PSA: (Which stands for public service announcement):
When packing your shalach manos, please keep the following in mind
1) Do not pack any homemade products. We shudder just thinking of what went into these. As in, your hands. Gross. Even before the door clicks shut we've already tossed them. And I dont mean into our mouths.
2) Do not try to save money by buying a cosco size box of hamentaschen and then individually wrapping them in cellophane. They meet the same fate as #1.
3) Do not not not not not label your packages with those annoying unpeelable labels that leave marks when we try to pry them off. Its unfair.
4) Themes. Feh. What took you 15.7 hours to prepare, takes us exactly 8.6 seconds to disassemble: 5.6 to pick out the good stuff and 3 to pass on to the next friend(unless you use the aforementioned labels. So don't).
Please keep these common courtesies in mind and we'll all have a more pleasant experience. Better yet, just slip cash under our door.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Referential treatment
Continued from...
"Great art only comes through suffering!" said the king. His wife, the queen, said, "Suffering? What do you know from suffering? You're the king!" Her husband, the king, responded, "By you starvation isn't suffering?" "Starvation?" said his wife, the queen, "A little diet, the likes of which many have lived through before, can hardly be termed suffering." "What you smoking woman?!" cried the king, "The only thing small about this diet is the amount of food I get to eat!" "Be that as it may," said the queen, his wife, "you are the king, and therefore you're really not entitled to say that you're suffering." The king said, "If I'm the king, then why can't I do whatever I wish?" "Because you have a wonderful wife, the queen," said the queen, "who is desperately trying to help you in your hour of need."
Meanwhile, back at the bar, the impersonator was contemplating one of life's great mysteries. "Why is it," he thought, "that you can't always have what you want when you want it, sometimes you just have to wait? And how did MBD ever make such gorgeous Yiddish songs?" The impersonator thought be had an answer for the first question, but the second to him was like a closed door. "Anyway," he continued thinking, "there's more important things for me to deal with. For example, how do I overturn the sausage decree, and what was that strange sound heard in the king's very own chambers last episode?"
Suddenly, in barged thirteen of the king's own guards, resplendent in their mochachino-shaped hats and each carrying an AA-12, purchased by the king for his very own guards from the Jordanian government. The impersonator looked up, and the leader of the guards said, "Mr. Impersonator person?" The impersonator said, "Yeah, that's me, but you could call me Carl." "Really?" said the guard, "that change everything!" "Not really. It's just as anonymous as calling me the impersonator" said the impersonator, "but it's not as much of a pain to write out every time. Besides, I've always wanted to be called Carl." "Yeah sure, and my name is Penelope," replied the guard, "but however you wish to be called, you've been charged with a very serious offense: bringing stake and outdated plot devices from one episode to another. The punishment you face, if convicted, is death, or marriage to the queen's sister." "No!" cried a shocked and stirred impersonator, "anything but the queen's sister! Besides, though guilty I may be, you people do it all the time with your diet talk. How much longer will you be able to milk that story line? If I am to be punished let the king stand trial as well!" This was said quite majestically, but the guard was not impressed. He drew himself up to his full stature, and said, "Let the record state that the accused did make a potentially self-incriminating statement, and furthermore, accused the king of the same crime. The only thing I don't get is, how would you punish the king? He's already married to the queen! Death would only bring relief!"
To be continued...
"Great art only comes through suffering!" said the king. His wife, the queen, said, "Suffering? What do you know from suffering? You're the king!" Her husband, the king, responded, "By you starvation isn't suffering?" "Starvation?" said his wife, the queen, "A little diet, the likes of which many have lived through before, can hardly be termed suffering." "What you smoking woman?!" cried the king, "The only thing small about this diet is the amount of food I get to eat!" "Be that as it may," said the queen, his wife, "you are the king, and therefore you're really not entitled to say that you're suffering." The king said, "If I'm the king, then why can't I do whatever I wish?" "Because you have a wonderful wife, the queen," said the queen, "who is desperately trying to help you in your hour of need."
