dreadcrumbs

I Can't Believe It's Not Ketchup

I had occasion to be waiting expectantly in the office of an eyeball doctor recently. Ostensibly, my visit was just to get the lenses on my glasses appropriately updated, but I had high hopes the medicine man might be able to give me some clue as to what those sprouting stalks are why my eyes itch lately.

Anyway, as I cast about the office office looking for any sign that I should run screaming from the building (blood stains, bottle of eyeballs, restraints), I fixed upon the office phone. It was mounted on the wall, and next to it was a printed directory that read like this:

x01 Front Desk
x02 Optical Tech 1
x04 Optical Tech 2
x05 Dr. Brown's Office
x06 Dr. Wilson's Office
x07 Stock Room
x09 Heinz

So, three things. First, where are "x03" and "x08"? What are they trying to hide? Second, "Stock Room?" What are they storing in bulk that they need an entire room with a phone for it? Gauze or anything designed to staunch blood? Bad sign. Prosthetic eyes? Bad sign. Live eyes? Worse sign. And to top it off, who the heck is "Heinz?" I think I actually saw everyone working there, and a creepy little Austrian dude was not among them. Who is this guy who gets his own extension but no visible working space?

I'm thinking he's The Cleaner. The go-to guy when things get out of hand. When Dr. Brown's pen slips unfortunately, plucking the eye from a patient, and there's blood and hysterics and screaming, someone can just dial "09" and Heinz takes care of it. No blood, no fuss, no awkward lawsuit from a maimed patient. Don't ask questions. Heinz will make it go away.

So it's good for them that they have Heinz. Bad for us they need him on speed dial, though.

Tuesday's Terrible Triplet

Because it's Tuesday, not Monday, and it seems easier to rhyme than to do a real microstory just now.

Great Old Bessie
When It squirmed from the pit with a shudder
I fell to the floor and did mutter:
"Dear Lord! That's only the udder!"

Friday Fives

My Top 5 Reasons to Avoid Crowds

5. Air that smells of saliva and sweat
4. Easy targets for space-based weaponry
3. Disease, plague, and virulent memes
2. You can't stretch your arms without poking a Mike in the eye
1. The ceaseless circular monologues

Arboreal Podiamancy

So I was dwarf wrangling (also known as Father-Son Quality Time) at the park last night.

I do this fairly regularly, usually in an effort to give the Queen Spider a break, and thereby reduce the chance of her murdering and subsequently devouring her mate.

I enjoy these little forays with my spawn, as we get to do things we might not normally do when Mama is near. Some favorites include Pine Cone Hunting(tm), Wiping the nose with our sleeve, trying to catch and eat errant birds (but which is usually limited to roaring "EAT!" at them as we run ineffectually across the grass), and repeatedly pacing the toddler-defined path which from the air must form a tesseract. Or some kind of Ancient Mesoamerican Astronaut Landing Strip.

As we were tracing one of these paths, we regularly stopped at a particular bush nestled in the crook where two sidewalks meet. This bush was very important to my son, who wanted me to acknowledge its existence every time we reached it. After about the third round of this, I actually poked my head into the bush to see if perhaps the kid was pointing at anything besides leaves and branches. Sure enough, wedged between two branches at the center of the shrub was a single shoe, toddler sized. One size smaller than my son's, I think.

I looked around to see if, possibly, there was a tiny person about with a single shoe on. No luck. We were alone except for a middle-aged asian man doing pull-ups on the monkey bars, and he had both his shoes. I rummaged about in the bush looking for a second shoe, because, hey, free shoes. I didn't find the match to the child's shoe, but I did find a crusty adult hiking sock. And a single black-booted action figure foot.

Clearly, this was a tribute bush. People were coming to the bush either to revere it or ask it for a favor, and leaving offerings. Apparently this particular bush preferred foot-things. In ancient times, people probably severed their feet (or those of a captive enemy) and left the limb stub in the bush. Times have changed, though, and a foot-symbol is enough for the modern shrub spirit.

Lacking nothing in my life but the long-craved power to summon creatures of the forest to fight at my side, I opted not to leave the bush an offering. Even if it could bestow me with that squirrel army I've longed for, there was no way I was going to be beholden to that bush. Crazy bush.

I did leave the other offerings there, though. No sense pressing my luck.

Earl Grey or Harriet Busybosom?

There is a little wire stand in the break room here at work that holds tea. It contains four cardboard boxes that dispense individual tea packets, free to anyone. The four types of tea it offers are "English Teatime, a savory black tea in the English tradition," "Orange & Spice Herb Tea, a blend of (somewhat redundantly) Oranges and Spice," and "Raspberry Dream, no subtitle."

I don't really have any particular opinion about the tea, and never gave it much notice, not being much of a tea drinker. This morning, however, as I was washing the mug I use for my water IV, there was a little sign taped above the rack that couldn't escape my notice. This is what it said:

"Please, sir or madam, I would be immensely overjoyed if one could provide us with more English Teattime."

So, at first glance, no big deal. Phrased a little oddly, possibly by someone with English as a second language, but very understandable and quite polite. I assume the writer just wanted the support staff to refill the black tea packets, which were indeed empty.

