Friday, October 21, 2016

The Crate

Hello All:
I’ve made the official announcement on Twitter that next week will start our week-long celebration of Halloween at the Literary World of Tom Raimbault. I have succeeded in completing what was supposed to be a mini-novella. But it’s actually a 30,000 word short novel. I didn’t expect to write so much. But I’m sure you won’t mind. There is plenty to divide up throughout next week and Halloween Monday. The title of the short novel is The Dead Forest.
This is the last time I will mention the following: I truly believed that Halloween would not be celebrated on my blog this year. You see, in recent months I have had no time to write. My “career” as a writer has been drastically suffering. But I found a solution. During my commutes to and from work, I simply stare at the road while driving and speak the words of the stories into a nearby recorder. Later I simply type up what I hear while playing back the recording and edit as needed.
There are two stories offered this week. Both of them were created with the voice recording technique. And I have more waiting to be edited.
So what do you think?
Well I think it’s a great idea. I’m back to updating the blog; Halloween week is on; and I can resume writing Mapleview.
Today’s featured writing is nothing more than one of those peculiar dreams that I had some minutes before waking up. Enjoy!
Have a great weekend! Check back on Monday for our week-long celebration of Halloween.
The Crate
It was a large crate that was shipped to my house. It didn't come from a UPS, or FedEx truck. It came from a freight and logistics company. Upon examining the shipping documents, I was most confused. You see, I hadn't ordered anything recently. Even stranger, there was no money to be paid on delivery. So I accepted the crate. What did I have to lose?
The driver unloaded the crate from the truck and then wheeled it on a cart into the garage. I was most curious as to what it was and eager to open it. What in heck could this be I wondered.
Once the driver left; the wife, kids and I stood around the box in awe. It was then that my wife suggested the obvious, "Well why don't we open it?"
The crate had been secured shut with black metal strips that needed to be cut. The wooden lid had been secured over the crate with black, metal screws. It would be necessary to use a Philips screwdriver, or even a power drill with Philips head. Fortunately I have a drill with collection of bits, one of them being the Philips bit—no need to strain my arm in unscrewing a couple dozen deeply-sunk screws from the crate.
"Zip-Zip! Zip-Zip" The drill did all the work for me while removing twenty four of the black metal screws. When all removed, I lifted the lid. Inside was a Styrofoam shipping block used to protect whatever cargo was inside. The Styrofoam block was lifted out; below were individual sheets of soft foam that were folded into long rectangles.
I touched one to pull it out. "It's all wet!" I exclaimed.
"Wet?" my wife repeated. She reached her hand in the crate to feel and confirmed that they really were wet."
I pulled one out these wet cushions out and was startled to feel a bit of slight movement as-if something were alive inside. "Something moved!" I exclaimed.
Everyone else stepped back. Considering how strange this whole experience was, nobody was taking chances as to what might be wrapped up in the wet, soft cushions.
Cautiously, I lay the cushion on the ground, and unfolded it. I was surprised to discover that it was a salmon fish inside. 
It wiggled—still alive! Somehow the water that drenched the cushion was enough to keep the fish breathing throughout the duration of shipment.
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “There must be a couple dozen of these folded up salmon in this box. And are they still alive; just trapped in these things trying to stay alive with just a little bit of water. I pulled out another wet cushion and unfolded it. Sure enough, there was another salmon lying inside. And it was alive, flopping around while trying to breathe as best as it could.
"Well they shouldn't be treated like this." I remarked. "This is wrong. These poor fish need water to swim and breathe in as soon as possible.”
My wife and kids looked at me like I was crazy. “They should be fine in there.” reassured my wife. “What are you worried about?”
“But that's not how fish are intended to live.” I argued. “They are supposed to be in actual water so that they can swim around and get their oxygen and breathe.—you know the whole thing with gills and osmosis? I'm not a biologist, but it's pretty much common knowledge that this is how fish breathe. They are not going to do it this way.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see that one of the salmon was watching me as I spoke. It almost had an expression of relief that someone was being sensible; possibly sensible enough to save it and the others from dying.
“I've got to do something, quick.” I declared. "I need to make something." But what could I have made? I saw a large, plastic tarp folded up on one of the utility shelves. There were also many boxes stacked about in different places. What if I made an enclosure with the boxes—a rectangular enclosure—and then lay the tarp inside. Maybe I could put some heavy stones or bricks on top of the tarp that lay on the boxes. That way it will stay in place when finally filling up the tarp with water. For all practical purposes, it would be like a makeshift swimming pool, perfectly suitable for the couple dozen salmon to stay while I find a better place for them.
So I spent a few minutes gather up and stacking up boxes. All the while, my wife and kids looked at each other with funny faces. Surely they were wondering why I was putting so much effort in seeing to it that the fish had water to swim around in. At some point my wife and kids assisted. Unfortunately, the group effort turned into nothing but arguing and conflict. "No, don't put that box there...! That one will be too heavy on top of the lighter one...! What's wrong with you...? Don't you understand...?"
In the meantime, the two fish that had been unwrapped and lay on top of the wet cushions were appearing frustrated and a bit worried. They were clearly having difficulty breathing since the wet cushions had been unwrapped.
"Oh, we need to hurry up!" I urged. "I don't know how much longer these poor salmon have to live."
I lay the tarp down in the center of our makeshift pool. It was then that one of the kids pointed, "Hey, we have a plastic swimming pool over here that we used to use when we were little. Why don't we just fill this up with water and let the fish swim in there?”
"It's a good idea..." I acknowledged. "But maybe the plastic pool won't be big enough for all couple dozen of them."
In the meantime, the two salmon continued to look all the more worried. When would they finally be able to swim in water and breathe properly again?

