FireVaney

When Betty sleeps over, she sleeps in the room my mother and her older sister once slept in. Betty spends some part of the night and some part of the morning in Grandpop’s bedroom. She’d spend all night in Grandpop’s bedroom if he wasn’t such a snorer. One night, five years ago, I heard them trying to have sex. When they came downstairs the next morning, Grandpop said, “She’s my diamond. Sometimes I need to shine her up.” He laughed. Betty laughed, too; then said, “Sometimes he needs to shine me up.” Five years later, in the middle of the night, I don’t hear anything; but that doesn’t stop me from plugging my fingers with my ears by which I mean plugging my ears with my fingers whenever I have to use the upstairs bathroom in the middle of the night. That is to say if I plug my ears with my fingers or vice versa I only do it in the middle of the night. Have I not made myself clear?  A doctor recently asked Grandpop how he managed to look so young. Grandpop’s reply? “Lots of sex.”  From

Most of the time you’re a tangled mess. Running, for a period of no less than twenty minutes, straightens you out. That, or it straightens you out as much as can be expected; straightens you out better than just about anything else. Certainly, with respect to running, the effects are longer lasting—the stabilizing effects, the calming effects. But it takes effort to run. It takes dedication to run, to make it a daily habit. The day after a good, long, hard run you feel drained—at least you do lately —and this makes it a chore to attempt it daily. It is better to feel drained than it is to feel anything else or anything more. Curse all that extra effort it takes to feel lust, or love.  9 March 2007

A wealthy man, his wife, and all of his children die in a plane crash. Eighty other passengers die with them, along with the entire flight crew. Very tragic. It’s why I don’t fly. If planes were made of rubber and could bounce off the ground, like a balloon or a beach ball (but not like a tennis ball or a basketball), perhaps I’d modify my position. But they aren’t, so I won’t. Regardless, roughly three and a half weeks after the aforementioned plane crash, an attorney knocks on the door of the wealthy man’s next of kin. Said attorney claims to represent the illegitimate children of the man in question. He (said attorney) offers a deal to protect the dead man’s reputation (from disgrace). Naturally, the legitimate next of kin is/are doubtful. Ah, but the attorney came prepared. He supplies them (the legitimate next of kin) with birth certificates and photos of the dead man with his mistress and illegitimate children. Said attorney offers to arrange a meeting with said mistress and/or s

My specialty? Delicious morsels of vomit. I bake them in my grandmother’s oven. The oven doesn’t exactly work. You turn the dial and it smells gassy. It smells gassy even though the pilot light is on. I should call somebody to fix it, but I’m too cheap. And lazy. Or busy. Yes, “I’m busier than a one-toothed man in a corn-on-the-cob eating contest.” What am I busy with? Stuff. Things. None of your cotton-pickin’ bus-wax. Just now, I’ve looked up that word: “bus-wax.” I wanted to see if it qualified for legitimacy. I’ve not thought of the word “bus-wax” for many years. In sooth, it’s not: “bus-wax,” but: “beeswax.” The dictionary I’m looking at (when I’m not looking at this, or at anything else) offers two definitions. The first defines “beeswax” as “the wax secreted by bees to make honeycombs and used to make wood polishes and candles…” I didn’t know about the “wood polishes and candles” part. We’re really gonna miss those bees when they all buzz off into oblivion. The second definitio