Part of my new project "The Many Deaths of Humpty Dumpty."
Humpty Dumpty smoked a cigarette as the beam of passing headlights cast eerie shadows in the parking garage. He checked his watch. Nine P.M. His boss’s client should be arriving any minute now.
Humpty carelessly let his cigarette butt fall to the ground. Then he ground it into the slick pavement with his left foot. More headlights appeared from the level below. This would be the man he was meeting.
A large, black sedan pulled into the spot opposite of Humpty’s large, black SUV. “He’s here?” a voice coming from the other side of the vehicle said. Humpty had forgotten for a second that he wasn’t doing this job alone.
“He’s here,” he confirmed. “Get the case.”
High heels clicked as Humpty’s companion appeared at his side with a briefcase. Together, they opened up the back of the SUV and set the case down for the client’s ease of inspection.
“Mr. Dumpty,” a gold-suited man smoking a cigar sneered. “We meet again.”
“Mr. Stiltskin,” Humpty greeted in reply. “So you have the money?”
“Only if you have my product. Ah, is this it?” the man put a hand to either side of the briefcase.
“The combination,” Humpty’s female companion said, “is all sevens.” She brushed her ebony hair behind an ear.
The greedy little man opened the case with ease and removed one of many white bricks encased in plastic. He held out a hand in his companion placed a small, metal file.
Mr. Stiltskin then stabbed the brick with the file and removed a tiny amount of powder. He then rubbed this powder into his palms.
“You disappoint me, egg,” he said quietly. “This is of very poor quality.” He dipped his finger into the substance and signaled his subservient closer. “What do you think?” he asked as he rubbed it on the man’s gums.
“Nothing boss. Tastes like cooking flour.”
Mr. Stiltskin’s eyes grew wide as his face brightened to a red similar to brake lights. “Flour! This isn’t for cooking. What do you take me for! WHERE’S MY PRODUCT!”
As he and his man went to pull out their firearms, Humpty Dumpty and the woman each put a gun to Mr. Stiltskin’s head. The subservient raised his arm and the woman shot him dead without flinching.
“Keep the money. Just let me …” Mr. Stiltskin never finished his sentence.
“Snow,” Humpty said, “the money is probably in the sedan’s trunk.”
Humpty’s partner, Snow White casually walked to the sedan to retrieve the money as Humpty climbed into the back of the SUV.
Ten minutes later, they were driving down the highway.
“If the Wicked Queen finds out what we did tonight …” Snow White began.
“She won’t. You’re going to disappear.”
“And you?”
“I’m going to die tonight.” Humpty Dumpty pulled a blanket off of an object in the back of their vehicle. It was a very large egg.
Snow White quickly put two and two together. “Oh, Humpty! You’ve thought of everything!”
“The Wicked Queen can’t hunt a dead man. Now pull over on this overpass.”
The two criminals quickly rolled the large egg out of the SUV and over the guard rail. They watched as it exploded on the highway below. Cars immediately swerved to avoid the mess. Other cars slipped in the slimy yolk.
And Humpty Dumpty and Snow White drove away and lived happily ever after.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Part of my new project: The Many Deaths of Humpty Dumpty.*
Humpty Dumpty stared at the morning paper in horror.
“Ova-Cidal Maniac Strikes Again!” the front page proclaimed.
Before reading further, humpty ran to his window and threw the curtains closed. He didn’t want some ova-phobe watching him as he ate his cereal.
He returned to the paper and read further.
“The King’s Men claim to be closer to cracking this case,” the paper said. “However, given the delicacy of this situation, all egg-nic citizens are advised to use the buddy system and remain in constant contact with loved ones.”
Just then, a loud noise sent Humpty diving under his table armed with only his cereal spoon. It took three more knocks before he realized it was someone at his front door.
He slowly opened it. Standing on his stoop was a King’s Man.
“Mr. Humpty Dumpty?” the officer asked. “I’m here to see if you’re safe. In case you aren’t aware, there’s a dangerous criminal targeting …”
“I’m aware. Believe me, I’m aware.” Humpty opened the door further to allow the officer to enter.