The End!

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

The Recurring Dream

Hello All:
I attended the opening performance of the 2016/17 season for the Illinois Philharmonic Orchestra (IPO) on Saturday night. Performed at Governor’s State University, the orchestra was conducted by the lovely Holly Mathieson. This was actually her audition performance in hopes to be the permanent conductor for the IPO. There will be other auditioning conductors throughout the year. You see, the previous conductor moved on to a greater opportunity and the orchestra needs a new one.
I must say that I was enamored with the opening piece from Ives titled ‘the unanswered question’. Not sure if the conductors actually choose the songs; but opening with ‘the unanswered question’ certainly demonstrated a level of boldness from Holly as the piece could be considered somewhat “new age” in comparison to the traditional classics—maybe experimental for being written in 1906. It she did, in fact, choose this piece; then it further demonstrates her willingness to resonate with younger listeners in the crowd. But for those who prefer the traditional classics; Beethoven’s 3rd Symphony was played in its entirety towards the end of the evening. The orchestra did a fine job as always. And who can forget the unbelievable performance of violin soloist, Stefan Milenkovich?
Before leaving that evening, my wife informed me that I have the option of purchasing a glass of wine in the cafeteria. The cost for this glass would have been $45. But in no way would I be willing to spend such money for a glass of wine! Why should I when I have my own supply at home—bottles that were purchased for under $10?
But how could I enjoy my wine at an IPO concert?
I simply poured two glasses worth into a disposable Styrofoam commuter coffee cup. The top was sealed shut with self-adhesive plastic wrap to avoid spillage and to prevent the smell from escaping. I trimmed around the edge of this plastic wrap so that the cover could be secured over the cup. It now looked like an ordinary cup of coffee. By simply poking a coffee stir straw through the cover and plastic wrap; I was able to sip my wine while enjoying the performance.
If you wish to inconspicuously drink wine while out in public, perhaps you should try the above process that was described.
Today’s featured writing is a brand new short story about a horrific, recurring dream. Enjoy!
The Recurring Dream
Twelve year old Amy awoke late at night about a quarter after one o’clock in the morning. She was having another terrifying nightmare; the same recurring nightmare about Father putting her inside of an oven, closing the door, and then cooking her alive. In this horrible dream, Amy screamed and pounded on the glass. But the heat proceeded to cook and char her skin. It was usually around this part of the dream that Amy woke up, screaming.
Mother ran into the bedroom and turned on the light. "What is it, Honey? Was it another nightmare?"
Amy sat up in bed, crying, while relaying to Mother, "Yes, it was the same nightmare. Daddy put me in the oven and cooked me alive."
Mother reassured Amy while patting her shoulders, "Oh Honey, you know Daddy would never do something like that. I wish you would stop imagining that. I don't understand why you have that dream. Maybe we should take you to the doctor, and see if he could teach you to put an end to it."
And so Mother and Father took Amy to Mapleview's renowned Doctor Millheimer on a Saturday afternoon. During this visit, Doctor Millheimer sat in his usual chair; the same chair where he listened to his many patients relay the events of their lives throughout the weeks. Mother, Father and Amy sat in the nearby seats—Father and Mother on the sofa, and Amy in an old, leather lazy boy seat that was actually quite comfortable.
"She just keeps getting that recurring nightmare." complained Mother. "I don't know what to do. It's always the same."
"Oh, but I bet it's very scary for you." remarked Doctor Millheimer to Amy.
Amy nodded her head in affirmation. "Yes, it's terrifying. I wish it would stop."
Doctor Millheimer probed, "Well do you ever fear that maybe your father would try to hurt you?"
"No..." answered Amy. "My Daddy is so nice and so good to me. He would never do something like that."
"Well we'll definitely see what we can do to get to the bottom of this." promised Doctor Millheimer. "But first, I want to talk to your mother and father alone. Afterwards, I will talk to you alone. Won't you please step out to the waiting room? There's a small refrigerator in there with soda. You're probably too young for coffee. And there's a small cabinet above the refrigerator with snacks—some chips, cookies, candy and such. I hope Mother doesn't mind."
"That’s fine." reassured Mother.
And so Amy stepped out into the waiting room as requested so that Doctor Millheimer could talk in private with Mother and Father. She wondered what, possibly, the doctor would have to talk about in private. Mother and Father never laid a hand on Amy. Nor had they ever made any threats. And Father was always such a nice man who clearly loved Amy very much. This is why Amy was so baffled as to why she would have such horrific dreams of Father cooking her in the oven.