Meanwhile, back at the bar, the impersonator was contemplating one of life's great mysteries. "Why is it," he thought, "that you can't always have what you want when you want it, sometimes you just have to wait? And how did MBD ever make such gorgeous Yiddish songs?" The impersonator thought be had an answer for the first question, but the second to him was like a closed door. "Anyway," he continued thinking, "there's more important things for me to deal with. For example, how do I overturn the sausage decree, and what was that strange sound heard in the king's very own chambers last episode?"
Suddenly, in barged thirteen of the king's own guards, resplendent in their mochachino-shaped hats and each carrying an AA-12, purchased by the king for his very own guards from the Jordanian government. The impersonator looked up, and the leader of the guards said, "Mr. Impersonator person?" The impersonator said, "Yeah, that's me, but you could call me Carl." "Really?" said the guard, "that change everything!" "Not really. It's just as anonymous as calling me the impersonator" said the impersonator, "but it's not as much of a pain to write out every time. Besides, I've always wanted to be called Carl." "Yeah sure, and my name is Penelope," replied the guard, "but however you wish to be called, you've been charged with a very serious offense: bringing stake and outdated plot devices from one episode to another. The punishment you face, if convicted, is death, or marriage to the queen's sister." "No!" cried a shocked and stirred impersonator, "anything but the queen's sister! Besides, though guilty I may be, you people do it all the time with your diet talk. How much longer will you be able to milk that story line? If I am to be punished let the king stand trial as well!" This was said quite majestically, but the guard was not impressed. He drew himself up to his full stature, and said, "Let the record state that the accused did make a potentially self-incriminating statement, and furthermore, accused the king of the same crime. The only thing I don't get is, how would you punish the king? He's already married to the queen! Death would only bring relief!"
To be continued...
Sunday, March 8, 2009
People are Stupid
On Friday, I was looking at some bagels in a swanky Manhattan grocery. See I this sign:
$0.39 each
3/$1.19
OK folks, do the math. 3*$0.39 is $1.17. So you lose two cents if you buy your bagels in groups of three.
Amoeba files
Thanks to Sara from Chicago for making me remember this.
Amoeba on a tightrope: ____.____
Amoeba on a tightrope with a pole: _____—.—______
Amoeba firing a gun: .—<
Amoebas on a walk: ...
Amoebas rowing: .,.,.,
Amoeba with pom-poms: *.*
Amoeba playing a bugle (or French horn): &. (or maybe it was @.)
Amoeba in a prison: #. _#
Amoeba wearing French cook hat: !
Amoeba with long hair on a windy day: ~.
Amoeba blowing up a balloon: .o
Amoeba finished blowing up a balloon: .O
Amoeba about to climb stairs: .H
Amoebas carrying a pipe: .—.
Amoebas carrying a coach: .=.
Amoeba carrying a magnet: .c
Amoeba shooting from a bow: .} → (.
Amoeba-vampire: ^.^
Amoeba looking through binoculars: o.o
Amoebas in a middle of a circus act: .:
Amoeba conducting an orchestra: .'
Amoebas on a carousel: .T.
Amoeba with an antenna (or a slingshot): .Y
Amoebas on top of a hill: Ö
Amoebas on top of a tree: Ï
Amoebas on top of a carousel: .T̈.
Amoeba with long hair running with a pole: ~./
Amoeba holding up flairs (on a landing strip): '.'
Amoeba holding a sickle: ?
Amoeba in an elevator: [.]
There were also amoebas on a seesaw, but I can’t remember now. Sorry.
Feel free to add.
(Apparently, some of these work better in simpler fonts.)
Amoeba on a tightrope: ____.____
Amoeba on a tightrope with a pole: _____—.—______
Amoeba firing a gun: .—<
Amoebas on a walk: ...
Amoebas rowing: .,.,.,
Amoeba with pom-poms: *.*
Amoeba playing a bugle (or French horn): &. (or maybe it was @.)
Amoeba in a prison: #. _#
Amoeba wearing French cook hat: !
Amoeba with long hair on a windy day: ~.
