Fantastic Fibbing Friday

Pensitivity101 had a bit of fantasy last week. What can you come up with for these?

1. Whose home planet is Skaro?

Al Capone.

2. What would you expect to find in Dinotopia?

Chicken broth, shredded chicken breast, chopped leeks, and small potato cubes.  This soup is so good, it not only cures the common cold, it’ll cure COVID.

3. Who was born on Krypton?

All the code-breaker nerds who work for the American NSA, and the British GCHQ.

4. Where can you find Plutonium?

In my toilet bowl after a shit and stink sit and think session, following a feed of nachos.

5. What colour blood would a Martian have?

The Martian was a red-blooded American astronaut who, as in most American movies, triumphed against impossible odds.

6. Whose home planet is Gallifrey?

The newly-hired non-human, full-time chef on Dr. Who’s TARDIS.  A hedgehog from the Medusan Galaxy, with his superior senses of smell and taste, he can whip up an omelet or paella that will make your taste buds weep for joy.

7. Whose home world is Eternia?

These were the evil aliens who drafted the service protocols for all Government offices.  You stand in line, to be allowed to stand in a different line.  Just as you reach the service counter, your clerk slaps down a sign which reads, This wicket is closed.  Please stand in line.  If you do manage to sneak up on a clerk, they will demand a document that you don’t have, and possibly does not exist.

8. What was the Hyborian Age?

That was when the Czechoslobovian kid across the street could finally have a pint in the pub – legally.  His older brother, Tibor, has been gibing him for two years, and his younger brother, Jawor wants to use the Gregorian calendar.

9. Where would you find Pellucidar?

In any of Donald Trump’s speeches – half obscurity, half outright lies, half boasts and brags, half egotistic narcissism, and ALL buffalo manure.  Any clarity or truth is purely coincidental.

10. What is Thedas?

Like sand through the hourglass of time, these are Thedas of our lives.
This was a long-running American soap opera, mostly for bored housewives with no lives of their own.  I scrolled through on a Monday, and someone was leaving the room.  I happened back on the Friday, and the door was just closing.

Happy Birthday John E.

A funny thing happened on my way to the Post Office.  It wasn’t there.  😳

I sent John Erickson, who litters decorates my blogposts with witty comments, a birthday present.  His actual birthday is still over four months away, but I was using the Canadian, metric calendar, and got my conversions mixed up.  I sent BrainRants a birthday present some years ago, and there were very few repercussions, so I thought I’d risk it again.  Since it was by surface mail, TSA didn’t get involved.

The daughter’s bestie likes to buy the occasional commemorative coin from the Canadian Mint.  She claims that she only intended to buy one, but wound up with two coins medallions, celebrating the life of Queen Elizabeth II.  Since she knew that I was interested in coins, she gave one to the daughter to pass on to me.

While I am ‘interested in coins,’ I am interested in mostly foreign coins.  Even though this is a magnificent artifact, it is neither foreign, nor a coin.  It has no face value.  It is a medallion.  If I kept it, it would only languish in a box.  I thought of John E.  Despite being an American, marooned in the wilds of Ohio, he is a greater – finer, Anglophile, Royalist, and Elizabethan than I ever could be.  When Elizabeth died, he wailed so loudly that, “My Queen has died!!” that I thought he was talking about his wife.  I decided to send it to him as a surprise present.  I put it in a bubble-pack mailer, added a cover letter, and headed for the post office.

In Southern Ontario, Canada Post has a sorting and shipping depot in every large urban area.  All of the other Postal Services, they have abdicated to branches of the most populous pharmacy chain, as well as some selected convenience stores.  Certain clerks are supposed to be trained to Canada Post levels, on Canada Post protocols and procedures.  I have a pharmacy nearby, but I was headed for the Wal-Mart out on the Golden Mile, so I went to the drug-store next to it.

Some of the stores are mirror images of each other.  I marched in to the left-rear corner.  Hmmm, cosmetics.  I grumpily stomped over to the right-rear corner.  Grrr!!, vitamins.   Where in Hell is the postal outlet???  A clerk told me that they are the only branch which does not host one, and she had no idea why not.  The one by my house is nearer but, “If you’re going to the XXX Plaza, on the other side of town, there’s a store over there with a postal outlet.”