“Have you had any threats made on your life recently?” The King’s Man pulled out a small tablet and quill from his breast pocket.
“No more than usual,” Humpty informed him. The officer gave him a puzzled look. “I’m a political blogger,” Humpty continued. “Death threats are part of the job.”
“I see. You’re a well-known advocate for Egg Rights.” Notes were scribbled down. A business card was passed. And the King’s Man left.”
Humpty went to his cushy couch and plopped down. It was only a matter of time before the serial killer would make an attempt on his, Humpty’s life.
He rolled to his side and heard the sloshing of his delicate innards.
So delicate. If only there were a way to toughen up. But not having muscles made it hard.
Then he had an epiphany!
Humpty Dumpty ran to the bathroom. Good thing he hadn’t gotten rid of the bathtub like he had initially wanted to. (Eggs don’t sweat, so they don’t really need to bathe.) He climbed into the empty tub and opened the hot water valve all the way.
As the temperature climbed and steam filled the room, Humpty screamed. It wasn’t pain he was feeling as his yolk hardened, but it wasn’t egg-stacy either.
Twenty minutes later, he was a new man. Sort of.
“Now if I crack, I’ll have a chance!” he proclaimed to the mirror.
***
A week later, Humpty was lunching with a fellow Egg Rights advocate. He bought a coffee and a sandwich at a café and went to the park to wait for his companion.
He chose to sit on a wall facing the street so he could see his friend coming.
But that didn’t turn out the way he had planned.
Just as Humpty was taking the first sip of his coffee, he was thrust forward off of the wall. Granted, the fall was only about four feet, but to an egg it might as well be 100.
He hit the ground with a thud and a crack. Stunned, he realized he was still in one piece.
That’s when he heard hoofs. The King’s Men and their horses had been watching from a distance. “Mr. Dumpty,” the officer from a week ago shouted, “Mr. Dumpty, are you okay?”
The egg managed to sit up. A mighty crack ran from the top of what could be considered his head to where a belly button would go.
A team of medics swooped in and hauled Humpty away in a horse-drawn ambulance.
*He doesn't always have to die. He's not Kenny from South Park.
Humpty Dumpty stared at the morning paper in horror.
“Ova-Cidal Maniac Strikes Again!” the front page proclaimed.
Before reading further, humpty ran to his window and threw the curtains closed. He didn’t want some ova-phobe watching him as he ate his cereal.
He returned to the paper and read further.
“The King’s Men claim to be closer to cracking this case,” the paper said. “However, given the delicacy of this situation, all egg-nic citizens are advised to use the buddy system and remain in constant contact with loved ones.”
Just then, a loud noise sent Humpty diving under his table armed with only his cereal spoon. It took three more knocks before he realized it was someone at his front door.
He slowly opened it. Standing on his stoop was a King’s Man.
“Mr. Humpty Dumpty?” the officer asked. “I’m here to see if you’re safe. In case you aren’t aware, there’s a dangerous criminal targeting …”
“I’m aware. Believe me, I’m aware.” Humpty opened the door further to allow the officer to enter.
“Have you had any threats made on your life recently?” The King’s Man pulled out a small tablet and quill from his breast pocket.
“No more than usual,” Humpty informed him. The officer gave him a puzzled look. “I’m a political blogger,” Humpty continued. “Death threats are part of the job.”
“I see. You’re a well-known advocate for Egg Rights.” Notes were scribbled down. A business card was passed. And the King’s Man left.”
Humpty went to his cushy couch and plopped down. It was only a matter of time before the serial killer would make an attempt on his, Humpty’s life.
He rolled to his side and heard the sloshing of his delicate innards.
So delicate. If only there were a way to toughen up. But not having muscles made it hard.
Then he had an epiphany!
Humpty Dumpty ran to the bathroom. Good thing he hadn’t gotten rid of the bathtub like he had initially wanted to. (Eggs don’t sweat, so they don’t really need to bathe.) He climbed into the empty tub and opened the hot water valve all the way.