Amoeba blowing up a balloon: .o
Amoeba finished blowing up a balloon: .O
Amoeba about to climb stairs: .H
Amoebas carrying a pipe: .—.
Amoebas carrying a coach: .=.
Amoeba carrying a magnet: .c
Amoeba shooting from a bow: .} → (.
Amoeba-vampire: ^.^
Amoeba looking through binoculars: o.o
Amoebas in a middle of a circus act: .:
Amoeba conducting an orchestra: .'
Amoebas on a carousel: .T.
Amoeba with an antenna (or a slingshot): .Y
Amoebas on top of a hill: Ö
Amoebas on top of a tree: Ï
Amoebas on top of a carousel: .T̈.
Amoeba with long hair running with a pole: ~./
Amoeba holding up flairs (on a landing strip): '.'
Amoeba holding a sickle: ?
Amoeba in an elevator: [.]
There were also amoebas on a seesaw, but I can’t remember now. Sorry.
Feel free to add.
(Apparently, some of these work better in simpler fonts.)
Friday, March 6, 2009
Two Euphemisms I Invented this Morning in the Shower
Don't say, "He trims his beard." Nope, he "engages in scissors-facilitated picking."
Nobody shaves. They just "engage in extreme trimming."
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Trashy Teen Dramas
I really like trashy teen dramas. It's a weakness, like enjoying really terrible chocolate, or candy corn. We know that it's not a worthy indulgence, but we like it!
My latest probably-never-going-to-go-anywhere inspiration: a trashy teen drama set in... Crown Heights.
Call it "The CH" or "Crown Heights 11213" or something.
An angry teenage boy is taken in by a warm and loving family in Crown Heights.
Put him in the basement, give the mom a high school sister for him to flirt with, and let the drama ensue.
Late-night parties, mikvah scenes, getting kicked out of (and allowed back into?) yeshiva...
I can almost hear the theme song...
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
A (Slightly) Dramatized Version of How I Joined the Ranks of the Unemployed
(Commenters: don't mention the names of any people or organizations mentioned herein. The shred of anonymity must remain intact. If you don't understand what I'm talking about, feel free to send me an e-mail.)
Me (after a long day at school): Well, it's only 12:30. I have a full seven hours until I need to get up again. Let me go to the office and spread truth and light throughout the land!
(Five minutes later, in front of my computer and a precariously balanced stack of books)
Me: What does she want to know? Jewish foot washing practices in the first century? Oy. I have no koach for this type of stuff. I'll get back to her later. Hmm, who's next on the list? This guy needs a comprehensive enumeration of all 248 limbs in the human body. Darn. No way I can do that tonight. OK. This next customer has already been waiting for a while for an explanation of Chabad's view of Reform and Conservative. (It's real simple, but the simple explanation is not for public consumption.) I'll tackle this one tonight.
(Three hours later) Yaaaaaaawwwwnnn I think I'll go to bed, but first I got to check my gmail.
(Two hours later) I think I'll go to bed, but first I got to check CrownHeights.info. Hmmm... business as usual. Shomrim is apprehending perps. NYPD is arresting public spirited individuals and and freeing said perps. A rabbinical rising star in Lubavitch is expressing profound and pertinent thoughts of Jewish import by means of the conduit of words which are humble, unostentatious, unpretentious, and simple. Yep, business as usual.
(The next day in school)
My funny math professor with a hilarious Caribbean accent: We are gonna haf da quiz now.
Me (beginning to feel separation anxiety as I put away my calculator): !!!
(That night)
Me: All those pure and innocent people are waiting for my pearls of wisdom. Of course I need to do 85 algebra problems, 23 calculus problems, read 40 pages of chem, and listen to 13 songs for music class. But first a quick trip to the office.