By coincidence, we were headed for that plaza, to reap savings on grocery sale prices.  This damned inflation is eating better than I am.  While the wife grocery-shopped, I walked over to the pharmacy and stood in line – and stood in line – AND STOOD IN LINE!!  That part of Postal Service, they have mastered.  The woman in front of me had a mailer identical to mine.  She finally stepped forward, handed it to the ‘Postal’ clerk, asked that he check that it was ready to go, and to please apply sufficient postage.  It was judged okay.  $2.08 later, she was on her way.  I stepped up, handed the same clerk the same mailer, and asked for the same thing – check that it was ready to ship and apply postage.  $2.08 later my little package was on its way.

I excitedly waited for an email from John, that the parcel had arrived….  Two weeks later, I went to the community mailbox to pick up my own mail, and there was my mailer back again.  It had a Canada Post sticker over my address label, with three little boxes – all checked.  Insufficient postage – Incorrect label – This service not available in this country  W.T.F!!?

The next day, I went to a convenience store.  It’s a bit farther than the pharmacy.  The people who run the store, and the Postal Outlet, are recent immigrants, but I’ve used them before, and feel confident.  I handed the clerk the package and asked what was wrong with it, and how could I correct any problems.

Three check marks – three lies!!  I had sufficient postage, but I was also expected to pay for a Customs Declaration of value.  My address label was correct, but I was expected to add the Customs label, because…. The country that didn’t provide the service was the USA.  “You’ll have to send this as a small parcel.”  “What the Hell is in your hand, if it’s not a small parcel??”  “Well, it needs the Customs sticker added to it.  How much is it worth??”  I received it as a present.  I don’t know!?

I guessed at $29.95 Cdn, hoping that John would not have to pay duty on it when he received it.  If he did, I should have guessed $9.95.  How much for the Customs sticker?  $10.00, do you want it traced??  I didn’t trace it the first time.  How much to trace?  “Only another $5.00.”  Screw that!  If it don’t arrive, I just won’t tell John I tried.

When I got home, and told the wife what had happened, she innocently said, “Well, we could have driven it down.”  Are you saying that we might go on a trip?  Further adventures may ensue.  😀

Four days later, I got an excited, grateful email from John.  Apparently, I done so good that he and his wife were willing to consider another short visit.  😎

Pisces, Libra, Virgo – But No Cancer

THE DEED IS DONE!
SHE MADE THE CUT!
(actually, someone else did)
THE WIFE IS HOME, SAFE AND SOUND, WITH ONLY FOUR NEW HOLES IN HER HIDE.

When last we left our comely heroine, she was waiting for a surgeon to schedule an operation to remove a possibly cancerous polyp from her duodenum.  A Japanese doc was to do it on March 29^th for a YouTube instruction video.  On the 27^th, the office said that he had declined.  The schedule reverted to April 16.  On the 12^th, the secretary of the Toronto endoscope surgeon reported that he felt he didn’t want to risk removing her Cancer and referred her to a thoracic surgeon at another Toronto hospital.

He needed a CAT-scan to know what he was getting into, and scheduled one at a local hospital.  When she got there, they told her that they would be using medical dyes for image contrast.  Previous such dyes have caused serious allergic reactions.  They gave her a prescription for 2 Prednisone, a steroid that reduces swelling, and 2 heavy-duty antihistamines.  When she obtained them, and tried to rebook the test, she found that only the doctor could do that.  April came and went.

She finally got the scan on May 5^th; he got the results and called on the 8^th.  His office would email some authorization forms, and schedule the operation – soon.  Then we were told that she had to have another CAT-scan of her lungs.

Finally, the operation was scheduled for June 15^th.  The doctor who we were dealing with was the head surgeon – the bureaucratic manager – of a three-doctor team.  He passed her off to yet another surgeon, a youngish female Chinese-Canadian with great hands, and good control.  In the end, the operation was not performed by a Ninja, but by a Kung Fu queen.

She told me that she would try to do it laproscopically, for minimal invasion – should take about three hours.  If there were problems, she’d have to incise, and open the abdomen – about eight hours.  At 3-1/2 hours, I began to worry.  At 4, and 4-1/2, I worried harder.  Finally, just at the five hour mark, I was told that it was over.

Kung Fu Katy told me that there had been some minor delays, but she’d been able to do it lapro.  Between the CAT-scan, and the poking around, she knew exactly where it was.  She cut a tiny circle and popped it right out.  Initial hospital test said that it was not cancerous, but it got sent to a lab for macro testing.

We hope that the growth shows no cancer, or that it is minor and contained.  Free, socialized medicine or not, a person could die of all this bureaucracy.

