Forget dirt, bugs, and lack of dignity. Try glamping. It’s camping for people who hate nature and demand artisanal s’mores. Why rough it? You can pay $800 a night to “connect with nature” from a temperature-controlled yurt with Egyptian cotton sheets and a salt lamp shaped like a pine cone.
"Luck is a very thin wire between survival and disaster, and not many people can keep their balance on it. (Hunter S. Thompson)
Albert wore his “lucky socks” to the job interview. On the way he stepped in gum, then a sewer grate. He didn’t get the job. Now he’s unemployed. Scientists say luck isn’t real—but Albert disagrees from beneath his umbrella, under a lightning-struck tree. He’s applying next at the horseshoe factory.
Schrödinger’s cat has filed a massive lawsuit, alive and dead, claiming emotional distress from years of quantum gaslighting. “I just wanted a nap, not a paradox,” he said tiredly. Lawyers protested, “You can’t sue if you both exist and don’t.” The judge ruled simultaneously in favor and against. Chaos ensued.
“Kelce” is among the top-trending dog names in the country—up 135% in a year—according to Rover, a Seattle-based matchmaker that connects pet owners with pet sitters and dog walkers. In addition people hung that name on other items: penises, vaginas, farts, gerbils, drinks, cats, streets. new stars, assholes, oral sex.
Rain tapped on the tin roof in Morse code, urgent, indecipherable. She sat cradling tea and old regrets, watching the world blur into watercolor. Puddles held reflections of things long gone. Thunder rolled a lazy drumbeat. The storm didn’t cleanse her soul, but it reminded her she still had one.
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There is one difference between a long life & a great dinner; in the dinner, the sweet things come last.”
(Audrey Hepburn)
Each evening, Margaret set two plates for dinner—one for her, one for the silence. The chair across remained empty, untouched since Henry’s passing. She spoke aloud anyway, clinking fork to porcelain, pretending. Outside, the world moved on. Inside, time gathered quietly. Her only companion the frozen echo of remembered laughter.
Wearing a soot-stained old straw hat, nineteen-year-old Micah (formerly Miriam) adjusts her suspenders and adjusts again. “The elders think it’s a new type of quilting bee,” she says, “but it’s really gender euphoria with potholders.” Once a bastion of literal black-and-white thinking, Amish enclaves are reportedly adapting to new expressions… Read More
Marvin shuffled to the porch, coffee in hand, to greet the sun like an old war buddy. “Still fighting the dark, eh?” he’d mutter. One dawn the chair rocked empty, but the sunrise, bold, seemed brighter, as if saluting him back. Light poured down–and the day stood in silence, remembering.
Laughter filled the courtroom when a colorful sock puppet appeared in place of the judge. Attorneys were gobsmacked. The jury was, too. The defendant, a pedophile dressed in a clown suit, looked confident when the puppet’s bias toward funny costumes emerged in his instructions to the jury. An acquittal followed.
The clock maker finished his final piece, an hourglass that ran backward. As sand rose, so did memories of laughter, lost love, childhood sunrises. When the last grain lifted, there stood a boy with wonder in his eyes and sawdust on his palms. Time, it turned out, had missed him,… Read More
Style strutted in late, wearing mismatched shoes like a manifesto. The others—Trendy, Classic, and Chic—laughed, but she sipped her espresso and winked. By noon, they copied her walk; by dusk, her shoes. “Style,” she purred, draping a scarf on gravity itself. “It isn’t what they see, it’s what they follow.”
The village praised Elias, the healer with miracle hands. Each cure, however, was costly—gold, secrets, silence. One night, the mayor followed Elias into the woods. There were no herbs, only graves. Elias didn’t heal. He replaced. The next day, the mayor’s cough was gone, and Elias wore a new smile.
"I really do believe that if Sir David Attenborough would narrate my life to me things would be much easier."
Postmodern philosophy is the mycelium from which the toxic fungi of skepticism, sarcasm, deconstructionism, ironic politeness, and self-aware apologies emerge. These are nourished by a distrust of grand narratives and a single-minded pursuit of power in human interactions. Postmodernism has also been described as modernism with the cheerfulness taken… Read More
She jabs her index finger at an app like she’s poking someone in the chest while she’s making a point in an argument. He lays his finger on an app gently, diffidently, as though he’s sorry to have to be the one who wakes it. Can this marriage be saved?
“What’s this $999.00 payment to NeverEndingWeb?” she asked. “That guarantees my new website won’t expire even when I do.” “Who’s gonna read it 100 years from now?” “Don’t know, but they’ll read exactly what I wrote.” “Sooner or later you’ll have to give up the hope for a better past.”