(Same computer, bigger and more precarious pile of books)
Oh No. That guy who wanted to know where to put the mezuzah on his octagonal-shaped doorway leading to his garage which occasionally serves as a guest house wrote back. And there's another OCD frummie who needs a lomdisheh explanation why Chabad is matir flushing the toilet on Shabbos. Then I got to explain why Daniel 9:13 is not referring to JC, plus help him find the verse which says something to the effect of "Jerusalem shall be a refuge." He's sure he's come across it somewhere, but he's not sure where. Well, neither am I! Then this other dude wants to know if the Talmud has anything to say about callouses and what is the precise definition of the Hebrew root "DBR." He's come across it in Leviticus a couple of times and doesn't trust those Christians that it really means "to say." Wouldn't it be a more accurate representation of the word of G-d to render it into English as "to relate, to express vocally, to transmit by means of speech, to verbalize"? Plus there's all those people whom I ignored last night. Yessiree, it's gonna be a long night. I'll just quickly check my e-mail before another grueling night of enlightening the masses...
As you can well imagine, the work was piling up. If the number of unanswered questions was plotted on a graph as a function of the time that had elapsed since I joined City College [Q(t)], it would look like a graceful exponential equation. Q(t) was actually beginning to resemble a vertical asymptote. I knew that if something didn't happen quick, I'd become undefined. So I did what I do best. I kratzed. Then I got a call from The Boss. He wanted an definition. So I defined it. In short, I told him the immortal words, "You can't fire me. I quit." To which he responded with the immortal words, "It's been nice knowing you. All the best in your future endeavors."
Now I am a free man, unfettered by work and responsibility. Of course I'm also heading towards poverty. If you plot my predicted finances as a function of time [$(t)], you'd get a mercilessly straight line, with a fearfully steep negative slope [$'(t) < 0]. And it won't settle into any horizontal asymptotes. It's gonna go straight into the fourth quadrant without flinching.
So please, O great and merciful G-d, Define $(t) piecwisely! May $(t) soon reach a point of discontinuity! May $(the very near future) < 0, and sharply concave upwards, with the finding of new employment, speedily in our days (in the first quadrant), amen kein yehi ratzon!
(OK. I admit it. I threw that in all this math junk because I was jealous of the chemists who were discussing beautiful acids.)
Me (after a long day at school): Well, it's only 12:30. I have a full seven hours until I need to get up again. Let me go to the office and spread truth and light throughout the land!
(Five minutes later, in front of my computer and a precariously balanced stack of books)
Me: What does she want to know? Jewish foot washing practices in the first century? Oy. I have no koach for this type of stuff. I'll get back to her later. Hmm, who's next on the list? This guy needs a comprehensive enumeration of all 248 limbs in the human body. Darn. No way I can do that tonight. OK. This next customer has already been waiting for a while for an explanation of Chabad's view of Reform and Conservative. (It's real simple, but the simple explanation is not for public consumption.) I'll tackle this one tonight.
(Three hours later) Yaaaaaaawwwwnnn I think I'll go to bed, but first I got to check my gmail.
(Two hours later) I think I'll go to bed, but first I got to check CrownHeights.info. Hmmm... business as usual. Shomrim is apprehending perps. NYPD is arresting public spirited individuals and and freeing said perps. A rabbinical rising star in Lubavitch is expressing profound and pertinent thoughts of Jewish import by means of the conduit of words which are humble, unostentatious, unpretentious, and simple. Yep, business as usual.
(The next day in school)
My funny math professor with a hilarious Caribbean accent: We are gonna haf da quiz now.
Me (beginning to feel separation anxiety as I put away my calculator): !!!
(That night)
Me: All those pure and innocent people are waiting for my pearls of wisdom. Of course I need to do 85 algebra problems, 23 calculus problems, read 40 pages of chem, and listen to 13 songs for music class. But first a quick trip to the office.