***

The wife’s four-week, post-op check-up has come and gone.  We thought that we might have to go to Toronto again, but the little surgeon was satisfied with a telephone interview.  Because of the stress of the surgery, and the anesthetic, she’s a little weaker and more disoriented than before, but the four little drill-holes all healed up nicely.

There had been enough time that the lab report was in.  While the growth was sprinkled with pre-cancerous cells, there was no indication that any of them had mutated.  She has been declared cancer-free.  We had hoped that the polyp was the cause of previous bouts of irritable bowel, causing extreme pain and diarrhea, but since she’s had one post-op bout, that hope has been dashed.

The surgeon mentioned that she might refer the wife back to the endoscope doc at the other hospital, just so that he could check from the inside that all was well.  The wife has experienced no problems, no pain, no noticeable internal bleeding.  We have not heard from the endo-doc.  If we ever do, it may necessitate another commuter-train adventure.

Thanx for your interest and concern.  😀

’23 A To Z Challenge – G

I’ve locked and barred the door against a raid from the Woke Police.  Bill Cosby used to be funny.

Coz worked some clubs, and dropped a couple of funny albums in the early ‘60s.  By 1965 someone felt that it would be a good idea to put him on weekly TV.  He appeared in a secret-agent type show called I Spy.  Just so that the audience knew which one was the funny one, they teamed him up with Robert Culp, who was a bit intense, and as amusing as a root canal.

They played a pair of secret agents, posing as a couple of tennis bums.  It would have been nice to let Coz be the tennis player – like Arthur Ashe was, in real life, but network TV would not allow that.  Culp portrayed the tennis player, and Coz was relegated to be his coach/trainer.

Various world tennis tournaments were the excuse for them to be uncovering agents in Mexico City in June, or the Philippines in October.  It didn’t work so well for Bratislava in February.  During its three-year run, I Spy (sometimes comedically) referenced Russia, China, and Communist Cuba.  It also poked fun at social, political, and bureaucratic issues.

It showed that the life of an agent was not all adventure, dames, and champagne.  There were after-action reports, and expense account entries that would drive James Bond bonkers.  In one show, our Daring Duo submitted an expense claim for $25, for

GLASS PANTS

The gag for the show was that the finance department would not reimburse them without a complete explanation of what it was, and how it was valid.  Working in Mexico City, they had made friends with a street photographer, who saw all the comings and goings, as an informant.  He would not accept a payment for that, but before they left, he insisted that they let him take the $25 photo portrait of the two of them, as a souvenir.

Speaking poor, heavily-accented English, he told them to “Glass Pants,” and confusion and amusement ensued.  After the third command, they finally understood that he wanted them to “clasp hands” and shake like a graduate receiving a diploma from the Dean.

Ah, the Golden Age of television…. I still occasionally view it through the pair of rose-colored glasses that Elton John gave me.  I’ll put them away to see you back here in a couple of days.  😀

From Bad To Worse

Heeeere’s John E.  This is a tribute to the pride of Chicago – a man so impressive that he was born three days before Christ.  He said that he had no trouble turning 50.  He’s done it 10 times.  Happily Birthday!  😀 I wish him many more, but I want “Quality Of Life” to go along with that wish.

This is the man who put the ILL in Illinois, to the point where they forced offered him a free lifetime citizenship in South Turnipville, Ohio.  Older bloggers have seen his muddy footprints in their posts for years.  They can be distinguished from Sasquatch footprints by the fact that there are two left feet.

The (at least temporary) ouster of Donald Trump, has removed a pain in his ass, but as the age counter inexorably ticks upward, he has accumulated aches and pains elsewhere – migraines, and rheumatizz.

Bureaucrats at all levels are rushing to be at the forefront of the Woke movement.  To solve the problem of opioid overdoses and addiction, the DEA raided the offices of the only pain-management doctor – a physiatrist – in a large section of Kentucky.  Aha, you’re prescribing thousands of pills!  That’s dealer level!  He protested that he had hundreds of patients in extreme pain, careful, complete documentation, and justification.  Doesn’t matter!  We’re shutting you down, and seized his computers, files and stock.

A pharmacist in Virginia refused to fill an opioid prescription for a woman in final cancer stage, because he didn’t want her to become addicted.  Her adult daughter came in and screamed at him that her mother was in final stage, in constant, debilitating pain, that the medication had been legally prescribed, that her mother would be dead long before she ever became addicted, and if she wasn’t, addiction would be the least of her worries, and that if he didn’t perform his legally-mandated function, she would sue his ass.  Even then he wouldn’t do it without a signed waiver form.

