothing,” said Chrome. “We do this all the time… surf the web, search for problems, then fix them. This time we found some trolls on Google+ and we chased them off.”
“Well,” I hesitated, “as much as I appreciate that I can just block the trolls. I’m not sure that you chasing them counts as ‘saving the World Wide Web’ does it?”
“Really?” Chrome’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You don’t think so?”
I admit, I was afraid, but I stood my ground. “Yeah, on the Internet, no one can tell you’re a dog. I don’t think I believe your story at all.”
“Hrumph, see if I bother protecting you any more.” And with that she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
“Woof,” added Luò.
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This blog is my playground.
I make mistakes here. That’s part of the fun.
I am inconsistent in my schedule. I am inconsistent in the quality and content of my posts. I know that these things reduce traffic to my site.
I will not claim that your visits and comments do not matter to me. If they really didn’t matter, I would still be scribbling exclusively in journals, on scraps of paper, and on the occasional cocktail napkin or slightly used paper bag.
I actually like your visits and comments quite a lot. In fact, I would go so far as to say I love comments. But I will not be a comment whore. [I'm cheap, but I'm not easy.]
I like looking at site stats and seeing visitors from around the globe. That is one of the coolest things ever. I want to travel all over and see where you live. Not in a stalkerish way. I mean, I’m not going to show up at your house one day. [But, just so I know, if I hypothetically were to show up, could I stay the night on your couch?]
Also, I like seeing that some of my posts rank high in certain searches. Actually, this post started out as one of those posts about some of the crazy search terms that have brought people here. And the few posts that have consistently brought in traffic because of certain words and/or pop-culture references. But those pretty much always bring in one-time visitors. Besides, my life has drifted too far outside the pop-culture mainstream for me to be one of those bloggers all the time. Even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.
Oh, and this blog got a visit last week from a U.S. Government agency. But unless I can find out whether they’re checking on me or it was just someone screwing around during a coffee break, probably the less said about that the better. In fact, let’s just forget that I mentioned it.
So, um, for now I plan to keep posting flash fiction of questionable taste, poetry of questionable quality, and personal experiences of questionable relevance. Any questions?
If you’re wondering about the title of this post:
Note: This story includes characters that I introduced here and here.
The sign on my door says, “J.P. Worthett, Private Investigations.” Last month I had three clients and they all stiffed me on their bills. Today I don’t have any clients so I figure I’m losing less money. I pulled the bottle of bourbon from my desk drawer and poured a shot to celebrate. Just then the door creaked open.
In bounced a blustery brute bearing a meat cleaver. I started to reach for my gun when I remembered I hocked it to replenish my supply of bourbon. So I reached for my shot glass instead. “Worthett,” he bellowed, “I am Chef Keillor. You must help me!”
I sipped the bourbon. “Easy there, big fella. Of course I’ll help you. Whose chef did you kill?” I focused on his eyes — as much as I could focus on anything — and resisted the urge to stare at the cleaver as he waved it about.
He appeared confused. “No,” he said, “my name is Chef Keillor. I kill no one, but they say I do!”
Suddenly there was commotion behind him and four beauties burst in all babbling at once.
“I guess it can’t hurt to ask if –”
“– helped us so much before –”
“– the best investigator in the whole –”
“– I’m hungry!”
Pearl and her daughters Amber, Opal, and Ruby crowded in. Women of my dreams. Sort of. I pulled myself to a standing position. “Good morning, ladies.”
“Worthett!” they chorused. I wonder if they practice that?
“You know the killer chef I take it?” I dropped back into my chair.
“I kill no one!” Keillor insisted, but the way he waved that cleaver around I figure he might have chopped someone to pieces and not even noticed.
Pearl took charge. Thankfully, she also took the cleaver away from the chef. “Worthett, we want to hire you to clear the name of our good friend here, Chef Keillor.”
She placed the cleaver on my desk and I quickly transferred it to inside the top drawer. Then I took another sip of bourbon, just to settle my nerves. Beautiful women always unsettle my nerves.
“Who did he kill? I asked, and as Keillor opened his mouth to protest his innocence yet again I halted him with an upraised hand. “Cool it there, Cookie. If the lovely Pearl here is going to pay the bill I want to hear her version of the story first. Then we’ll throw yours at the wall and see what sticks.” Opal giggled and her sisters elbowed her in the ribs to quiet her. I turned my attention back to Pearl.
“Thank you,” Pearl proffered a tight-lipped smile. “No one actually died, but there were a considerable number of cases of rather severe intestinal distress the day after our dinner party last week.” So this is as much for your reputation as it is for the chef’s. “Chef Keillor catered the affair for us and now some of our guests are insinuating that he poisoned them.” This time she stopped the open-mouthed Keillor with a touch on his sleeve. “Which, of course, is nonsense. He can hardly build up his business if he kills all his clients.”
Don’t I know it! My P.I. career got off to a rocky start. “Who was at this dinner party?”