In the meantime, Doctor Millheimer got right down to business. "So, this is a very unusual case. But I'm going follow through with some basic diagnostics. First I want to ask—I want you to be one hundred percent honest—have you ever abused Amy, physically or mentally?"
"No, never!" Mother and Father simultaneously answered.
"Have you ever threatened her?" continued Doctor Millheimer. "Ever made mention that if she acted a certain way or failed to do something that she would be punished with a beating or some horrific consequence?"
"No, never!" Mother and Father simultaneously answered again.
Interesting thing: Doctor Millheimer noticed that while he was asking these questions, Father appeared increasingly nervous. He commented on this, "I notice you are a little uneasy right now. I notice that maybe there's something you might want to share with me. What is it? Please tell me; you can trust me. I'm the doctor and I'm here to help you.”
Father hesitated for a moment and took a deep breath. "Well, the whole thing is really very frightening for both of us. You see, fifteen years ago I worked the graveyard shift at a factory. Right around that time we had been married for only a year, and our son had just arrived. His name was Timothy.
Well, my wife was working at the time also—days. And she had to leave for work before I came home. So who would care for Timothy in the meantime? The agreement was my wife would drop Timothy off at her sister's house in the early morning before heading to work. Once I got off work, I would drive over to my sister-in-law’s house and pick him up. And I would care for him throughout the day until my wife came home. Then I would go to bed and get some sleep before heading to work for the evening."
Doctor Millheimer interrupted, "So then Timothy is your older son?"
"Was..." corrected Mother.
Cautiously, Doctor Millheimer asked, "So he's dead?"
“Yes.” she affirmed.
Well what happened? asked Doctor Millheimer. “And might this be what is responsible for these horrific dreams that Amy is having?”
"Well..." continued Father. "On one particular morning it was a Monday. Now if you know anything about third shift, what most third shifters do is stay awake during the day on the weekends. You see, our work week usually starts on Sunday night for Monday and lasts until Thursday night for Friday. So in my situation; I would come home on Friday morning, care for my son throughout the day, but then did not go to bed until later in the evening with my wife. That way I would sleep through the night and wake up Saturday morning with my body back on a day schedule. By following this practice I would be able to live normally throughout the weekend. Then come Sunday night I would lay down in the late afternoon to take a few hour nap before going to work. But keep in mind that when doing this, my body wasn't fully adjusted to nights just yet."
"Understood..." acknowledged Doctor Millheimer.
"So by five o'clock Monday morning I was exhausted beyond belief; basically a zombie."
"Understood..." continued to acknowledge Doctor Millheimer.
“But I would still go to pick up my son on Monday mornings at my sister-in-law's house because that was the agreement.
Well, it was a cold, rainy Monday morning. At the time I was having some car trouble. I didn't have heat. It was 35 degrees outside; very rainy and sleety. And even though we had Timothy all bundled up, he was still very cold. When we got home I could see and feel that his poor hands were ice cold. He was crying and crying. I felt so bad for him while taking off his jacket. And maybe I wasn't thinking right at that moment because of my exhausted state of mind. I turned the oven on to about 300 degrees, just to get it to warm up. Then I put little, baby Timothy in there and closed the door. I was only going to leave him in there for a couple of minutes as the oven warmed up. You see, there was an alarm-indicator that let us know when the oven was at the desired temperature. This alarm, of course, would have let me known that it was time to take Timothy out.
So I sat down on the sofa while waiting. But I was so tired that I dosed off and never woke up when the alarm sounded to indicate that the oven was at 300 degrees. A few hours later I woke up, and there was a burning smell in the apartment. Timothy had been cooked alive. He was charred and bubbling beyond recognition. It was a gruesome mess.
Of course I went to jail for this for a few years for manslaughter. Fortunately my wife stood by my side and remained married to me while in jail. I got out in a few years due to good behavior and prison overcrowding. Eager to start a new life; my wife and I made another baby—Amy. Nobody has ever spoken of the tragedy. And nobody has ever been so foolish as to tell this story to Amy, either.  What's perplexing to me now is how Amy knows about this? Is her brother warning her?

