« Michele: Fading Reminder | Main | The Eschatologist: Wish Upon A Thousand Stars »

July 18, 2005

Volume 3, Issue 18

A little visual splendor for your Monday morning...

click for bigger

[Photo taken from this photographer's collection. You can see the rest of his photography here]

Bookmark: del.icio.us • Digg • reddit

Comments

Baaaam! With a single shotgun blast, the body disentigrated, nothing remained but the head still covered in a sack dangling from the rope above. Holes scattered through the backyard fence like a slab of swiss cheese. The sirens will be here soon, time to finish the job. Baseball bat in hand, young Carlos slips on the blindfold. Coiled like a homerun champion, he prepares to strike. Revenge as sweet as candy fills his mind..... what good fortune! Stupid Pepe had actually fallen for the fake suicide game. "This will teach that bully to break the pinata at my birthday party!"

Posted by: K. Brown at July 18, 2005 6:14 AM · Permalink

"You know what Chief? You're gonna like this game. Since you so recently shuffled off this mortal coil I don't expect you to contribute much to the experience but I would be grieved if I didn't at least think to include you. The children of this camp need a little fun, Chief, and you are going to give it to them in your rotted maggot filled head. Will it scare off the Pinkerton interest? Who's to say? But certainly it will ensure that our future generations will be just as cut-throat as we ourselves are."

Posted by: Gabe at July 18, 2005 6:45 AM · Permalink

For as long as she could recall, which was quite a long time, piñatas were Tia Maria’s specialty. The most ornate ones required weeks of painstaking, intricate labor using only the finest papier-mâché and colorful tissue.

Now pinatas are mass produced, using cheap cardboard and paste-on tissue cut-outs. “No para una familia mia,” she smiled; her thin, blue lined hands shaking as she added the final touches.

Tia Maria passed away during little Juanito’s party. No one knows exactly when. But some say that her last piñata, when smashed to release the candy, exploded with shimmering glimmers of her soul.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at July 18, 2005 8:19 AM · Permalink

Hey Gabe...it's 100 WORDS, buddy. One more -100 entry and you're going to find your pants pulled down and your private bits painted bright orange. Y'know, virtually.

Posted by: Sekimori at July 18, 2005 8:21 AM · Permalink

I say we lash him for every word he's short. That's five for today!

Posted by: michele at July 18, 2005 8:40 AM · Permalink

“The problem is that our product is so cyclical.” Frank stood by the flip-chart, pointer in hand, addressing the gloomy board members. “I mean, come on! How could you guys have expected to see any first quarter earnings?”

“And they can be used over and over again now,” young Perkins piped in needlessly.

The newest board member, Hiromoto, asked, “Have we tried expanding to other niches. Say, for example, as decorations for birthday parties?”

“Despite what you may have heard in Japan, sir” Frank replied evenly, “Americans still have more taste than to use gaudy Christmas lights at birthday parties.”

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at July 18, 2005 9:33 AM · Permalink

Mikey took another mighty swing, and missed again as his brother raised the pinata out of his reach. The force of the swing spun him around, and the aluminum bat snagged the string of Christmas lights on the back fence. One section of the lights tore loose from the fence, and the weathered plastic insulation peeled off, letting bare wires short against the aluminum bat. Mikey did a macabre dance for a few seconds, the hood hiding the grimace on his face, then the circuit breaker finally tripped and he collapsed to the ground.

"C'mon, you wuss!" his brother yelled.

Posted by: hnumpah at July 18, 2005 9:50 AM · Permalink

Billy swung the bat again. Swish! Two lurches forward, then again, knees buckling. Swish!

The real party was long over, the tiki lamps out, the pinata empty, the candy eaten by Johnny and friends. Billy barely cared. He could get out of the cellar through the crawlspace, barely squeezing through. Next year he wouldn't fit. He wrapped a rag around his face, shielding it from dirt, and the glare of the dusk sun. He kept it over his eyes to swung at the dead pinata, pretending that Mother had given him a party this year.

It was his birthday, too.

Posted by: Jeff R. at July 18, 2005 9:57 AM · Permalink

From a very young age, little Larry had a talent for offending people. Religion and race were no barrier for Larry; from Aleutians to Zulus, he offended them all. Their reactions ranged from a few nervous chuckles all the way to seething, jaw-clenching rage.

So imagine Larry’s surprise when he received an anonymous gift in the mail. “A piñata!” he exclaimed in delight. “And full of candy, too, judging by the weight!”

Then imagine his surprise when his bat made contact and the contents flew in all directions. “This piñata is full of crap!” he screamed, running to his room.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at July 18, 2005 1:29 PM · Permalink

Oh Great!

It was bad enough that Mom invited all the popular kids, the ones who make fun of me. Then she has to bring out this crappy homemade pinata made out of brown paper bags. I bet she filled it with cheap ass candy too.
She knows I have no coordination. I sit on the bench on all the teams I play on, and I'm the last one picked at Gym. I've told her that repeatedly.

I can already hear their laughter as I swing and miss.

I wish I was dead.

Thanks Mom, for the worst birthday ever.

Posted by: Gahrie at July 18, 2005 9:17 PM · Permalink