(Same computer, bigger and more precarious pile of books)
Oh No. That guy who wanted to know where to put the mezuzah on his octagonal-shaped doorway leading to his garage which occasionally serves as a guest house wrote back. And there's another OCD frummie who needs a lomdisheh explanation why Chabad is matir flushing the toilet on Shabbos. Then I got to explain why Daniel 9:13 is not referring to JC, plus help him find the verse which says something to the effect of "Jerusalem shall be a refuge." He's sure he's come across it somewhere, but he's not sure where. Well, neither am I! Then this other dude wants to know if the Talmud has anything to say about callouses and what is the precise definition of the Hebrew root "DBR." He's come across it in Leviticus a couple of times and doesn't trust those Christians that it really means "to say." Wouldn't it be a more accurate representation of the word of G-d to render it into English as "to relate, to express vocally, to transmit by means of speech, to verbalize"? Plus there's all those people whom I ignored last night. Yessiree, it's gonna be a long night. I'll just quickly check my e-mail before another grueling night of enlightening the masses...
As you can well imagine, the work was piling up. If the number of unanswered questions was plotted on a graph as a function of the time that had elapsed since I joined City College [Q(t)], it would look like a graceful exponential equation. Q(t) was actually beginning to resemble a vertical asymptote. I knew that if something didn't happen quick, I'd become undefined. So I did what I do best. I kratzed. Then I got a call from The Boss. He wanted an definition. So I defined it. In short, I told him the immortal words, "You can't fire me. I quit." To which he responded with the immortal words, "It's been nice knowing you. All the best in your future endeavors."
Now I am a free man, unfettered by work and responsibility. Of course I'm also heading towards poverty. If you plot my predicted finances as a function of time [$(t)], you'd get a mercilessly straight line, with a fearfully steep negative slope [$'(t) < 0]. And it won't settle into any horizontal asymptotes. It's gonna go straight into the fourth quadrant without flinching.
So please, O great and merciful G-d, Define $(t) piecwisely! May $(t) soon reach a point of discontinuity! May $(the very near future) < 0, and sharply concave upwards, with the finding of new employment, speedily in our days (in the first quadrant), amen kein yehi ratzon!
(OK. I admit it. I threw that in all this math junk because I was jealous of the chemists who were discussing beautiful acids.)
Kings cry too
Continued from...
The impersonator could never figure out if being irrationally happy was a good thing or not. To be sure, things seemed to be working out, but was it ever possible to know if this situation would continue? Besides, he knew his happiness was irrational. How did he know this? Because if it was real than the other people who should have been happy would have been. But they weren't. Obviously something wasn't right with his happiness. The impersonator didn't know how to remedy the situation.
The king and queen, meanwhile, were having a frank and open discussion about the king's diet. The king said, "I think sausages would be a good addition to my daily fare." The queen quickly nixed this idea, calling it immature and irresponsible. She declared that she'd sooner see the king move out of the castle then have him do such abominable acts against creation. "But the sausage is so noble!" cried the king, "and anyway, you can't kick me out of my own palace!" The queen said, "Watch me, white boy."
At this moment a cry was heard to emanate from the king's own most inner chambers. All the courtiers were surprised, for they knew the king to be a decorous individual, not given to such open expressions. The queen had always been skeptical of the knowledge of the courtiers, seeing as the king she knew was in fact quite passionate about many subjects, including in no particular order his subjects, his food, and his riding crop. The queen was nevertheless as surprised as the
courtiers, because she had the king right next to her, and so obviously the source of the cries must emanate from a different person. The king was completely oblivious to any noise, sunk deep as he was in a most miserable reverie regarding his lack of sausages. The palace guards were immediately dispatched to see who it was that had so publicly disturbed the peace of the king's own most inner chambers. They had a shrewd suspicion that it was the impersonator,
finally come back to wreak havoc upon the world and its works, but they wanted to make sure.
The impersonator could never figure out if being irrationally happy was a good thing or not. To be sure, things seemed to be working out, but was it ever possible to know if this situation would continue? Besides, he knew his happiness was irrational. How did he know this? Because if it was real than the other people who should have been happy would have been. But they weren't. Obviously something wasn't right with his happiness. The impersonator didn't know how to remedy the situation.
The king and queen, meanwhile, were having a frank and open discussion about the king's diet. The king said, "I think sausages would be a good addition to my daily fare." The queen quickly nixed this idea, calling it immature and irresponsible. She declared that she'd sooner see the king move out of the castle then have him do such abominable acts against creation. "But the sausage is so noble!" cried the king, "and anyway, you can't kick me out of my own palace!" The queen said, "Watch me, white boy."