However, it is possible the writer was asking for something completely different. There is, in fact, a world of difference between English Teatime and English Teattime.

Lamentably, the sign is now gone after only a few hours, and the tea box has been refilled. So unless there is an upsurge in the cockney courtesan population in the next few days, I can assume our sign-maker's request has already been met.

Microstory Monday

The Family Business
"It smells like poo, papa," the boy says, examining the slick rope of intestine wrapped around his hands.
Standing up from his work, the man looks back. "That's why we're takin' 'em out," He says. "All that nasty rolled up inside a man's gut? It ain't natural."
"Oh," the boy says, watching a bit of something drip off his father's gloved hands.
Bending back to the body on the table, the man holds his hand out. "Now hand me them scissors," He says. "This purple bit is stuck fierce to somethin'. Gonna have to cut it."

Friday Fives

The Top Five Things That Should Have Made Me Rich, Famous, or Powerful by Now (But, Inexplicably, Have Not)

5. My ability to park cars manually. And yes, I mean "by hand." Stand in awe.
4. My design for personal jetpacks powered by the electromagnetic field of the Earth (yes, it seems like a joke, but I'M SERIOUS)
3. Being predicted "Most Likely To Succeed" in my High School yearbook. What gives? Apparently Reality doesn't deign to pay attention to the publications of Secondary Schools...
2. The birthmark on my calf that in Akkadian Cuneiform translates into either "Scourge of Man" or "Scourge of Bread."
1. My Wife. I mean, really. I've been sitting on these coat-tails for six years.

The Doors

Since the first day I felt the pressure of chivalrous expectation, I have been confused over the social contract surrounding "door-opening." Some things are obvious, of course. If a lady loaded with boxes/books/babies is on your heels at a door you happen to be going through, you don't slam it in her face. Not unless you're EVIL, in which case, you can disregard this entry. Browse down to "The 5 Worst Things to Find in Your Waste." It might be more to your liking.

So anyway, for those of us concerned with at least the appearance of civility, where does one draw the line on door opening? Is there a caste system that I need to be aware of? The hierarchy I'm currently working from is this:

1. Old Women
2. Women
3. Children and the Infirm
4. Young Women
5. Old Men
6. Royalty not fitting into one of the above categories
7. Men
8. Animals
9. Young Men

I'm pretty comfortable with this arrangement, but the modifying conditions kill me. Like distance. If the person I might hold the door open for is more than 15 ft away, am I justified in marching through the door solo? What if they're carrying something? Do you always offer to help, or must the combined weight of what they are carrying be equal to or greater than 30% of their body weight? If your target is part of a couple, is it unseemly to usurp the door opening opportunity from the male? What if you aren't certain the couple is romantically linked? I am plagued by many more such unanswerable questions.

So yes, I've found it's simpler just to avoid all human contact.

Bumper Fool

There seem to be only three reasons for bumper stickers. Either they're calls to action ("Kill Pedro!"), niche group pride ("What Would Galactus Do?"), or advertisements ("Ask Me About My Sticky Buns!").

I neglect to include the "Pithy Sayings" category, because I firmly believe that it doesn't exist. Even one I might initially like ("Amish Time Traveler On Board") only works once. Now that I've read it, I hate it. I'm tired of it. Take it off your car, please. And the vast majority aren't even funny/interesting/relevant the first time. So I hold that these things are actually (whether on purpose or not) showing niche group pride. The group, in this case, are people who choose to live intelligence-free lifestyles.

I bring all this up because of a car in the parking lot that has a "National Association of Gifted Children" bumper sticker. In principle, I don't really have a problem with this. It shows that someone is proud of their smarty-pants kid. That's okay. But the thing is, this person parks like a retard. Our parking lot is organized in the standard two rows of cars facing each other, aisle, two more rows of cars, and so on. This person opts to park well over the dividing line between the two rows. So if another car tries to park in the opposite slot, they either have to leave their car's butt sticking several feet out into traffic or force the NAGC car into appropriate position with repeated rammings.

I don't get it. It isn't a nice car. It's not like those mid-life crisis trophy cars that get parked in such a way as to avoid accidental contamination by the plebes. This is just someone being stupid. Well, more stupid. And yet...National Association of Gifted Children. I don't know. Maybe it skips a generation. Or maybe the kid drives to work. And she's like 3 years old or something. That would be okay. I can't really be upset with poor parking-lot etiquette from a toddler. Even one with a freaky big forehead and bulging red eyes that know too much. Cute little things.

Microstory Monday

Exhumations and Folk Songs
"By the goat!" I hear Simon gasp from inside the grave.
"What is it?" I say, stowing the shovels under the tarp and casting a nervous glance around.
"The worms...there's worms..." He says, sticking his head so deep inside the coffin that I think he's about to give the corpse a kiss.
"There was bound to be worms, buddy. What's the big deal?" I say, slipping down into the hole myself.
"Look at 'em, Paul." he says, pointing at the nose of the stiff in the box. "Just look at 'em."
Squinting into the gloom, I take a look.
"Well I'll be a corn-cracker," I say. "They're playin' pinochle."