Rich Bitch
By: Scott Sousa
Can you imagine? The thought of you (yes, you) and I trapped together on a desert island for all eternity simply disgusts me. The taste of vomit in my mouth is more pleasant.
You would obviously cave within hours and attempt to thrust your Irish 'breakfast' (it's probably not more than a nibble, I imagine) in me but I am a woman of class. My cunt does not drip for drooling baboons such as yourself. It, even with its primal urges and pubic hair, is far too sophisticated for a vagabond. It is invited to all the best parties. Of course it always RSVPs with a plus one (I'm the plus one) because it does not want to come off as some mangled moose head that can be bought and sold with the snap of a finger.
So go ahead, stare at my heaving breasts. You will never touch or see them in the nude. Not even if I die. They would self-destruct, you slobbering jammie dodger. I may be close to thirty-five (forty) but they do not look a day over seventeen. That is unlike your spaghetti and meatballs. The probably look so run down an old Sicilian wench would shriek at its sight but gobble it reluctantly in an attempt to cure her insatiable appetite for crème de la twit.
My men ARE class. Their salaries match their smiles. Of course salaries still matter when you're trapped on a desert island with a man! How else would you pay your way out? With hopes and dreams while you dangle your nauseating flaccid steak and potatoes in one hand and hold an overdrawn debit card in the other?
You! You odious man! I bet you take public transportation. Riding around, tongue draped over your chin, whistling and groping at night walkers and good Christian women. If you ever dared to touch me I would scream! The thought of you in general is revolting and I ought to report you to the authorities out of principle you filthy pocket pool-playing man you.
The Consequences of Legislation
By: Scott Sousa
An older couple hosts Thanksgiving for their family. The grandfather gathers his six grandchildren in the kitchen. He digs through the recycling container, selects a one liter soda bottle, saws off its neck with a utility knife and dumps a handful of change into it. He holds the bottle in his hand and says, "Whoever can tell me how much money I have here in my hand can keep the change."
The children, easily amused by petty amounts of money, eagerly take turns counting the coins. All of them unanimously agree there is $1.17 in the bottle, except for one who was 2 cents short, who will predictably go to art school.
"Wrong!" the grandfather says laughing.
Jimmy, six years of age, recounts the change and confidently says, "Grandpa, there is $1.17 there."
Laughing still, the grandfather says, "You're wrong, Jimmy. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong! Being confident about being wrong will get you no where in life."
Every year for the next ten years the grandfather would test his grandchildren and ridicule them for being wrong. Each year, fewer and fewer participated as a result.
One day, Jimmy is helping his grandfather move. It had been a long drive to Ann Arbor from Buffalo, but after a late lunch they begin moving furniture into the new house. Jimmy catches a glimpse of the soda bottle in the truck as they both lift an old, heavy, oak dresser. Jimmy thinks about this puzzle once again. Halfway up the flight of stairs to the second floor, the answer comes to Jimmy. "Grandpa, I got it! There's $1.22 in total, including the bottle deposit."
Laughing, the grandfather replies, "Wrong, once again. We're in Michigan now and the bottle deposit here is 10 cents."
Jimmy debates loosening his grip on the dresses but decides to hang on. There will be a better opportunity, he says to himself.