The End!

Friday, October 7, 2016

Halloween 2016 Celebration Writings

Hello All:
I suppose this can be considered the first announcement of our week-long celebration of Halloween, 2016. If you've been following the blog for some years, then you know that throughout Halloween week we celebrate by releasing a collection of new horror short stories, or sometimes a novella. But to be honest, I really didn't think I was going to be able to deliver on Halloween of this year. 
Well I haven't made much mention of it lately, but you have probably noticed that the blog updates have been far and few between. My schedule has been terribly busy which leaves me no time to write. I haven't made much progress with the upcoming fourth book of the Mapleview series. And I haven't been able to write as many short stories as I would like for the blog throughout the weeks. By summer of this year I asked myself, "Am I really going to be able to produce something for the readers of my blog this Halloween?"
Well somehow I managed, and do believe I will be able to deliver. Way back in January of this year I had a great idea for a short novella, something similar like I produced last year. This upcoming short novella to be released throughout Halloween week will detail the story of the legendary Donna the Unburied. If you've read my short story book, Freaked out Horror, then you know that it opens with the short story, Donna the Unburied.
"But why should I make it into a short novella?"--you might ask?
To this I answer: People have sometimes challenged me by asking exactly how Donna could allow herself to be tricked into her tragic end. I'm not going to discuss how the story goes in case you've never read it, but if you have, well then maybe you have wondered the same. Why, my own father declared after reading the short story, "I don't know which one was dumber, Donna or Stan?" It's a very, good point and well taken. I have to agree; exactly how did Donna get tricked into her tragic ending? No woman, after all, is going to allow her lover to convince to do such a thing.
And so I began to write out the detailed story that goes way back into Stan and Donna's youth. We learn how they first met and how their romance started. And we learn about a special place in the forest that Stan referred to as the magical valley. Both he and Donna visit the place on a regular basis. But never mind the stories and romance! It's the tragic ending that you are interested in. And that's what I will be presenting you with this Halloween week of 2016. It is nearly complete
Oh but I have so much more to write of this tale. We are simply leaving at the tragic ending. But what about the hauntings of Donna that continue for decades afterwards. We have to feature these. So we will continue with the tale next year. For the next couple of years for Halloween, we will be enjoying the bizarre tales and hauntings of Donna the Unburied. Oh... of course being written by author Tom Raimbault, there will be my twist of bizarre.
Let's briefly acquaint you with Donna the Unburied by featuring a short excerpt in today's features writing.
Have a great weekend. Hopefully my regular writing schedule resumes for you soon.
Donna the Unburied (excerpt)
Donna the Unburied: an urban legend that is sometimes rumored throughout the area where she once lived. The most notable phenomenon takes place along the highway, close to the supposed area of her tragedy. A late night driver or passenger traveling on that road may suddenly feel an urge to open the windows, regardless of how cold it may be outside. It feels stuffy in the car as if not enough oxygen. But the open window doesn't help. The sufferer of this phenomenon begins to gasp for air and can feel the heart rate increase to an uncomfortable beat as the need for more air grows. And then it goes away as suddenly as it came.
September 1997: A late night, female motorist traveling along the highway gave a terrifying account of turning towards the driver side window and seeing the ashen-gray, boney face of a desperate woman with her fists pounding on the glass as if trying to escape. The combination of terror and the sudden sensation of being unable to breathe caused her to believe she was having a heart attack. But imagine opening the windows after seeing the terrifying sight! It was pure torture for the late night, female motorist.
November 2002: A late night police dispatcher received a call from a very, traumatized man who claimed to have crashed into a semi truck, head-on. He remained on his cell phone until rescue personnel reached the scene, all the while telling the dispatcher that he couldn’t believe he was actually alive. All police found was a pickup truck with a very shook-up man, parked by the side of the road. No evidence of a semi truck in the area could be found. There was no damage to the pickup truck and no injuries were found on the terrified caller who claimed the experience was “so real”.
Police have grown accustomed to regular, unexplained phenomenon that appears along this stretch of highway. They attribute it to the very tragic and terrifying death of Donna the Unburied. The legend of Donna the Unburied has haunted travelers along this highway for decades. But who is she? What's her story?
Early September, just before the whether began to show signs of autumn's approach, his morbid fetishes began to stir as they did each year. Soon the air would have the hint of chill, leaves would turn color and the season would be marked with the waiting of Halloween.
It those days the celebration was limited to young children who dressed up on Halloween and went door-to-door for tricks-or-treats. Outdoor decorations were simple; a jack-o-lantern or two displayed at the front porch and perhaps some posters from the dime store of ghosts and witches. Today, the celebration is a major holiday when adults and children alike decorate their front lawns with eerie-colored lights and animated, gruesome statues. We've taken our love of Halloween to the extreme, something unheard of in the times and the night that Donna met her tragic end. And it was weeks before the season of Halloween began.
She was hauntingly beautiful, something frightfully unique about her appearance, yet very attractive nonetheless. As for her boyfriend, Stan, those who knew him often spoke of his love of the macabre. It was often mentioned that it was Donna's ghostly appearance that he was in love with.
She was so young and in love, and would do anything for Stan. She stood there in the deep forest one September evening, amidst the deafening sound of crickets, and could not believe the strange game of fantasy that Stan suggested.
He said, "If you love me you would do this for me. I mean you would see how much I want this. Can't you do this one thing for me? It won't be as bad as you think."
No man is that important; but Donna was young, and she felt that the man she loved was truly deserving of this strange and horrifying request...
Learn the whole story come Halloween week 2016!

