Don’t Call Me a White Person Any More

Recently I was informed by the entrail readers at 23&Me that I am 1/500 sub-Saharan African or any other non-white subgroup. I was delighted by this revelation. In one small but insignificant stroke my street cred went up, as did my “offensive” explanations for my curly hair and my fondness for fried chicken.


Joint Venture

My married visitor arrived with a bottle of vodka and the scratch-and-sniff issue of Hustler.

“Here, tell me if that’s what it smells like.”

“Will it wash off?”

We smoked a joint. 

Next morning she said, “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Conscience bothering you?”

“No. Smoking a joint. I’m pregnant.”

On Churches and Cookies

a road sign pointing in five different directions

When his self became a fear he couldn’t outrun, he woke his wife, and they drove through the night to comfort him. In those dark hours, they passed closed churches and open cookie shops. Normally he would have said something clever about that fact, but now it only frightened him.