Author: hoondat

Smudge

Smudge

Roger entered the lobby in his courier’s uniform, carrying a cardboard package. “I’ve got a parcel for Jacob Ellis. Can you sign?”

Tina the receptionist chirped, “Oh, you can hand it off to him yourself. He’s standing right there. Ivan?” She called out to a tall, pale, white-haired man in a dark suit who stood by the copier.

“Sorry, what? Him?” Roger stared confusedly at the pale man.

“Yes,” Tina confirmed impatiently. “Carlos!” she trilled out. “Come sign for your package.” 

George glided over softly, his shoes making no sound on the hard black tiles. He scribbled on the clipboard, took the package, and disappeared silently around the corner. 

Puzzled, Roger looked down at his itinerary, but couldn’t locate the tall man’s name. He stared after him, wondering how he had vanished so swiftly. Then he looked helplessly to Tina and caught her glaring at him. He opened his mouth to ask a question but found no words for it. Then he opened his mouth to ask what question he should be asking, failing again. He became aware that his hands were moving in awkward directions that he was not choosing.

Tina sighed in a way that expressed contempt of the most professional and courteous kind. The chirping quality was no longer in her voice. “I am aware,” she said, in a tone of deep tolerance being put to the test, “that some people have difficulty in the presence of an albino. Just because Mr. Chen has no skin pigment, it doesn’t mean you have to act like you’ve just arrived from Mars.” 

“But—but—” Roger fumbled for speech. “What was his name?” He looked down at the completely illegible, vaguely symmetrical signature on his clipboard and thought it resembled a butterfly, or possibly a bowl of flowers. “What was his name?” Roger repeated, uncertain whether his voice could be heard.

“Mr. Jackson?” Tina asked. “His name is Christopher Bartle. He’s worked here for years. You really should try to control your reactions. You look ignorant. Albinos are perfectly normal, and he’s probably a lot smarter than you, too. He certainly has better manners.” 

Roger realized his mouth was open again, his tongue and throat squirming but failing to produce words. He pushed his chin up with his hand, then exited as hastily as possible. 

Tina never told Mr. Suarez about the courier’s rude behavior. She took pride in protecting him from such distractions. If a visitor was so poorly raised that he couldn’t act normal in the presence of an albino, then that was his problem alone, and nothing to disturb Mr. Howard’s workday with.

Madden NFL: Geriatric Checkers Edition

I’ve been doing some writing and editing at a cool new company called Houston Preeminence that covers Houstonian sports and culture. Here’s an article that I published in their humor section. They’ve got it behind a paywall, but I’m putting the whole thing here to give you some idea of what they offer their subscribers. They’ve also got a 24-hour radio station, so go check it out!

 

For the upcoming Texans at Redskins game on Nov. 18, our editors assigned us a challenge: use Madden NFL to simulate the game and attempt to correctly predict the outcome.

It’s a great idea; the game has an excellent record of predicting winners, with correct calls in ten of the last 15 Super Bowls. We leapt at the opportunity, but our XBox is currently having difficulty running Madden, thanks to a minor equipment malfunction.

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Reindeer Games

Dasher: All right, Blitzen, you do the antler thing with the mistletoe … Dasher, your turn to spin the bottle. Who has the blindfold? … Shit, here he comes. Hide everything.

Cupid: God, he gets so inappropriate.

Rudolph: Hey everybody! Who wants to play some reindeer games? If you know what I mean.

Vixen: Why are you winking like that?

The most famous reindeer of all
The most famous reindeer of all

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The Bad Decisions Club

Room 1 loudspeaker

Welcome to the Bad Decisions Club! Make yourself at home. You’re the latest of countless applicants. Our guided tour will make everything easy for you. Please leave your coat on the shelf beside you; our staff will take care of it. Once you’re unburdened, please proceed through the next door.

Room 2

In this room you’ll find a simple questionnaire. It will ask you to describe the worst and stupidest thing you’ve ever done. Here in the Bad Decisions Club, we accept you as you are. You won’t be rejected or judged. We keep our standards low for your benefit. Please give your completed questionnaire to the man at the desk who looks like a wise old priest. He will absolve you and assure you that you are a good person. You’ll believe him, because absolution feels good. We thank you for trusting us with the content of your conscience. Please proceed through the next door when done.

a_mysterious_door_by_damiengorson-d88j4zt1

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Larry the Substitute Oracle

“Everything is relative.”

Larry said this, hoping the woman in front of him wouldn’t know what he meant. It was something others did to Larry a lot, and it always worked. His smart friends could shut him up in a hurry by telling him something was relative; he never had an answer.

Now he sat in a dimly lit marble chamber facing Mrs. Lomax, who thought he was a much smarter man than he actually was. He saw that she expected wisdom from him. She wanted to know what the autumn harvest would bring. So he uttered the magic words that always reduced him to muteness, hoping it would do the same to her. It did not.

She stared back, directly into his shallow eyes. “The harvest is relative?” she asked.

“Um, yes,” Larry answered, knowing he would have to ride this train to its final station.

“Well?” she said from beneath a slanted eyebrow. “Relative to what?”

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The Gift of the Magi II

To: The Henry family

From: Mr. and Mrs. Emutape

Dear O:

A Merry Christmas to one and all! We hope your holiday season has been as jolly as ours; and I’m about to tell you exactly what I mean by that.

We read your story, The Gift of the Magi, and we said to each other, “What a touching and heartwarming story.” We loved the comic irony when Mrs. Young sells her hair to buy Mr. Young an accessory for his watch, not knowing that he has sold his watch to buy fancy accessories for her hair. They end up destitute with a bunch of useless garbage, but their sacrifice has brought them closer together.

Well, it might interest you to know that we had our own Magi experience for Christmas this year. I wanted Mrs. Emutape to have a new enamel glaze for her dentures, so I sold my wooden leg to pay for it. And wouldn’t you know it: the next night she walked in and handed me a replacement knee for my wooden leg. “I fought you needed vis new knee more van I needed teef,” she said. “So I sold my teef to buy it.”

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Pluck Packard Saves the Pacific

The bombing run was going poorly for Lieutenant Pluck Packard.

His B-17 bomber was on a critical mission to destroy a Japanese munitions factory on an island near Korea, but nothing was going right.

He hadn’t realized that the navigation system had failed. “Bearing 5, bearing 5, bearing 5,” another bomber in the squadron had communicated, using the coded signal that told him he was leading the group badly off course. Breaking radio silence was a terrible risk, but he was glad they had done so; otherwise he wouldn’t have realized that anything was wrong. Whether the compass had malfunctioned, or atmospheric conditions were interfering with his navigation, he couldn’t tell. But he was lost, uncertain of what direction he needed to lead his squadron.

Lieutenant Packard sat and fretted indecisively, nervously running his fingers around the collar of his leather bomber jacket; then a series of events began that he had no power to explain. To his astonishment, he found a piece of paper pinned beneath his collar. He pulled it out and found a handwritten note. It said: “Look under your seat, and put what you find on the panel.”

Pluck took his eyes off the horizon and read the note again, unable to believe it. It was in his own handwriting! It was written on personalized stationery that his wife had given him for his letters home. He kept that paper locked in his personal strongbox. No one else had access to it, and he doubted that anyone could forge his handwriting so flawlessly — but he hadn’t written the note!

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