Friday, September 23, 2016

New Friendly Fort

Hello All:
The weekend is here. And what better way to kick back and relax than to add the entire Mapleview series (Kindle format) for just 99 cents each book? The promotion is running from today until next Thursday at 11:59 PM. Don't miss out! Be sure to take advantage of this deal before it ends.
"A new Friendly Fort?"--you might ask. "What's a Friendly Fort?"
I discuss this in today's featured writing.
Have a great weekend!
The New Friendly Fort
Commissioned and Consecrated
Autumn Equinox 2016,
New Friendly Fort
There's a new Friendly Fort in the Chicago land area. If you've been following the blog for a while, then you probably remember me making mention of a Friendly Fort last year during the week long celebration of Halloween. (Yes, the 2016 edition is currently in the works for those wondering.)
But back to the mention of the Friendly Fort. You can see the discussion I made of the place by reading the BLOG POST. It's a very fascinating place.
But why should I want to make a "new" Friendly Fort?
Well, I spent a lot of time thinking about this prospect. You see, I recently found a region of forest, complete with creek and surrounding stone that reminded me very much like the legendary Friendly Fort of Cook County Forest Preserves. Walking there in the late afternoon was like a flashback for me. I really felt like I was visiting the Friendly Fort. At some point I said to myself, "This is the new Friendly Fort."
"New Friendly Fort?" I challenged myself. "What's wrong with the original?"
Well, quite frankly, the original no longer exists. Once upon a time the original was a beautiful place. But after twenty years, it is now in ruins. Aside from that, it's nearly impossible to reach the original Friendly Fort without trespassing on private property. One would have to hike a few miles through forest to finally reach it. The convenient shortcut is owned by a local organization. For this matter, I haven't been there in almost a year. I doubt I will ever return.
A "new" Friendly Fort isn't such a bad idea, considering what was cited in the above paragraphs. But what gives me the authority to commission a new one?
Well, nobody remembers the original Friendly Fort. People I've talked to who once visited it in their teens back in the 1980s have no idea as to what I might be referring to. My brother remembers it, but he doesn't remember how to get there. It was my daughter and I who went on a lengthy adventure last year just to find it so I can have photos of the place for you.
As for my daughter, she agrees that it is time for a new Friendly Fort. And so on Autumn Equinox of 2016 at Sunrise, the new Friendly Fort was commissioned and consecrated. This moment was recorded by way of photograph as seen above.
Friendly Forts are nothing more than small bodies of water like a river or creek with surrounding platforms such as flagstone to stand on. Considered sacred, they are meeting places where people can join for prayer, meditation magick and various rituals. The water serves as an excellent amplifier and has magickal properties during these ceremonies. If you and your friends wish to have a Friendly Fort of your own, you can easily designate a special place in the forest or in the wilderness. The only requirement is a small body of water where people can stand around.

