flash fiction, satire, horoscopes, & more
A concussion leaves Guido unable to speak in the past tense. One day a sinister-looking man in a pizzeria hears him say, “I get the stromboli when I’m here last week.”
The man, a local mobster, thinks Guido is in witness protection. When Guido leaves the store, the man follows.
The only birthday cards that Edward received were from three creditors and his parole officer. “Why let other people’s preoccupations with their lives spoil the party?” he thought. He sent himself an anonymous e-mail, agreed to meet the sender for dinner, and wasn’t shy about sex on the first date.
Billy hated mimes. He loved poking fun at (shadowing) them until one day a vindictive mime replaced Billy’s shadow with a copy of his. After several embarrassing daylight incidents and a near arrest on obscenity charges, Billy began going out only at night. Soon he stopped going out at all.
Screen name Commander or Princess.
Wants to meet in PetSmart.
Measures height to shoulders.
Asks how old you are in dog years.
Thinks computer’s “pause” button is misspelled.
Asks if you’re fixed.
Avoids exchanging photos.
Re-roofed summer house for $100.
Can’t understand fuss about quintuplets.
Too interested in e-mailman’s schedule.
“Your face is like the blue screen of death.”
“Sorry. I’ve encountered a fatal exception in my heart. You.”
“We are an outdated operating system, incompatible with the future.”
“You are the malware that corrupts my operating system.”
“As of today your program is no longer eligible for tech support.”
Postmodern philosophy is the mycelium from which the toxic fungi of skepticism, sarcasm, deconstructionism, ironic politeness, and self-aware apologies emerge.
These are nourished by a distrust of grand narratives and a single-minded pursuit of power in human interactions.
Postmodernism has also been described as modernism with the cheerfulness taken out.
Jeffrey, trying not to make a sound, stumbled into the sofa in the darkened living room.
Suddenly a small dog started barking insanely.
“Wait,” he thought, “we don’t have a dog.”
Then a light and a woman facing him with a gun.
“Wait,” he thought, “That is not my wife.”
If ever you hear someone make this claim, change the subject fast; otherwise you’ll be sorry to learn that “spiritual” folks believe in some batshit notions–crystals, astrology, sweat lodges, yoga, Ouija boards, Tarot cards, the I Ching–that make the notion of Jesus walking on water seem downright plausible. Amen.
“Bless me father for I have sinned.”
“And who hasn’t?”
“It’s been four months since my last confession.”
“Did you break a leg?”
“Uh, no father …”
“Is this going to take long?”
“Well …”
“Look, whatever you’ve done, I’ve heard it all. Your sins are forgiven. Now get lost.”
The magazine’s brand new “Pot Mortem” column identifies those strains as:
White Küntz (the umlaut didn’t fool anybody, Skippy);
Bedhead OG (woke and broke);
Pwr Bttm (lost its power when the band did);
Tim Tebow Reserve (associated with knees lock in both sexes);
Biden OG (old, tired, stale, and costly).