At this moment a cry was heard to emanate from the king's own most inner chambers. All the courtiers were surprised, for they knew the king to be a decorous individual, not given to such open expressions. The queen had always been skeptical of the knowledge of the courtiers, seeing as the king she knew was in fact quite passionate about many subjects, including in no particular order his subjects, his food, and his riding crop. The queen was nevertheless as surprised as the
courtiers, because she had the king right next to her, and so obviously the source of the cries must emanate from a different person. The king was completely oblivious to any noise, sunk deep as he was in a most miserable reverie regarding his lack of sausages. The palace guards were immediately dispatched to see who it was that had so publicly disturbed the peace of the king's own most inner chambers. They had a shrewd suspicion that it was the impersonator,
finally come back to wreak havoc upon the world and its works, but they wanted to make sure.
The impersonator, contrary to the shrewdest thoughts of the palace guards, was not in the king's own most inner chambers. He was in a pub trying to win the affections of a lonely lass and more importantly the contents of her plate of sausage. It was the very last plate of sausage in the land, the king having decreed that if he couldn't have sausage than neither could anyone else, and the impersonator was ravening after it. The lonely lass suspected that her wooer was only
after her sausage, and she parried his attempts at wooship accordingly. This frustrated the impersonator, and he came up with a dastardly plan. If he couldn't have the sausage, well then she wouldn't be able to either.
"Guards!" he shouted out, as only the impersonator was able to about, "look! Sausages! Take her away to the palace dungeons!" The palace guards, having retired from the king's own most inner chambers frustrated in their attempts to find out who had disturbed their peace, inmediately rushed into the pub and seized the sausages that the lonely lass had valiantly tried to stuff down her socks and thence her boots.
"No my pretty," said the head of the guards, "it's the incinerator for those sausages, and the palace dungeons for you!" The lonely lass shot the impersonator a look of pure and unadalterated hatred, and vowed her revenge. The impersonator looked unconcerned and ate some beer nuts. The king, realizing that some sausages were coming to the palace, resolved to get them for himself, while the queen resolved to make sure they never reached his grubby little hands.
And the cry from the king's most inner chambers?
Weird Things
I just got an email from Wikimetro. They claim to want to place ads on my blog, earning me some easy cash. My momma taught me well, and if I don't have to work hard for it, I don't trust it. Any of you guys had any experiences like this?
Monday, March 2, 2009
The Inspirational Writing Exercise
Sorry for the delay . . . Due to technical reasons (i.e. the way permissions were given out on this blog etc.) I was forced to make a new post for this here venture. I tag Sefirah Next.
(Cheerio's Paragraph)
His coat flapped around his ankles as he strode down the dark street. He jiggled his keys in his hand and whistled along to the music streaming from his headphones. The walk sign flicked on as he reached the corner, but he still turned his head to look for cars coming. Even after a year and a half of living in Brooklyn, he hadn't grown accustomed to the one way streets. He liked it though. He wasn't quite sure why, but he liked living in New York.
(TRS' Paragraph)
Suddenly, a shot rang out. And then another. And another. Shots, that is. Suffice it to say that our hero was nonplussed, and quickly looked around for one of the ubiquitous rookie cops who had been hanging out on every street corner for the last few months. They were nowhere to be found. Our hero realized that the shots had been fired at him, and he looked around for some cover. There wasn't any, and he ducked. All this took less time than it took to write, but the murderous assailants were not to be denied, and our hero was soon lying in a puddle of blood.
(Le7's Paragraph)
He touched the growing puddle of crimson blood and painstakingly pulled his head a few micrometers off the rough concrete to take one last look at himself. He shuddered before gracefully slipping into oblivion. The street was quiet save for the rustle of a few dead leaves and old candy wrappers. The air was thick with the uneasy quietude of deceit and police sirens started to whine in the distance.