Friday, September 16, 2016

How to Pick Up Women on the Street

Hello All:
The weekend is here. And if you are single, you might have in mind to pick up some woman on the street for a little late night company.
Well here's a guide that might help you how to it.
Have a great weekend!
How to Pick Up Women on the Street
The story I'm about to tell will hopefully teach you how to pick up women on the street. And don't get this confused with picking up prostitutes! No, I mean picking up actual women who need casual sex and are out looking for it with no strings attached. But let me first warn you; I don't know, entirely, if these tricks will work in modern times. You see, back in the day it was a little easier to pick women up on the street because women played the game. Today if you see a woman on the street, she wouldn't dare consider making eye contact with a stranger or, even worse, talking to one.  You see, she has her nose buried in her phone.
And what is she checking on her phone? What might be so important instead of letting you pick her up?
Well, she's posted naked pictures of herself on Flickr or Instragram, and needs to see if she's gotten any new likes or comments from strangers. So if you can find a way around this modern-day obstacle of women living out their imaginary sex lives on the Internet, you might be able to employ these old tricks that were used back in the day.
It was a late Friday night out in the city where I had left a popular bar and made my way back to my car in a public parking garage. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed an intriguing woman—maybe in her late twenties—just casually strolling the parking garage.
Now this I had to check out! She was in the direction of where I had to go to exit the garage, so I was sure to drive nice and slow while nearing her. And she wasn't bad at all! She had long, blond hair and pretty, blue eyes. She wore tight denim shorts and a sleeveless shirt (it was a hot summer night, so she was dressed appropriately). With what was exposed, I could see she had a nice pair of legs. And she clearly was not wearing a bra which I later confirmed that night when lifting her shirt off.
I already had the windows rolled down in my car. I slowly drove over and yelled out to her through the passenger side window. "Hey, what's going on?"
"Nothing much..." she simply said.
"Yeah?" I challenged. "Just standing in a parking garage?"
"I'm just waiting for someone." she answered.
"Just waiting for someone?" I repeated. "Maybe you're waiting for me. Is that it?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Well get in!" I encouraged.
At this point, I could tell she was hesitant. I was, after all, a stranger and safety might have been a concern. But she was also terribly horny and in desperate need of something.
"Come on!" I urged. "What are you waiting for? Let's move before they raise the parking rate!"
At that point, she opened the passenger side door of my car and sat in.
Where was I heading?—you might ask?
Well, where do you think? I had a very horny and very nervous woman sitting in the passenger seat of my car who was at risk of getting out at the next traffic light. While making small talk about how the evening went, I raced onto the freeway and made my home. At some point during the ride, she started to relax, and seemed to look forward to finally getting what she needed.
No words were said once we arrived at my place and walked up the sidewalk to the front door. We both knew what was about to happen. I guess maybe there was a sense of awkwardness in those moments.
And then I led her into the front room of the house where she took a seat on the sofa. Now it's important for young men to understand that this particular stage of the "pick up" is very crucial. You see, she knows what she wants. She knows why she came home with you. But if you put any moves on her, she's going to get all crazy and think you're trying to take advantage of her. Then you risk having her run out of the house to never see her again.
The solution?—you might ask?
Well, I sat right down next to her and didn't say a word. I only stared at her. I carefully watched her, watched every move on her face.
It didn't take long for this to make her feel uncomfortable. It's when she finally spoke up, "Look... what's your game? What are you trying to do? I came home with you tonight, and now you're... what are you trying to put me to shame?"
And that's exactly what I wanted her to do. I wanted her to bring up the fact that she came home with me, but we were doing nothing. When she finally cited this, it gave me a chance to prove that I was actually a really nice guy and could be trusted. I argued, "Slow... slow, baby. Don't go so fast. What's your rush? Don't you think that love can last?"
But this made her do something unexpected. This mention of love caused her to turn outraged. She jumped out of her seat and started shouting, "Love??? What are you talking about??? Now you're trying to trick me in love???"
I looked at her for a second or two and could see that she was a frazzled, emotional wreck—not to mention terribly horny. And although her reaction was most unexpected, I realized that it put her exactly where I wanted her. I was now the one who was in control, and would make everything all better for her. I slowly stood up and reassured her, "Hey, come on now. It's all right... It's all right, now..." I put my arms around her and embraced her. "Everything's alright... It's alright, now..."
And that's all it takes to pick up women on the street and bring them home.
What? You don't believe me?
Well men have been using this technique for years. It's so successful that they even made a song about it to help men remember the stages of the pickup. Check it out:

