The Origin of Valentine's Day

It is said that in the days of yore, a mythical beast of the vale with "eyes of blood, scales black like death, and claws as long as men along its back" (Roberts 1) would terrorize feudal villages surrounding castles, swallow people whole (usually lovers in the act of coitus), and set entire forests ablaze. Speculation arose as to why those within castle walls remained safe, but recent research suggests that a tiny medicinal plant grown by the king's doctor was responsible for warding off the beast of the vale (Kingston 2). Knowing this, the king would dispatch his court to spread the medicinal plant--scientific name: Thymus Vulgaris, vulgaris from the greek 'vul,' to ward, and the Latin 'gar,' meaning beast (Doris 1)--throughout the bordering villages.

In one such instance, the king's jester, rushing the plant to a nearby village, encountered the beast of the vale and stood steadfast. The beast, never so closely coming across the plant, ran into the forest forever disappearing from the kingdom. Proclaiming victory, the king announced "The Beast of Vale-thyme Day" be celebrated throughout his kingdom. Lovers rallied and began celebrating Valethyme Day with rebellious acts of romance against the beast. As generations came and went, the Valethyme Day celebrations were forgotten and eventually replaced by a celebration of he who stood his ground against the beast of vale, the jester Valentine.

Another Filler

“And now let’s go to Larry King in Los Angeles.”

“Thanks, Wolf. Let’s go to Karen in New York.”

"Thanks, Larry. We take you to John in Phoenix. It looks like we’re having trouble reaching John in Phoenix. John, can you hear me? John can you hear me? Let’s go to Larry in Los Angeles. Larry, can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Karen.”

“John in Phoenix reporting.”

Cash Cab

“Where to, buddy?”

“Sweet! Aren’t you the host of Cash Cab! Aw man, I can’t wait to make a mobile shout out.”

“Not today, man. Today I’m just a cab driver.”

“Oh.”

Adventures in Politics

I had the pleasure of shaking Senator Obama’s hand after tonight’s debate. I looked him in the eye and told him, “Senator, you’ve my vote.” Still shaking his hand I said, “I’ll vote for you because you know before he goes to bed, McCain cries about not being able to help everyone. You know Romney spends half his night praying, and you know Clinton spends half her night studying. You, though, I know as soon as you hit the sack, you’re gonna spend half your night making love to your wife. You’re one smooth motherfucker.”

“I am smooth. We’re going to ***** bar tonight. Join us.”

We went to ***** bar and I stood in line. “Come on, frank.” I walked to the door and the door man stopped me. “He’s with me,” said the senator, but the door man didn’t move. “Do you know who I am? Look at my face.” The door man let me in.

Smooth.

Inside: “What will you drink?”

“Umm, a Holden Caulfield, please.”

“May I have a vodka rocks and a Holden Caulfield please,” asked the senator.

“What’s a Holden Caulfield?”

“What’s a Holden Caulfield, frank?”

“Well scotch and soda.”

“That’ll be 23 dollars,” said the bartender.

“Do you know who I am? Look at this.” He showed him a membership card: Member: 109th, 110th Congress. Our drinks were free. He left a c-note tip. Smooth.

We chatted it up for fifteen minutes about immigration reform, universal health care, and Denmark when he noticed a blond eyeing me.

“Go talk to her,” he said.

“Nah, I’m shy.”

“Talk to her and take her this.” It was a mandarin vodka rocks. I was struck with an elegiac pang but walked up to her.

“This is for you.” We talked for fifteen minutes about immigration reform, universal health care, and Denmark before some chump bumped into me and me into her drink into her. “Forgive me,” I said.

“It’s okay, they’ve got it.” It was two guys in black-on-white suits and shades. Shades in a bar. Cool. Not really.

They talked into their wrists and pulled her away.

Senator Obama came up: “Do you know who I am?”

“Oh, hello Senator,” she said.

“Oh, hey Chelsea. This is my friend. He’s voting for me.”

“Oh really?” She began walking away again.

“No, I’m kidding. He’s voting for your mother.”

“Good,” she said with a smile and stayed to talk. The Senator smiled and winked to me and to the penguin suits before walking off to the bar to order another vodka rocks. What a smooth motherfucker.

Battle of Potato

"Where did you get this?"

"I got this in the war. Yeah, The Battle of Potato. I got cocky and overzealous. I peeled without regard for anybody’s safety. I ended up peeling my pinky. It’s a lesson I’ll never forget."

"And this one?"

"This one was near the end of the war at The Battle of Tomato. 'Slice! Slice faster,' they yelled. I sliced as fast as I could, but the knives we were issued were duller than butter knives. Do you know how hard it is to slice tomatoes with a dull knife? It’s fucking hard! I sliced and sliced and sliced, tomato after tomato after tomato. I was so tired and scared. I never seen so much red. They tell you in training not to close your eyes, even for a second. I tell ya, those bastards know what they’re talking about. I closed my eyes and when I opened them . . . . It was my knuckle, cut almost down to the bone."

"Baby, you’re so brave!"

"You gotta be."

"And these?"

"This was in The Battle of Carrot. I was shot three times in the chest."

Stupid Slow Bastards Part @

I was walking towards him about to bust him to smithereens when his buddy exploded a bag of cement into my face. I felt my way out of the grey cloud of dust like a zombie escaping a fire thick with smoke. My dad pulled me out of the dust like an archeologist in Pompeii.

“I’m gonna get some hot dogs,” he said. “Don’t scratch the truck.”

“Of course,” I told him as one of the stupid slow bastards swept my legs from under me with a two by four. He tried to drive it through my chest but I caught it and broke it in half with my palm. I swung my half into his crotch and he doubled over crying. I stood and charged his buddy and tackled him to the floor. I picked him up and spun him above my head thirteen times before throwing him into the freeway support pillar. It collapsed bringing the freeway down with it, burying the bastard under 27 cars. I said something witty like, “that’s what you get for not letting us pass. Don’t drink and drive.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” my dad said handing me a hot dog.

Stupid Slow Bastards Part 1

I was with my father pushing our way out of Home Depot. Our cart was filled with 90 pound cement bags and eight foot two by fours were jutting out either end. This awkward 600 pound beast was hard enough to push in a straight line without having to guide it around these stupid slow bastards who were blocking our path.

We were in our work clothes and looked as the day laborers who wait for work in the Home Depot parking lots. My pants were baggy and faded, my shirt was thin and white and powdered grey with cement. My father attempted to maneuver the beast around these two guys in their mid twenties who were decked out in the latest clothing trends.

Under his breath one of the stupid slow bastards muttered condescendingly: “you could have said excuse me instead of just standing there.”

“Or you could not be in our way,” I said. He was taken aback, surprised that I spoke English.

“Oh, sorry,” he said quickly, unable to maintain eye contact. They moved out of the way and let us pass.