You’re having your appendix out because modern medicine just wasn’t good enough. Standing by in the operating theater is a tattoo artist, who at the moment your appendix is free, inks your only appendix and then puts it in a jar to keep forever. The question then becomes, what do you tattoo on your appendix?
Grapes tortured by the sun,
Mr. Crowley used to run the Steeple Chase. One of the last survivors. He said that now he couldn’t run the Steeple again if he wanted to on account of his shot legs, but he doesn’t know a child alive that could do it nowadays, anyhow. I said, “well then, you wouldn’t have to RUN it.” He made a noise. It wasn’t a snicker or a harumph. Just a noise. He cocked the starter pistol, and pointed the gun in the air. There weren’t going to be anymore Just Noises from Mr. Crowley, today.
Grandma hustled her granddaughter to the barrier facing the carpet that rolled out to air force one. President Nixon stepped out of the plane and headed down the stairs as he waved. As he walked past Grand Daughter, he paused and reached through the pictures and books and memo pads thrust at him and grabbed Grand Daughter’s face with his clumsy old hand. It hurt, but he was smiling in a kind way. “You are quite a pretty girl. Pretty enough to be on Fox News.” He squeezed her harder, and shook her head a bit, then let go and was on his way. Grandma pinched Grand Daughter’s shoulders and beamed, “Fox News?! Did you hear that? What a thing! What a kind thing to say. What an aspiration?! Grandfather loves that program. All the girls there wear such nice skirts.”
I saw a shower spider eating another, smaller shower spider, and all I could think was, “Are we out of ants?”