« Ted: The Magazine | Main | Michele: I Choose You »

May 21, 2005

Volume 1, Issue 9

This picture was recently snapped for another project site, Inappropriately Dressed.

Let's imagine the life and times of this individual, shall we?

UPDATE - Our undying thanks to Johnny Catbird for much fiddling yesterday to try and get the word count script to be less arse-tastic.

Bookmark: del.icio.us • Digg • reddit

Comments

I walk bravely, but never alone. I look at the young or elderly trying to find defiance, and meet it head-on, provided I’m not outnumbered. Guns are scarce and we wouldn’t want to lose any in a street fight, so I don’t carry one. I know people who do. But we’ve got plenty of bullets. The Americans left boxes and boxes 20 years ago when they stopped hunting the Sandinistas. They don’t work in anything we have, but they send a message. This country will be mine soon. Ain’t nobody gonna stop me. Just wait – you’ll know my name someday.

Posted by: Clyde at May 21, 2005 6:54 AM · Permalink

He called himself T-Dawg, and while it lacked for creativity, it beat the hell out of “Terrence.” Actually, dozens of people had beaten the hell out of Terrence, and the belt was a direct result. So was the intensive therapy.

None of it worked.

Now in the last stages of the disease he could never remember (something nervoso?), he frantically scanned every table, even the bullshit decorative ones, searching for a scrap of food, vaguely conscious that he wouldn’t bring himself to swallow what he found.

Ten minutes later he collapsed, thinking: I hope pine doesn’t make me look fat.

Posted by: joe at May 21, 2005 9:36 AM · Permalink

“I want to be like Caine from Kung Fu when I grow up.”

“Caine from Kung Fu?”

“Yeah, Mama.”

“I bet Caine wore clothes that fit him. He didn’t wear no baggy jeans hung around his behind.”

“But Mama…”

“Don’t But Mama’ me. I bet he ate the vegetables his Mama cooked for him and never gave her no back talk.”

“Caine didn’t have no Mama.”

“Everybody got a Mama, Jules. Now run along before you’re late for your job with that nice Marcellus Wallace. You make sure to ask if he wants to come for Sunday dinner.”

“Yes, Mama.”

(word count via Word exactly 100)

Posted by: Lesley at May 21, 2005 12:45 PM · Permalink

Most young boys admired movie stars and rappers. Not Javier.

He idolized Pancho Villa.

Javier read every book the library had on Pancho Villa, even the ones where he only got a passing mention. He dreamed of riding with Pancho's band in the border towns, running from the americanos and warring with the federales.

Most of his friends and classmates didn't think much of Javier's obsession, even when he was expelled for wearing the belt made of bullets.

But that was only the beginning. Soon Javier would follow in his hero's footsteps and run the school board out of town.

Posted by: Shawn at May 21, 2005 1:44 PM · Permalink

Christmas sucks. One year my mother-in-law gave me a sheer silk blouse with big gold leaves on it-- strategically placed. Goodwill loved it. When we asked for something practical, she sent yellow towels that "matched" our white ones. Last year takes the cake, though. I've been trying to get her son not to wear his awful baggy jeans and suggested she get him something in camo because he likes military stuff. I even gave her his waist size. Well, since Xmas, my husband is still walking around in low-riding-under-his-beer-gut baggy jeans, but now he looks like a plumber-terrorist scouting out American malls on the weekend. It's that new ammo belt Mom gave him.

Yeah, he's overcompensating, but next Christmas I'm sending her a hearing aid. And maybe orange towels to match her pink ones.

Posted by: Anon at May 21, 2005 2:55 PM · Permalink

He didn't know it was going to end badly.

Six-pac thought he was stylin'. Totally phat, down with it, super ice-cool, and just plain handsome.

The park police did not share his opinion. And besides, carrying ammunition in the open allowed them to shoot first and ask questions later.

As it turned out, the park police never bothered to ask any questions. Shooting first was so much easier.

Posted by: Eric Blair at May 21, 2005 4:32 PM · Permalink

I hope this pic makes it out. Tubby and me are holdin' 'em off at the moment but we on our las belt of .308 and they have us surrounded. we killed a lot of 'em including a bunch that you can ruin in the daytime when they can't move and you can just put drinks on 'em with no coasters and leave a ring and they fly back off God Knows Where as soon as the sun goes down. Probly just off to a low geosynch refinishing orbiter--but it saves ammo and right now ammo is all that counts.

Posted by: Buddy Larsen at May 21, 2005 5:19 PM · Permalink

6 or 8 posts and yet to remember to add "100 words"...sad case...my lost whatchamacallit that holds info in your round thing that has your face on it.

Posted by: Buddy Larsen at May 21, 2005 5:24 PM · Permalink

This is the place. The druids were clever, mixing into modern society almost flawlessly. But he knew their tricks. The signs were plain if you knew where to look: some scrollwork here, a leafy motif there.
This ends today, he continued, walking toward the rear of the crafts store. I will be swift and merciless, surprise them, and finally end them. He glanced at the store patrons and noticed they were staring at him. He suddenly felt exposed, and froze. Surely, they cannot suspect. I have been too careful.
The back room curtain parted, and two robed men stepped out.

Posted by: David at May 21, 2005 6:03 PM · Permalink

"But, Mama, we are winning! Soon they will have to listen to us. Only next week I will... "

"So now you are too important to have time for your mama?"

"No, Mama, that's not it. I only wish..."

"You can help. After all I've done for you! What are you without me?"

"Mama, nothing, of course, but I want..."

"Oh, walk faster you lazy bones. We should not keep Mr. Norn waiting!"

As she moved ahead in the crowded marketplace he lowered the AK-47 and drew a bead on her head. You know, just for practise. (The gun was unloaded.)

Posted by: Carthoris of Helium at May 21, 2005 6:16 PM · Permalink

“Thank you, Father and Mother!” Mashad beamed. For his 16th birthday Mashad received the greatest gift he could have hoped for. Mashad was now the owner of a pair of genuine United States blue jeans. He would be the envy of all the other boys in the madras.

“I hope they fit okay,” Mother said. Mashad threw both legs into the pants and pulled them up. Alas, the pants were too wide for Mashad’s thin frame.

“I know how to fix that,” declared Father triumphantly. “Since the dictator and his sons are gone I won’t be needing this belt anymore.”

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at May 21, 2005 9:35 PM · Permalink

Safe? Nothing's safe. The coffee table district's the worst. Folks here will kill you just as soon as look at you.

I try to even out the odds. I keep my ammunition visible so people know not to mess with me. I keep my weapons concealed in the crotch of my baggy pants. I like to keep some secrets.

My Glock, an old Smith and Wesson like the cowboys used to use, three hand grenades and an AK-47 fit snugly against my grossly undersized genitalia.

Just keep your eyes on the coffee tables, folks; You don't want to meet me.

Posted by: Adam at May 21, 2005 9:46 PM · Permalink

Oh, my!
Peace...........

Posted by: Helen at May 21, 2005 11:50 PM · Permalink

“All my friends… wear them low-riders…” the boom box played. A cheesy horn sound followed and Roberto sauntered across the square, regretting with every step his decision to become a male model.

He had needed money and answered a magazine ad. Nobody needed a Robert White from Dubuque, but Roberto LoBianco from Tijuana was a whole different story. At first, he had modeled ghetto swank. But now it was ghetto punk.

Why did they keep making him wear metal things? Didn’t they know they made him break out? Next week, he swore, he was going to become a bank teller.

Posted by: Geoffrey Barto at May 22, 2005 1:20 AM · Permalink