(Sarabonne's Paragraph)
It was but a few minutes later that Henry found himself ambling along the same street feeling sorry for himself. Here he was, 43 and dressed as Little Bunny Foofoo for some brat's birthday. He had heard the shots and promptly ignored them. Last thing he needed was some idiot cop playing games while he was in the bunny suit. God it was hot and the polyester itched terribly. Henry was mid-spit when Gary came into sight. Choking on saliva, he ran to get closer. Blood was everywhere. "Aw man..." he muttered.
(Dovid's Paragraph)
"Gary Feld is a 22 year old Caucasian male brought in this afternoon with a gun-shot wound to his left hip, he has no significant past medical history and is now in stable condition. He will be admitted to the surgical floor shortly. A surgical and anesthesiology consult has been ordered. He is being given morphine as needed for pain.” Hearing his name, Gershon groggily opened his eyes, slowly remembering the events of the day. The dim light shining from the metallic stand was painfully bright and made him conscious of a splitting headache. He quickly shut his eyes, but not before he caught a blurred glimpse of his surroundings. There were two women in white coats standing by his bed in the emergency room. The younger one presenting his case was clearly nervous and stuttering, almost cowering in the presence of the older scowling lady. He also thought he saw an obese African American man dressed like a nightmare bunny eying him curiously. Morphine can do strange things to you he thought as he drifted away.
(RAW's Paragraph)
Meanwhile, our "hero" Gershon's shooters continued on to their main objective: Gershon's residence. Gershon’s basement apartment was situated in a residential neighborhood. The presence of these tough, well armed men would obviously attract attention, but they made no attempt to be discreet. Their mission as they had planned it would not take more than five minutes, and they hoped to be out of the apartment long before the police arrived. Before their M-class Mercedes had completely stopped up outside the house, the men dashed to their assignments. There were four of them. Two took up guard positions outside the house. The other two shot off the bolt on the door and went inside. They knew exactly where to go. In the bedroom was a small, portable safe. It was a junky contraption, and they easily shot off the lock. Inside were neatly arranged packages of cocaine. They stuffed the whole safe into a medium-sized gym bag and left, satisfied that they had found everything they had come for. “Let’s go. We’re done here,” the leader said, stuffing the bag into the trunk of the car. All four men jumped back into the car. Police sirens could be heard in the distance as their car screeched away into the night. Nobody was going to catch them.
(EndOfWorld's Paragraph)
Dina Light snickered as she watched the taillights of the receding car. She waited another minute (56 seconds, to be precise) before getting up from the ground. She casually sauntered down the block, trying to put as much distance between herself and the now obviously-broken-into house. Amateurs. But she would have loved to be there when they opened those bags. She snickered again. Amazing how one box of confectionery sugar can go such a long way. She reached into her bag and gave her semi-automatic a reassuring pat. She reached a little further, past the glock, the colt, the pepper spray, the hunting knife, where was it? Ah. She uncapped the lip gloss, applied a thin coat to her lips and resolutely strode off. The job of a narcotic officer never ended. Time to find Gershon and save the world. Again.
(CA’s paragraph — feel free to trim; sorry, I said I suck at fiction; plus, I am packing for moving)
Henry paced nervously in the ER waiting room. Detained as an attempted murder witness, he was stuck, in his bunny suit, in the hospital, in a nervous state of mind. Henry, a hypochondriac suffering from OCD, did not like hospitals. Besides, he was under a court order to stay away from buildings with fire alarms. Henry had a compulsion to pull them — the red color, the feeling of a pulled lever, the sirens, the lights… Henry gulped nervously and started pacing back and forth. He was going to stay in control. This obsession had him arrested five times, cost him his job and luxury apartment in Manhattan, estranged him from his family and pet iguana. But today he was going to stay in control!.. Henry entered the bathroom. The first thing he saw was a bright-red fire alarm. Staring at him. Sneering with its lever’s white outline. Inviting. Henry backed nervously towards the sink and suddenly realized that his bunny suit’s hands have no zippers. He had no way to splash some water on his face. A scrubbed-in intern with a walrus mustache opened the door of a stall and dropping “Howdy, partner?” in a thick Texan drawl left the bathroom. Without washing his hands. This was too much for Henry. He turned to the fire alarm and licked his lips, tasting bunny fur. The last thought that entered his mind before he reached for the lever was “Ben told me to try pancakes with sour cream in that Russian place”. Henry filled his lungs with slippery air of the hospital bathroom and pulled. Fire alarm exploded in Henry’s head with hundreds of bright sounds. Loud flashes, bouncing off the white bathroom walls, pushed his tortured mind off the cliff, into the abyss of primeval insanity. Ricardo, a hit man for the Colombian mob sent to the hospital to finish off Gershon, entered the ER waiting room and was knocked off his feet, unconscious, by something bright-pink with big ears that ran out of the bathroom, charging towards the ER exit.