As the temperature climbed and steam filled the room, Humpty screamed. It wasn’t pain he was feeling as his yolk hardened, but it wasn’t egg-stacy either.
Twenty minutes later, he was a new man. Sort of.
“Now if I crack, I’ll have a chance!” he proclaimed to the mirror.
***
A week later, Humpty was lunching with a fellow Egg Rights advocate. He bought a coffee and a sandwich at a café and went to the park to wait for his companion.
He chose to sit on a wall facing the street so he could see his friend coming.
But that didn’t turn out the way he had planned.
Just as Humpty was taking the first sip of his coffee, he was thrust forward off of the wall. Granted, the fall was only about four feet, but to an egg it might as well be 100.
He hit the ground with a thud and a crack. Stunned, he realized he was still in one piece.
That’s when he heard hoofs. The King’s Men and their horses had been watching from a distance. “Mr. Dumpty,” the officer from a week ago shouted, “Mr. Dumpty, are you okay?”
The egg managed to sit up. A mighty crack ran from the top of what could be considered his head to where a belly button would go.
A team of medics swooped in and hauled Humpty away in a horse-drawn ambulance.
*He doesn't always have to die. He's not Kenny from South Park.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Part of my new project: The Many Deaths of Humpty Dumpty.
As the young Humpty Dumpty pulled clothes from his locker, a spit wad stuck to the back of his shell.
Humpty didn’t feel it. That’s one of the perks and pains of not having skin.
He slammed the door shut and made his way to gym class. As the boys all changed into their shorts and T-shirts, Humpty carefully wrapped himself in bubble wrap. After all, when one is an egg, one must be extremely careful while playing basketball or dodge ball or with any ball.
As he entered the gym, a foot came out of nowhere to trip him. Poor round Humpty rolled all the way to midcourt, his protective wrap popping and snapping the entire way.
“Egg!” the coach shouted, “Quit screwing around and get up. This isn’t an omelet pan!”
All of the boys erupted in laughter. Humpty rocked himself up and got in line with the rest of his class—all human boys.
“Today, men,” the coach shouted for no reason, “we climb the rope!”
Half of the boys seemed really excited. The other half seemed nervous. Humpty went into hysterics.
“Sir,” he whimpered. “Coach!” he said a little louder. “Hey!” He was unable to raise his voice above the sound of sliding mats and feet on floor.
Boy after boy climbed the rope. One even hit the bell at the top. Humpty was next. He approached the rope.
“Sir,” he said to the coach.
“What is it, egg?”
“It isn’t safe. I can’t climb the rope.”
“Sure you can.”
“But sir, I am brittle and round. My shape isn’t ideal for climbing anything—ladders, walls, and especially ropes.”
“The coach looked down his crooked nose at the young Humpty Dumpty. “You will climb this rope,” he sneered, “or you will die trying.”
“But I have a note. I’m not supposed to engage in any kind of …”
The coach cut Humpty off by shoving the rope in his face. Humpty looked into his coach's eyes one more time. Coach simply mouthed go.
So Humpty climbed. He pulled with his little stick arms and pushed with is little stick legs. The rope hissed against his calcified exterior.
But near the top, Humpty’s grip slipped.
He let out a shriek before he plummeted to the floor.
There was a horrific crack. A terrible splat. And the entire class of boys along with the coach were spattered with albumen and yolk.
“Oh,” the coach mumbled. “This is bad. Quick, boys, we need to put him back together.”
So they tried. They called in the art teacher. Her glue wouldn’t hold. They called in the science teacher, but his suggestion of solidifying the liquid parts with heat didn’t help with the shell. The school nurse was at a total loss for she had not enough bandages.
They just simply couldn’t put Humpty together again.
As the young Humpty Dumpty pulled clothes from his locker, a spit wad stuck to the back of his shell.
Humpty didn’t feel it. That’s one of the perks and pains of not having skin.