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

The Good Songs

Hello All:
I know we haven't heard much, lately, about him; but the Cableman is still around. Here's a brand new story in which he chats with a customer about the 'good songs'.
The Good Songs
It wasn't a terribly involved work order for the Cableman; simply pay a visit to one of the apartment units at the end of town, and do what is referred to as a "reconnect" for the new tenant who moved in. Such a job is called "reconnect" because no wiring needs to be added; everything had been previously installed the first time. The Cableman probably disconnected the cable outside in the utility box when the previous tenant moved out.
Sure enough, as the Cableman opened the utility box, he could see his own writing on the black tag with the apartment unit, 1A, written on it; black to indicate that the cable was supposed to be disconnected if there were ever a question.
"This should be easy..." commented the Cableman to himself as he walked up to the main entry door of the apartment building. He pressed the doorbell for 1A.
A second later, the "buzz" was heard which was cue for the Cableman to enter. Once inside, a “burnout” opened the door to unit 1A and greeted with a stoned-stupid smile, "…hey...". He had a lit cigarette in his hand, and the Cableman hates cigarette smoke. From the looks of it, the customer was terminally stoned—not from just recently smoking weed, but because he had done it so much in his life that he now had permanently altered brain cells.
"Hi, I'm here to hook up your cable." acknowledged the Cableman.
"Right this way." signaled the customer while walking back into the apartment.
Inside the place reeked of burned food—maybe over-cooked pizza in the oven—and cigarette smoke. Again, the Cableman hates cigarettes. Oh, but there was one good thing about the customer's living space. The song, 'lunatic fringe' by Red Rider was playing on an old stereo in the family room. The Cableman always liked that song.
"Okay, where's the TV at?" asked the Cableman.
The customer pointed to the opposite wall of the stereo. "Over there. I think it's cable ready." Then he asked, "Is my music bothering you?"
"No, Red Rider is fine with me." reassured the Cableman.
"You mean you like 'lunatic fringe'?" asked the customer with such a surprise.
"Yeah, who doesn't?" cited the Cableman upon turning on the TV. He fumbled through the remote and adjusted the settings so that it would receive cable signal. Then he selected scan. The TV began saving channels, indicator that it was successfully connected to cable service.
"Hey..." called out the customer. "Do you know this song is about the murder of John Lennon?"
"That's a fallacy." corrected the Cableman. "It's actually about modern-day racism and hatred against Jews... well modern-day if it were the 1970s/80s."
"Are you sure?" challenged the customer.
"Absolutely!" answered the Cableman. "The lyrics come right out and say it. It takes the listener back to Nazi Germany when Jews were hunted down." As the TV continued to scan the channels, the Cableman recited some of the lyrics to 'lunatic fringe'. "I know you're out there... you're in hiding... This is open season, but you won't get too far, cause you gotta blame someone for your own confusion." By then it was the end of the song and the European emergency siren was heard. "And hear the sirens?" concluded the Cableman. "That's the Nazis coming after the Jews."
"Whoa!" exclaimed the customer. "Dude, you just freaked me out! I can totally see it!"
“Interesting thing…” continued to the Cableman. “The reason why people think ‘lunatic fringe’ is about the murder of John Lennon is because the song was recorded on the very night that John Lennon was murdered.
“Really???” exclaimed the customer.
“Yup.” affirmed the Cableman. “That explains the fallacy associated with this song.”
The TV was reaching the end of the channel search which meant that the Cableman had to go back to concentrating on his work. He now had to check the picture quality to ensure that all was well. During this time the song on the customer's stereo changed to 'lay down Sally' by Eric Clapton.
"Oh, what the fuck is this shit?" complained the customer.
The Cableman overheard the griping as well as the profanity and thought that the customer was complaining about the less than desirable picture quality. "Don't worry, I can fix that." he reassured.
"No, the song!" corrected the customer. "This song sucks! How can they play something so cool like 'lunatic fringe', and then go to this shit?"
"Sorry, I thought you were talking about the picture.” answered the Cableman. “But I'm going to have to fix this for you. It's probably a rusty fitting outside. As for the song, I know what you mean. It was never my favorite. But that's what you get with variety."
"You know what they need?" began the customer.
The Cableman took a deep breath and reminded himself that sometimes it's necessary to socialize with the customer. "What?" he asked.
"They need a station that plays nothing but the good songs... you know, the good songs!"
"I have a lot of songs in my collection." revealed the Cableman. "Which ones are the good ones?"
"Oh come-on, man!" argued the customer. "Don't tell me you know what the good songs are! You know... the good songs!—like 'lunatic fringe', or songs by Van Halen and Ozzy Osbourne... you know, the good songs!"
"Oh, I get it now." answered the Cableman. "You like all that hard rock."
"Yeah!" exclaimed the customer.
"Like Judas Priest?" suggested the Cableman.
"Fuck yeah!" exclaimed the customer.
"Or how about Billy Ido?l—'white wedding'?"
"There you go!" agreed the customer.
The Cableman speculated for a second, "Well, it's a radio station that you're listening to. Some of the people out there like this song by Eric Clapton, so they have to play it." Then he excused himself, "I'll be right back. Let me check the connections outside."
Three minutes later the Cableman returned to the apartment unit. "Okay, I noticed the cable fitting was a bit rusty, so I changed it." he informed. Then he paused. There was no longer any music playing. "What happened to the music?" he asked
The customer rolled his eyes in disgust, "They started playing ‘rocket man’ by Elton John.
"Not a good day with the radio for you." cited the Cableman. "But maybe your picture quality can be better. The Cableman flipped through the stations to verify that all was well.
Suddenly, the customer started singing, "I want my... I want my MTV..."
The Cableman sighed to himself. "Almost out of here." he thought.
"I want my MTV..." the customer continued to chant.
"You actually have that in your channel lineup." interrupted the Cableman in hopes that the customer would quit singing. But don't expect any music videos. They stopped doing that years ago."
"Oh, I know!" answered the customer. "They suck, now. But the song from Dire Straits is cool."
"Another one of my favorites." agreed the Cableman while reaching for his clipboard. "You're all done. If you need anything else, just call our office."
But before the Cableman could leave, the burnout customer had plenty more to say. He signed the paperwork and then added, "Hey, you know that station that I want that plays nothing but the good songs?”
“Yeah…?” affirmed the Cableman.
 “It actually existed once upon a time. Right when I started summer break after graduating high school, a radio station out in Detroit went on the air and celebrated with the listeners by playing non-stop music—commercial free—for six weeks. And it was all the good song just like we like. It was nothing but Ozzy, Van Halen, Aerosmith, The Who—all the good songs. Me and my buddies, we pooled together all of our money from graduation cards—you know, the ones that your family members give with money in it—and we bought tons of weed, acid, ‘shrooms, and I don't even know how much beer and liquor. For the entire six weeks we just partied our asses off, nonstop, while listening to this radio station. I don't even remember what station it was. But it was great! We got into car accidents from being so fucked up and had to go to the hospital a couple times. One of my buddies went to jail for a few days. But when he got out, he just continued partying with us. I think one of my buddies actually died in those six weeks, too.”
“Eww…” remarked the Cableman.
“And get this!” continued the customer. “My old man had a job lined up for me at some factory that I was supposed to start around the middle of July. My starting day was the very day that the radio station started playing commercials. And ironically, all of our drugs had been used up. I just went into work that morning all sober and feeling like shit. But I was so fucked up from partying for six weeks that I couldn't even think straight. And all I could do was stand there in front of my boss and say, 'uhhhhh...'.
“Like you did this morning at the door when you said, ‘…hey…’?” suggested the Cableman.
The customer laughed and conclude his story, “I was fired after two days because I couldn't work."
"Did you ever come down after those six weeks of partying?" asked the Cableman.
"Probably not..." answered the customer.
The Cableman laughed while walking out the apartment door, "So you're a real modern day Rip Van Winkle!"
The End!

