FireVaney's

Ma bought me a futon. It’s twice as wide as the bed I’ve been sleeping on most of my life. So now I need to get rid of that old twin bed. But it’s a spare surface. For stuff. For piles of stuff. Yes, technically, the floor is a surface, too. So, what I mean is, the bed is a good raised surface. For stuff. For piles of stuff. Not that I have much stuff or many piles of it. But piles tend to multiply like gremlins  in water. Just ask StepDude. Three rooms of the house he shares with Ma are crammed with pillars of magazines and manuscripts and thick newspapers.  My new futon, like many futons, folds into a sofa. But I’ll have to take all the sheets off when I have company. Well, I guess I don’t have to, but it would be the hygienic thing to do. Or, maybe I just won’t have company. Should I change the pants I’ve worn all day before sitting on it? Nah. It’s not like I spend my days seated upon filthy surfaces. [Assuming I don’t venture onto a CTA bus or "L" train.] Rather, I sp

Ma and Stepdude traded in their new SUV for a newer SUV. Ma swears this one will be the last one. But that’s what she said about the last one and the one before that. Seems like Ma and Stepdude jones for a new SUV every time the Earth tilts. Doesn’t help that they’re both hooked on TV, that the TV’s always on, and that Stepdude’s a lifetime subscriber to Car & Driver magazine. It’s a game they play, dreaming up the rationale to trade in whatever new car they own. The last one gave Ma a rash. (Supposedly.)  Ma goes, Dust mites.  I go, That what the doctor said?  Ma goes, He’d say, “Don’t bug me about dust mites.”  So I go, Second opinion?  Ma waves me off. Then scratches her leg.  So I go, You fix the Electrolux?  And Stepdude, he goes, I think we tossed it.  Ok. So. How ‘bout a new one?  A new car ?  A new Electrolux . Or a Hoover.  Pshaw! Maybe when we pay off the Hummer.  (Ok, maybe not “ Pshaw! ” But that was the intention.)  Together, Ma and Stepdude earn just enough, mayb

Cindi finds Mac whimpering under her desk. No, Mac isn’t a co-worker. He’s not some random dude, either. He’s Cindi’s boss’s golden retriever puppy.  (Later, when Cindi shares this news with me, she adds that her boss moonlights as an analyst for the NSA. The extra moolah supposedly supports his cocaine habit.)  Cindi captures her boss’s attention long enough to point out that something purple protrudes from Mac’s butthole.  Cindi’s boss calls from his office. “Here, Mac!” He whistles in that shrill, staccato way some dog owners do. “Here, boy!”  The hapless pooch waddles in. Every few feet he stops to squat. He doesn’t squeeze anything out. He can’t. Cindi’s boss crouches for a closer look at the purply wad. He follows Mac around the office on his hands and knees.  Finally, he says, “I know what this is.”  He reaches out and pinches the purple lump. Then he pulls at it. The puppy’s whimper swells. The purple thingy stretches. Cindi bunches her fingers and presses them to her lips. She

The time has come for all men to eat their cookies after dipping them in milk. This must happen at the same time. All men must do this at the exact same time. We shall define a man as any male having had at least one wet dream. That should do it. Scientists have recently discovered that a build-up of testosterone – combined with the consumption and absorption of milk and cookies (chocolate chip cookies) – will result in a physical and chemical reaction that will, ultimately, decrease global warming. Regrettably, the latest research also shows that when women come together to consume milk and cookies their collective estrogen level has the reverse effect – indeed, global warming increases . Thus, scientists have theorized that the best way to fight global warming is not to attempt to reduce so-called “green-house” gasses, but to round up men and get them to stuff their faces with milk and cookies. Yes. Milk and cookies. How wonderful. Nobody is going to believe it, though; hence, we are