My daughter is in a similar situation, not for any ethical or moral reason, but because the Provincial Government has wasted so much money on projects like paving over fertile farmland, to build unwanted, unneeded highways, that they’ve cut back on benefits to the vulnerable.  They wouldn’t replace her power wheelchair until a local manager raised a huge fuss.  I used to drive her 75miles to get xylocaine pain-med infusion – and met others who had driven 150 miles.  Too expensive the government said.  Go to one of the now-legal cannabis dispensaries, and pay for you own CBD oil, that doesn’t work anywhere near as well.

Johnny-In-A-Spot – Dear John – Big Bad John’s doctor, possibly worried about the same thing, recently sloughed him off to a local pain clinic, who told him that they had also stopped providing any opioids.  Dear Big Government, thanx for saving us from ourselves.  We’d like to remember your care and concern for us at the next election, but those of us still alive won’t be able to reach the polls.

I baked John a special birthday cake with a surprise ingredient – some oxycontin pills that ‘fell off the back of a truck’, near my dealer’s place.  This getting old is a real pain.

Big Shot

I hear many some a few couple of you asking, Archon!  Why aren’t you shooting off your mouth about shooting off several handguns, like you promised back in July?”

It’s like being nibbled to death by ducks.  Want to make God laugh??  Tell him your plans.  😦 What follows is a sad tale of Karma and bureaucracy run wild.

The Grandson’s wife phoned Employment Canada on three separate occasions, to assure that his paternity leave would seamlessly kick in at the end of her maternity leave.  NO PROBLEM!  She called again on November 2, to ask if two unused weeks of her mat. leave could be added to his pat. leave.

Suddenly, there was a signed, physical document that needed to have been in their file by Halloween.  Despite having booked off eight weeks with his employer, now the Government would not pay for it – oh, and her two unused weeks were forfeit.

With a young child and all accoutrements, he recently purchased their first (used) car, and is making monthly payments.  Then he got COVID.  Fortunately, neither his wife nor the little guy was infected.  With two main inoculations and a booster, it wasn’t bad, although her younger brother, who is seeking employment, had to come over for a few days to care for two babies.

The woman who had agreed to become babysitter/daycare about the end of December, wasn’t yet getting that weekly payment, so she applied and got a job.  Search and negotiations for a replacement are still ongoing.

Bad enough that the Employment Canada tentacle of the Federal octopus snatched away ten weeks of benefits, the Income Tax Department tentacle now added insult and injury.  The tax return that he had filed, and was accepted, back in April was re-reviewed, and for some reason, he owed $2300 – payable NOW!  There just is not, currently, the $250 available to pay for this gift.

Meanwhile, over at the gun shop….  They finally emailed him to inform that they did not have a previously-fired Berretta 92F, to substitute for a Glock.  The package had to be accepted as-is.  Oh well…. okay.  He and I had both assumed that we could just make a mutually agreeable appointment time – perhaps one afternoon during his time off.

The gun-shop does not want the clerk to be away from the main sales area for a random hour.  They are trying to book enough clients to fill an entire day, but especially with the resurgence of COVID, they are finding it almost impossible to do.  Neither of us is giving up hope.  It’s just that this little dream might not get fulfilled until this time next year.  If it ever comes to fruition, you’ll be the first second to know.  😀

Lyrical Fibbing Friday

This That week, Pensitivity101 wanted to know who could have written these 5 books or sung these 5 songs?

1. From Here to Eternity.

It’s a publication found in any government bureaucratic service (Hah!) department, like the DMV.  By the time you read your way completely through it, you might be able to see the front of the line.
2. The Glass Mountain.

I. M. Pei, and he should be ashamed of himself. Going to the Louvre now is like going to hear a Bach concerto, and having AC/DC as the opening act.
3. The Shining.

The scullery maid in Downton Abbey, always busy polishing the silver – knives, forks, spoons, serving trays, teapots, candlesticks – it’s a never-ending job.
4. Little Women.

It is a communally-written biography by all 17 Kardashian mother and daughters.  It is regarded as high satire – by everyone except them.
An embarrassment of riches
Too much of a good thing
“O, wad  some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
An’ foolish notion.”