He slammed the door shut and made his way to gym class. As the boys all changed into their shorts and T-shirts, Humpty carefully wrapped himself in bubble wrap. After all, when one is an egg, one must be extremely careful while playing basketball or dodge ball or with any ball.
As he entered the gym, a foot came out of nowhere to trip him. Poor round Humpty rolled all the way to midcourt, his protective wrap popping and snapping the entire way.
“Egg!” the coach shouted, “Quit screwing around and get up. This isn’t an omelet pan!”
All of the boys erupted in laughter. Humpty rocked himself up and got in line with the rest of his class—all human boys.
“Today, men,” the coach shouted for no reason, “we climb the rope!”
Half of the boys seemed really excited. The other half seemed nervous. Humpty went into hysterics.
“Sir,” he whimpered. “Coach!” he said a little louder. “Hey!” He was unable to raise his voice above the sound of sliding mats and feet on floor.
Boy after boy climbed the rope. One even hit the bell at the top. Humpty was next. He approached the rope.
“Sir,” he said to the coach.
“What is it, egg?”
“It isn’t safe. I can’t climb the rope.”
“Sure you can.”
“But sir, I am brittle and round. My shape isn’t ideal for climbing anything—ladders, walls, and especially ropes.”
“The coach looked down his crooked nose at the young Humpty Dumpty. “You will climb this rope,” he sneered, “or you will die trying.”
“But I have a note. I’m not supposed to engage in any kind of …”
The coach cut Humpty off by shoving the rope in his face. Humpty looked into his coach's eyes one more time. Coach simply mouthed go.
So Humpty climbed. He pulled with his little stick arms and pushed with is little stick legs. The rope hissed against his calcified exterior.
But near the top, Humpty’s grip slipped.
He let out a shriek before he plummeted to the floor.
There was a horrific crack. A terrible splat. And the entire class of boys along with the coach were spattered with albumen and yolk.
“Oh,” the coach mumbled. “This is bad. Quick, boys, we need to put him back together.”
So they tried. They called in the art teacher. Her glue wouldn’t hold. They called in the science teacher, but his suggestion of solidifying the liquid parts with heat didn’t help with the shell. The school nurse was at a total loss for she had not enough bandages.
They just simply couldn’t put Humpty together again.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
I wish a happy Valentines to EVERYONE.
I'm getting a bit political here, but you know what?
It's my blog and I'll post what I want to.
Happy V Day to EVERYONE.
Let's preserve love for all.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
It’s been a while since I’ve written ridiculous haikus.
In honor of Valentines Day, these haikus are about love. Enjoy.
I love you so much.
You are the reason I breathe.
Now make me breakfast.
For you, love, choc’lates.
Made of the finest coco.
I ate half of them.
Let’s go on a date.
A nice show with champagne date.
I’ll bring the singles.
I have your present.
It’s right here. Inside my pants.
Surprise! Chocolates!
What did you expect?
Perhaps something more dirty?
Did you check my butt?
Romantic movie.
Now let me turn off the lights.
Bowchikabowbow.
Kiss me, lover boy.
Kiss me here and here and here.
Oh, wait, Batman’s on!
Monday, February 9, 2009
I have green high heel shoes.
I'm a bridesmaid in a upcoming wedding.
And we're all wearing green shoes.
I got mine the other day. And I'm going to wear them around my apartment. Cause I'll be damned if I don't get my money's worth out of these things.
They look fantastic with my robe, after all.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
I wonder what it’s like to be a pharmacist.
It’s no secret that I’ve got less-than-stellar lungs.
It’s not really anything to be ashamed of. Many many people have asthma. Many many people take medicine to alleviate the symptoms and live “normal” lives.
Whatever.
I didn’t ever realize, though, how expensive trying to be “normal” was.
While I was still a salaried employee with corporate insurance, I would go to the pharmacy, cough up the 30 dollar co-pay, and be on my merry way with two-months of daily breathing assistance in my purse.
