Ravings of a Textual Deviant

Mama Duck hatched me
I’m ugly as I can be
Other ducks won’t quack with me
Turn their back on me
Just want a lack of me
In the barnyard family
I don’t know yet
That I’m a cygnet
I leave the nest
‘Cos mama knows best
And I head out west
For a place to rest
Flying fast as I can
To Detroit, Michigan
Take my swan sound
On down to Motown
Now I’m on the one
And havin’ some fun
Listen to my swan song
Don’t treat your chicks wrong
And don’t you go punkin’
This ugly duckling

Normally, I enjoy a good ride. But tonight, the “horse” is old and sickly; the gifts paltry; the cigar reeking and cheap. No way to treat an honored guest—or ghost, eh? So I go looking for some fun.

There’s a young man’s voice nearby, “…I try to make my way to the ordinary world,” he sings.
Sounds like a good idea to me. I move into the singer.

But it’s not a good idea. There’s nothing there, no flesh. Instead, I see a web of light. I’m the fly, now, with nothing to do but wait for Mister Spider.

“I’d like the French toast please, with strawberry jam,”

“I’m sorry, sir, there’s no jam today.”

“Yesterday you said there’d be jam today.”

“Your pardon, sir, I said that we have jam every other day.”

“So you did. ‘Jam yesterday and jam tomorrow,’ you said. ‘But never jam today.’”

“Exactly, sir.”

“Well, how about the mushroom omelet, then?”

“Can’t recommend the mushrooms myself, sir, though they do have a following amongst a portion of our clientele.”

“Waffles, it is.”

“Right away, sir. Oh, the syrup’s crawled off again. I’ll fetch more.” The waitress faded out slowly, leaving only her smile.

I make a pretty good living performing exorcisms on cars, even if most insurance policies won’t cover it. Evil spirits love technology; lots of opportunity for mischief.

You didn’t really think that it was a coincidence?

I met my match in mint-condition ’71 Demon with a tenacious Maxwell’s Imp in the carburetor. The owner was a bigwig on the classic car circuit, with a short temper and a foul mouth.

I got ol’ Max out of the engine, but couldn’t banish it. Instead, I found it a new host.

I got paid, and nobody noticed a change in Bigwig’s behaviour.

The whirlwind didn’t move from side to side at all; it just kept getting bigger and louder. My brain refused to accept the reality of it and wouldn’t let me move, no matter how badly I wanted to.

Which, for the record, was very badly indeed.

After a great deal of buffeting, bone rattling, and barfing, the twister set me down as gently as you please on a sere, gray plain. An old farmhouse, untouched, was visible in the distance. I could see a speck that had to be the barn behind it.

It matched Granny Dot’s tall tales perfectly.

The freshman bio lecture was interesting, but scheduling the dissection lab right after lunch was pure sadism. The invertebrates weren’t so bad, but the fetal pigs…ugh! Fortunately, my lab partners and I had it down to a science, as it were, by semester’s end.

Kendra, who wanted to be a surgeon, had the thing staked out and opened up with disturbing speed and precision. Sara assisted, handing off tools and occasionally holding one innard out of the way so we could see what was underneath. Ivy took notes and did the drawings.

I went outside and barfed enough for four.

This one is for A.S-R., who gave me the title.

Nobody was more surprised than me when I won $25,000 ($13,750 after taxes) in the Minnesota State Lottery. I did the responsible thing and paid off my credit cards first, which left me just enough to fulfill one of my two lifetime wishes.

I’ve always been skinny. My nursing bra was a size A, and I really filled out during pregnancy, if you get my drift. I would love to be a B cup.

On the other hand, I would really like to take the kids to Disneyworld, and not have to do it on the cheap.

What to do?

Excuse the expression, but being a vampire sucks. No more surfing, tanning, or beach volleyball. And I am majorly wigging out over the permanent high-protein diet.

The dude who killed me promised that I’d, like, be power and rich. He left out the part about it taking decades before I even rate…not to mention how long it takes compound interest to work on a manicurist’s savings account.

This bites.

Still, I probably overreacted when I ripped his head off. He was right on about the super-strength and reflexes, at least. And the look on his face was totally worth it.

This story is for everyone who has ever had a bad Thanksgiving, but especially for H. A.

Grandma isn’t a bad cook. It’s that she’s been cooking to please Grandpa for forty-three years…and his mother was a terrible cook. She’s been cooking badly on purpose all this time, and she’s good at it.

I steeled myself for another year of oven-dried turkey, scorched stuffing, and white lies. I had a plane ticket and Pepto-Bismol. I was as ready as I’d ever be.

The shooting pains started when I was over Ohio.

I have never been so grateful for my appendix as I was that day. I’m told food poisoning is just as painful, and a lot messier.

I don’t really like my job, and sometimes I half-ass it. A lot of the time, actually. I feel vaguely guilty about that, but not enough to work harder…only enough to reassure myself that I’m not a complete bastard, just burned out.

The high point of my year is the Darwin awards—not the announcements, but watching the winning entry. The rest of the time, it’s “another day, another dead guy.” One more soul to chauffeur to its final destination.

I’d like to think it used to be more fun, or at least more interesting. Unfortunately, like taxes, it wasn’t.