(Mottel's Paragraph[s])
"Pitiful," thought Ira Green. "Simply pitiful . . ."Ira paused for a moment, popping the cap of the little plastic bottle held in one of his sweaty hands. It was empty. Tossing the bottle aside, he reached into his desk drawer and took out a fresh one. Turning it upside down, he poured a generous handful of Tums into his hand.
"What exactly was pitiful?" He mused as he downed a handful of his "candies". To be honest, he was entirely unsure to what he had been referring to - if it the hit man Ricardo sitting nervously in the seat in front of the fold out table in the roach infested back of a cheap Bistro in Little Italy that served as Ira's "office", or if it was his own fate once the bosses heard that the Cocaine they had stolen from the Hasid in Brooklyn was nothing more then confectionery sugar, and the cheap kind at that.
Perhaps, it occurred to him, it was an even more profound conclusion about his life in general, as the Mafia's 'Jew' - the accountant for the aging Sicilian dons, and their go between with their contacts amongst their tentative allies - the Druglords of Columbia.
"What kind of job is this for a nice Jewish boy?" his mother had once asked him. "Your father slaves away night and day to put you through Columbia - and you can't even get a job as CPA for a local franchise of Corn Friend Chicken? Why couldn't you be more like your brother Arny? Such a good boy that is Arny!"
Whipping his ever sweating hands on the frayed sleeve of his tweed jacket, he reached up to adjust his glasses on the edge of his nose and straighten his hair. My, he thought wryly, the hear plugs were setting in nicely.
Taking out another handful of Tums, he returned his attention to Ricardo, who in the silence of the last few minutes, seemed to have been driven nearly mad with fear.
Popping a Tums in his mouth, he began to chew as he asked the hit man,
"Tell me again why you couldn't finish off that boy?"
"It was the rabbit!" Ricardo shrieked in fear. "You got to believe me Senoir! I was goin' to finish the job, you know, and suddenly all of the alarms go off. I don' why they go off, so I freeze. Try to act in'specious, like you say boss . . . But then this big pink rabbit comes running at me. It had big ears, a puffy white tail. It runs right into me, Knocking me down on the floor. I know it's real. I didn't drink any Tequilla or nothin', vato!"
What a mess, Ira muttered to himself. The hit man had lost his screws, the hit was alive, what was supposed to be pure Columbian was from Sugarland, Texas. . . and then there were the other problems - reports that the Israeli Mossad was on their trail - perhaps the Russian Mafia had tipped off its contacts in the Kenesset after his bosses had thrown in their lot with the Japanese Yakuza. Then there was this business with the crash landing the other day in Nevada - the word was that it was something more then a purported "Weather Balloon" - his bosses would want to know if it was connected to this business with the Ithorian Overlords. But that was an entirely different problem.
Oy - so many doubts.
"Carla, please see Ricardo out," he called to his secretary, "and tell big Guido I'm taking off 'sick' for the rest of the day."
One thing Ira was sure was that he would have heartburn soon - if he didn't have it already - or that his Ulcers would act up. Maybe both. Why if his luck held up, he'd get a batch of the Gout too. What kind of job was this for a nice Jewish boy in a tweed jacket, suspenders and hear-plugs anway?
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