When I went to pay for my inhaler last night with my independent insurance, the situation was way different.
The pharmacist informed me the inhaler was going to cost over 170 dollars.
And all of a sudden, I couldn’t breath. Just like that, the asthma medication I needed to prevent attacks actually caused one.
“But I have insurance,” I wheezed.
“That is with insurance,” she responded while scrolling through some database on her computer screen. “Without insurance, it’s $230.00.” (In all fairness, she was very sympathetic and sounded tired. Situations like this must be happening more and more frequently.)
I believe at this point, I actually grabbed my chest, as one often does at the beginning of an asthma flare up.
“Is there a generic that’s cheaper?” I wheezed.
Another pharmacist approached, “Unfortunately not." He paused. "Do you not want it?”
I don’t want it, I need it, I thought. Because I'm one of those people who would be dead if it weren't for modern medicine.
I'm an evolutionary cheater.
My chest grew tighter. Perhaps I winced.
The first pharmacist went for the box of medicine to open it. “Oh my god, do you need it now?”
“No, I’m alright,” I quietly lied. I swiped my bank card as quickly as I could, trying not to think about the depleting funds. Then I dashed to a corner and sucked medicine into my lungs with urgency.
As the albuterol fog spread to my brain, as the familiar tingling started in my thighs and toes and fingers, as I realized that I’ll be getting a paycheck in a week, I relaxed.
At least insurance shaved off something, right?
It’s not really anything to be ashamed of. Many many people have asthma. Many many people take medicine to alleviate the symptoms and live “normal” lives.
Whatever.
I didn’t ever realize, though, how expensive trying to be “normal” was.
While I was still a salaried employee with corporate insurance, I would go to the pharmacy, cough up the 30 dollar co-pay, and be on my merry way with two-months of daily breathing assistance in my purse.
When I went to pay for my inhaler last night with my independent insurance, the situation was way different.
The pharmacist informed me the inhaler was going to cost over 170 dollars.
And all of a sudden, I couldn’t breath. Just like that, the asthma medication I needed to prevent attacks actually caused one.
“But I have insurance,” I wheezed.
“That is with insurance,” she responded while scrolling through some database on her computer screen. “Without insurance, it’s $230.00.” (In all fairness, she was very sympathetic and sounded tired. Situations like this must be happening more and more frequently.)
I believe at this point, I actually grabbed my chest, as one often does at the beginning of an asthma flare up.
“Is there a generic that’s cheaper?” I wheezed.
Another pharmacist approached, “Unfortunately not." He paused. "Do you not want it?”
I don’t want it, I need it, I thought. Because I'm one of those people who would be dead if it weren't for modern medicine.
I'm an evolutionary cheater.
My chest grew tighter. Perhaps I winced.
The first pharmacist went for the box of medicine to open it. “Oh my god, do you need it now?”
“No, I’m alright,” I quietly lied. I swiped my bank card as quickly as I could, trying not to think about the depleting funds. Then I dashed to a corner and sucked medicine into my lungs with urgency.
As the albuterol fog spread to my brain, as the familiar tingling started in my thighs and toes and fingers, as I realized that I’ll be getting a paycheck in a week, I relaxed.
At least insurance shaved off something, right?
I have a new reason to heart Stephen King.
From the penman of "Pet Cemetery" and other scary-as-balls works:
"Both Rowling [ed: of Harry Potter fame] and Meyer [ed: of Twilight, which blows], they're speaking directly to young people. ... The real difference is that Jo Rowling is a terrific writer and Stephenie Meyer can't write worth a darn. She's not very good."
Boom. Roasted.
I have a personal vendetta against Twilight. Perhaps King will join my cause.
"Both Rowling [ed: of Harry Potter fame] and Meyer [ed: of Twilight, which blows], they're speaking directly to young people. ... The real difference is that Jo Rowling is a terrific writer and Stephenie Meyer can't write worth a darn. She's not very good."
Boom. Roasted.
I have a personal vendetta against Twilight. Perhaps King will join my cause.
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