Monday, September 12, 2016

Soap In Your Eyes

Hello All:
Back to work/school after what was hopefully a nice weekend for you; we start Monday with a peculiar short story.
Soap In Your Eyes
Ask any kid what his or her favorite day of the week is, and he or she will surely answer Saturday.
Why Saturday? Why not Friday, Sunday, or Monday?
Well, Saturday is that one and only day of the week which is 100 percent isolated from the school week. Monday sucks for the obvious reason that an entire week of school is ahead. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday aren't much better; only closer to Saturday. Friday does bring some sense of hope that the final bell for the day will allow leaving school for the next couple of days. But Friday does include that unpleasant thing of having to be in school. And then there is Saturday, the one day in which a kid can sleep in and then enjoy the day without the bother of having to go to school. He or she can even put off doing homework. As for Sunday, it's okay. The problem with this day is the fact that a kid is occasionally reminded of having to go back to school on Monday.
For Eric it was a Saturday morning, just a bit past seven o'clock. He rolled over and took notice of the early morning sun shining through his window. But he was in no hurry to get out of bed. Eric felt like he could lay there and doze off for about another hour or so for some dreaming. It was his much earned right as a kid to do this, being that the stupid alarm would wake him up on Monday through Friday.
Eric closed his eyes, and lay there while listening to the outside sounds of trees rustling in the gentle, early morning wind. A few blocks away, someone was mowing their lawn--nothing terribly noisy to distract Eric from falling back to sleep.
But then there were the sounds of soft, sneaky footsteps entering the bedroom, followed by the unavoidable creek on the floor. Yes, someone was in Eric's bedroom; probably his jerk older brother, Martin.
Perhaps if Eric simply lay there and pretend to be sound asleep, his brother would go away.
The footsteps came closer and closer until a presence could be felt very close to the bed. Eric could sense that whoever was near did their best to keep from laughing. And then there was the peculiar scent of popcorn and cotton candy as-if whoever it was had been at a circus or carnival. What was Martin doing? Did he go to a carnival on Friday night?
Thumbs were smashed into Eric's closed eyes, with some sort of lotion or gel rubbed in.
"Quit it! You jerk!" shouted Eric. He immediately opened his eyes.
But it wasn't Eric's older brother Martin who stood over the bed. Rather, it was an obnoxious clown with painted face and large, red rose. It wore a ridiculous outfit of loud colors. "Smile! There's soap in your eyes!" called out the clown.
And that's the last thing poor Eric remembered seeing that morning. He had to close his from the painful sting brought on by the soap running in. Stupid clown! And if that weren't enough, Eric had to fight the clown off, blind, as he continued rubbing soap all over his face.
The End!