5. Pride and Prejudice.

Donald Trump, with a preface from Vladimir Putin

6. I want it all

Mark Zuckerberg
7. Bat out of Hell

The local idiot who just got caught by the police, doing three times the speed limit, coming into the city.  Police claim that he was doing 200 Kmh in a 50 Kmh zone.  His defense was that he was only doing 150.  His car was impounded for 14 days.  He summarily lost his driving license for 30 days.  His court case may cost him $1000s in fines, and a further year’s suspension.  Aside from risking his life, and everyone else on the roads, he lends unwelcome justification to the Go Slow – Be Safe, do-gooder crowd.

They’ve already profaned innumerable city streets with speed bumps, chicanes, plastic Slow Down stakes in the middle of already narrow residential roads, rows of them stealing car lanes for bicyclists, rarer than blue moons.  They want to reduce the city speed limit from 50 Kmh to 40, the limit in school zones from 40 Kmh to 30, and now there’s a vocal group campaigning for, “Twenty Is Plenty.”  This will be the reason I’m late for my own funeral.
8. Space Oddity

The guy who started building his own house by erecting this frame.
9. Help!

That would be me, loudly and (not so) proudly, any given day that I’m blogging.  The Luddite support group called up to revoke my membership.  If it’s anything more complex than putting one word behind another, or sticking a picture in a post to demonstrate what my prose leaves murky, I am thankful that the wife took advantage of a government program to learn seven different computer programs.  She can make this PC sit up and beg for RAM.
10. For Your Eyes Only.

That shining scullery maid above, lied.  She does have a bit of free time, and she often spends it with the studly stable-boy.  She’s been known to drop her pinafore and let him curry her withers a bit.  Not wanting to be thought, “loose,” she assures him that the nicely rounded view is, For Your Eyes Only.  A new Papal decree says that priests and nuns can neck a little, they just can’t get into the habit.

Jack Fell Down

Jack fell down and broke his crown, and bureaucracy damn near killed him.

Actually, it was the wife who fell down.  She was just pulling up her pants after using the main-floor washroom, when her tinnitus, and other inner ear disorders upset her balance, and she keeled over backward, smacking her head against the door, and the floor.  Then followed five minutes of painful wriggling to move far enough so that the son and I could get the door open and help her up.

With COVID distancing mandates, it was three days before she even got a telephone interview with her doctor.  The doctor called at 2:00 PM.  When she heard of headaches, sleeping for 12/14 hours, and slurred speech, she suddenly insisted that we attend her clinic, immediately.

At 3:00 o’clock, she found bruising, and a droopy eye.  What we took to be a mild concussion, might be internal cranial bleeding.  She needs to know ASAP!  The city has two hospitals, but only one, shared, MRI machine.  A scheduled appointment could take weeks – too long.  She apologized, but said that, the only way to ensure an MRI today, is to go and sit in Emergency for seven hours.  Eventually, it will get done.

At 4:00 o’clock, we got the wife registered at Emerge.  It seemed simple.  Take the doctor’s work order out of the fax machine, and do the test as soon as a tech could be scheduled.  First, we waited twenty minutes to see a triage nurse.  She checked blood pressure, heart rate, blood-oxygen percentage and temperature, and directed us to the dreaded waiting room.  After another twenty minutes, another nurse showed up with a small cart, and took a blood sample for testing, and warned of a later urine sample requirement, and the need to see the on-call doctor before anything is done.

Then we settled in for the siege.  It is not first come – first served!  We know that she will be seen after the guy who slashed his fingers in a DIY accident, the woman with a bloody nose running down her face, and the young man knocked off his bicycle in traffic.  If we have to wait (and wait, and wait), at least we could enjoy the floor show.  Stupidity and larceny are in plentiful supply.

A chubby street hooker, with more ink than the New York Times, but no obvious distress, showed up.  A young homeless (?) woman, with a giant backpack and two stuffed shopping bags, managed to find a seat in the crowded room, to get out of the rain.  A young, female addict, who survived a minor overdose, stormed out and across the parking lot, still wearing the hospital’s blanket, and screaming, “Get away from me!  I don’t want to have anything to do with you!” at a boyfriend who has had enough, and is already half a block away.

Two security guards have an office with security monitors, just inside the entrance.  We caught a glimpse of them rushing outside, and chasing someone around the building.  Two male, and one female, Police officers patrol in and around the Emergency ward.  I looked for Tasers, but in tight quarters they might get grabbed.  At 6:00, I got her a coffee, and me a hot chocolate from the in-house Tim Hortons outlet, upstairs.  At 7:00 I got her a buttered tea-biscuit, and me a crème-cheese bagel.  It’s going to be a long night, and her diabetes needs to be fed.

