The Musty Old Peanut Casings

"Cold-soder pops for all," Grandpa quietly wheezed.

"But Lispy!" Lispy was what I called Grandpa. I called
him that because of the violent lisp his wooden teeth
gave off. He couldn’t even pronounce the word "banana"
without lisping every syllable!

"But Lispy, it’s only four o’clock."

Lispy sat there for
a moment. With his fingers caressing the crack in his
chin, you could tell he was thinking hard. He began to
speak a piece about his old war-time hero days. That’s
when I sat up and left the room.

"See ya later, Lispy," I forcefully shrieked.
Maybe he didn’t hear me. As I left
the room, I heard him faintly re-inacting old battle cries, the kind most men shouted after having their limbs blown off by a pineapple grenade. When I got outside the hospital, the sun’s rays of heat beat me about the face, and that’s when I remembered!...

"Lispy’s toes aren’t covered!" I stated rather loudly in a snapful tone. Lispy couldn’t stand being in a bed with
his toes unsheathed from the warmness that a blanket brings. I can vividly recall the time when Lispy awoke from his kidney transplant and instantaneously moaned,
"Ungloved toes make for one dead man!"
At the time, I had thought Lispy was completely wrong, but I now
realized exactly what he had meant. If I don’t get back into that hospital and entomb his toes from the stale,
musty air, Lispy’s gonna reach the end of his rope!

I lunged back through the dirty glass doors. As I ran through the maze-like hallways, a doctor shouted,

"No runn-..." I gave his jaw one good buckling. I didn’t have time for talking doctors. I finally made it to Lispy’s room, but I guess I wasn’t the only one. Many doctors and nurses filled the room. I knew it. Lispy’s
probably dead. I went over to him and just before he let his last humid breath of rank air out, he quietly
wheezed, ".....Cold-soder pops for all."
I went to the end of his bed and lapped up the last drop of sweat that his toe would ever squeeze out. I then took the blanket and covered both feet.

"See ya later Lispy."

And with that, good ol’ Lispy would forever etch himself into my pulsating brain.

The End

work

Paul thrusted as hard as he could.

"It's in..," Paul exclaimed!

The steel rod went exactly into the ground as it were supposed to.

"Well I'll be damned," his boss laughed. "You're up for a raise."

"Thank you sir."

"Believe me, I need more men like you
to fit these rods into these holes. How's a
dollar more an hour sound?"

"Whizzles sir. It all sounds just Whizzles!," exclaimed an excited Paul.

"Well don't get too excited, Paul. I'm gonna need someone to look
over my OWN ass. How's about you be in charge of me from
now on?! That's even more of a raise!"

"You got it sir!"

"Ok, well what time do you want me to be in tomorrow, Paul?"

Paul thought for a moment, "How's about 8 am sharp?"

"You got it!"

The End

Drama

Once every one hundred years, a selected boy will do the unthinkable. He will shape minds with actions of disgust. He will
rewind society, backmasking traditions and unravel tightly wound rules. He will become....

Unthinkable

"Hey Pete."
"Oh, hey, what's up Donald?"
"Nothin' much, you douche bag. Hey, I heard that fag Paul fingered Rachel in her ass last night
at the big football game."
"As far as I am concerned, I believe this to be true, Donald."

Pete and Donald were just 2 third graders trying to get by in the elementary way of life. As Donald wanted to be a police
or fireman, Pete wanted to be a career criminal or an astronaut. Both were just edging on the teetering balance of "good"
and "evil."

"Pete! Petey honey, dinner's ready." Pete's mother was quite the culinary wizard.
"Pete! Get the fuck down here, you piece of shit. I'm not wasting money on this shit food for some
loser bitch-of-a-son that's never gonna do nothin' with his life. So get the fuck down here and eat this shit
you unwanted cumshot!"
"Holy Christ Mom! I'm right here."

Lil' ol' Petey was quite the tempermental child. Around his mother though, he knew where to draw the line.

"Piece of shit!?! Fuck you bitch!"

Well, the line this time was death. But hey, it's a line.
He withdrew a small pocketknife from his...pocket..and stuck it in and out of his mother.
In-and-out it went. countless times. No movie-like sounds. Just a piece of sharp metal entering and leaving soft
skin. "Drama", as some would say, was the scenario. But no one was around to witness. Only lil' Petey and his lil' o'
jack knife. Why was this all happening? How could he do such a thing? He pondered anxiously, sweating, breathing
uncontrollably like we all do, involuntarily. Petey panicked. He ran up to his room, slammed the door, and threw himself
onto his bed. His mind began to spin to earlier that day...



"Megan, pass the ball here."

The sun was beating hard on all the children. Just beating the shit out of them. A few kids during recess organized
a game of "catch."

"Megan, pass the ball here," Pete stated.
"Fuck you, you ugly bastard," Megan stated.
"Your pussy smells like a dead retard," Pete stated.
"Yeah, well..."

Pete couldn't go on. This conversation was too immature for someone destined to reach the stars, to rob banks and
whatnot. He put his arms down and walked away from the, "catch," circle.

"Hey Pete!"
"Yeah?," replied a lethargic Peter.
"Yeah, hey, save the drama for your mama, you fucking loser."

That's what Pete did, and as the schoolyard broke out into insane spurts of laughter, he saved the drama for his mama.

The End