A Memoir, Allegedly.
I was just writing down a few stories. Things got out of hand.
About the Book
It’s funny until it isn’t.
Then, usually, it’s funny again.
From the Book
From “You Don’t Pick the Ride”
Shared ride. A man got in holding, with two hands, with genuine tenderness, a four-foot glass bong. Not in a bag. Presented. He buckled his own seatbelt, and then he buckled the middle seatbelt around the bong. He safety-belted his glass son. When he got out he nodded at me and said, “Have a blessed day.”
You too, man. You too.
From “Nine Mini Thins and a Shart”
I was speaking in tongues with a heart rate of 190, narrating objects in the room like a possessed museum guide.
I introduced a woman to a throw pillow and gave it a name and a backstory while she was actively trying to kiss me.
From “A Beer, a Brat, and Cancer”
What he actually said, deadpan, flat as Ohio, was that all he wanted was “a beer, a brat, and cancer.”
Because he already had the cancer, see.
Might as well complete the set.
The hospice nurse did not know what to do with that.
I did.
You laugh.
That was the entire instruction manual he left me, and I have been following it ever since.
Available to Read
Here is the story. Read it or don’t. I’ve already embarrassed myself either way.