At 8:00 a patrol-car cop brings in a young, female shoplifter.  He’s wearing a Taser, and she’s wearing handcuffs in front of her.  The wife later said that, around midnight, two cops brought in three young males involved in a bar fight, not only handcuffed behind, but also connected to ankle shackles.  One of them wailed that, He was just being paraded around, and everybody was going to know!

I had to reluctantly leave her alone at 8:30.  Our two little dogs have been locked in a cage for six hours.  The son needs the car to get to work at 10:30.  I was going to drive him across town, pick her up when she called, and drive back out to pick him up at 7:30 AM.  Already under work-stress, when he heard what was (not) happening, he took the night off, and ordered a pizza, because none of us was eating properly.

At 3:00 AM, she called to say that the (next-shift) doctor had examined her, and she was on her way to Nuclear Medicine.  At 3:45 she called to be picked up.  She entered the hospital at four PM, and finally got out at four AM.  The threatened seven-hour wait had stretched to twelve hours, for a five-minute test.  Thankfully, we now know that all is well.  Without any visible blood or injury, she still could have collapsed out of her chair at any moment.

Do you have a hospital horror story that you’d like to recount?  I will listen patiently, and commiserate.

Son Of A Gun

Or in this case, a grandson.  In an attempt to dilute and disperse my fanatical, homicidal, antisocial obsession with possessing dangerous weapons, he has already given me a

Sacrificial Stone Dagger
We’ll call it a Scottish letter opener.

And a

Gorgeous rapier
We’ll call it shiny, sharp and pointy.

The United States has recently endured several domestic terrorism attacks, where assault-type weapons have been used to murder numbers of people.  In an attempt to look like they’re doing something – anything – more of the wrong thing, and solving someone else’s problem, the Canadian Federal Government has passed legislation that further tightens gun-control laws that are already some of the most restrictive in the world.  At least temporarily, the purchase, sale, or transfer of legally-owned handguns has been suspended.

Unlike Hercules, the grandson cannot cut the Gordian Knot of bureaucracy, and present me with a Government-authorized pistol.  Ingenious little devil he, he has found a way to tap-dance past the restrictions.  It is legally permitted to hire the services of a licensed gun-shop/shooting range owner, who will provide supervision and safety instruction, and temporarily lend and allow me to fire, five of my favorite handguns.

A sixth, my more favorite, the Berretta Model 92, is not included in the offering.  I plan to (reluctantly) ask if it is possible to substitute it for one on their menu.  Being Canadian, I have only fired two hand-guns in my life – a Police .38 Special, and a .32 caliber Spanish officer’s semi-automatic, a darling little thing with shiny stainless steel, and mother-of-pearl handles, suitable as a lady’s purse gun, or in the don’t ask – don’t tell brigade.

I received this I Am Impossible To Shop For package as a Fathers’ Day present.  The grandson and I, and the range owner, will negotiate a mutually acceptable Saturday, probably near my birthday in late September.  This is the most useless, but at the same time, the most treasured bucket list present that I have ever received.

I’m sure that some, make us feel safe at any cost, even if we’re not, Chicken Littles will want to know why I want to fire these dangerous guns.  As Willy Sutton said, when they asked him why he robbed banks – that’s where the money is.  Or George Mallory (not Edmund Hillary), when asked why he climbed Mount Everest – because it’s there!  I feel no need to justify this adventure but, that’s where the enjoyment is, and, because I can.

I will employ my hundreds of hours of gun safety training to ensure that I don’t shoot myself or anyone else.  With my worsening essential tremor, I won’t reveal target scores.  It will be enough just to keep flying lead between the range walls.  I will report later on this guys’ escapade.  You’ll know me by my goofy smile.

Flash Fiction #278

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

WRITTEN IN STONE

We’re getting a new city hall??!  This is the third in fifty years!  Another monument to bureaucracy??!  😯

Drug addicts and paraphernalia litter the streets.  Guys sleep in alleys and on vents.  The police force, social services, soup kitchens, homeless shelters, abused women’s homes and food-banks are underfunded and overwhelmed.  Still, council budgeted $24 million, most of it siphoned from the capital contingency account.

This will be a glorious legacy project to exalt outgoing, long-time mayor Priapus Swaggart.  He must really know where the bodies are buried.  The drunks will appreciate a new, warm lobby to sleep it off in.

***

If you’d like to join the Friday Fictioneers fun, go to Rochelle’s Addicted to Purple site and use her Wednesday photo as a prompt to write a complete 100 word story.