“Oh, everyone in our social circle. Luna Callander and her daughters, April, May, and June. Kay Butler and her daughters, Bee-bee, Cee-cee, and Dee-dee. My girls’ fiancés, of course, Thomas, Richard, and Harold. Did I mention this was a triple engagement party? My babies are all getting married!” Opal giggled again and all three of the younger women blushed.
“Congratulations, Ma’am,” I said to Pearl. “And best wishes to each of you,” I winked at the girls inspiring another blush. “I’m sure the lucky gentlemen must all be quite special.” I turned to Keillor. “What was on the menu, chef?”
I thought the buttons on his shirt, already under considerable strain, were going to pop off as he swelled with pride. “My specialty, red herring surprise.”
My gut told me that was no clue. Also that it was glad I wasn’t at that dinner. “And you say everyone got sick the next day?”
He deflated like a falling soufflé. “Sadly, it seems so. But it couldn’t have been my food. It’s my specialty.”
I thought he was going to cry right there in front of us. I can’t stand to see a grown man cry, so I remained seated and sipped my bourbon. “What day was your shindig?” I asked Pearl. I refrained from opining that my invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. We all know I’ve never been part of their social circle.
“Friday. We all missed the downtown gallery opening on Saturday.”
Something clicked. I rooted through the wastebasket for last week’s newspapers. Finally, a reason to be glad I couldn’t afford a cleaning service. I found the society page I was looking for and held it up for the crowd in my office to see. “Not everyone was too sick to attend the gallery opening, it seems.” There was a communal gasp and then they all started talking at once.
“Of all the nerve –”
“– get my hands on those strumpets –”
“– knew they were jealous –”
“– can we eat now?”
I stood and raised my hands. “Hold on, now, hold on.” When they quieted I sat and downed the rest of my bourbon. “This isn’t iron-clad proof. I’ll be glad to look into this further for you.” In the newspaper photo the fresh-faced femme fatales Bee-bee, Cee-cee, and Dee-dee smiled up at us. “Still,” I concluded, “I think we can be pretty sure… the Butlers did it.”
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In a bold attempt to leapfrog to the front of the social media frenzy Yahoo!, the legendary search engine and web portal company, unveiled today its new Yahoo# (pronounced Yahoo Sharp) service.
Yahoo#, abbreviated Y# by alpha testers (and YTF by critics), allows members to choose up to three user names for each account, thus sidestepping some of the privacy and pseudonym issues that recently stirred controversy in Google’s policies on their popular Google Plus service. User names are called #Aliases. #Techs from Yahoo#’s development team stated that they expect #Users to establish #Public, #Private, and #Secret #Aliases.
#Users organize their relationships as @Spheres of Influence. Typical @Spheres might include @Friends, @Family, @Coworkers, and @ssholes (they need not all be positive influences). @Spheres are managed by Y#’s !VennSet system (patent pending) which includes !Infinite, !Finite, !Subset, !Intersection, !Union, !Complement, !Difference, and !Null relationships between @Spheres and their #Members.
#Users contribute content by broadcasting it through the &Amplifier to one of their @Spheres (or some !VennSet of their @Spheres). Other #Users can then show approval with ^Carrots, show disapproval with |Sticks, add +Comments, and &Amp it to their own @Spheres (or some !VennSet of their @Spheres).
The &Amps that #Users broadcast to their @Spheres may be *Tagged with topics of interest. *Tags in turn create $Strings (threads) that link &Amps, #Users, and @Spheres together. #Techs caution however that $String theory has not been thoroughly tested and may result in alternate or parallel ~Universes. Alternate and parallel ~Universes are unsupported.
In an effort to fend off flame wars, cyberbullying, general meanness, and other troll-like behavior #Users are prohibited from using #Aliases as *Tags. This applies to the #Aliases of other #Users as well as a #User’s own #Aliases. The Y# ToS clearly states, “Please do not make an * of #Yourself.”
Y# is currently in beta testing by invitation only.
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It occurred to me recently that the aphorisms, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure” and “One man’s meat is another man’s poison” both mean pretty much the same thing. [Yeah, I know. Not exactly the same thing, but close enough I think. At least close enough for what I'm going to say next....]
It also occurred to me that if I had titled this post “One Man’s Meat,” chances are good that you would have wildly different expectations before reading past the title. [If you dared to at all.]
This is how my brain works.
Shoulders squared and right hand raised, I solemnly swore to “tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” I was prepped and preened. I was ready — no, anxious — to proceed. I would be brilliant, charming, incisive.
The lead prosecutor and I exchanged a brief greeting. I recited my credentials: education, training, experience, published papers. I was accepted without objection as an expert witness.
With aplomb I watched more than listened to the first question. I had promised myself I wouldn’t clear my throat, but it’s an old habit I fell back into. Recomposing myself, I began, “Well, George Bernard Shaw once said — ”
“Objection! Non-responsive.” The defense attorney was on his feet.
The judge peered quizzically at me over his spectacles. “It’s a yes or no question. Please listen carefully to each question and answer succinctly.”
“Yes, your honor.” I gulped.
The prosecutor glared at me and hesitated a moment. “No further questions.”
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For the story behind this story look here.
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