Category Archives: Favorites

Love Everybody or Die Trying

The Council to Come Up With A Suitable Meaning to ‘Love Everyone’ came to order.

“Alright, gentlemen, this is it. Emperor Constantius The Second has demanded that we come up with a working definition to ‘love everyone’ by the end of the day. If we don’t he says he will kill us all. What are our ideas?” Vilinius, the Council chair, tried to ignore the sweat forming on his brow. He didn’t want to wipe it off and bring attention to it. He took a deep breath and called on Hadrian, to his right. “Hadrian? Where are you on this?”

“Sir, I think ‘love everyone’ means we should only hate the Euetruscans and the Visigoths,” Hadrian said dutifully. “Oh, and the Jews.”

“I see.” Vilinius scratched his chin. “How about you, Kalpus?”

“I think love everybody is code for have sex with as many bodies as you can. Just slut it up, is the message of Jesus.”

“You think Jesus, who was celibate, is advocating free love?” Vilinius wondered why he had hired Kalpus.

“Absolutely, sir.”

Vilinius knew he didn’t have time to fire him now. “Ok, what about you, Antonious?”

“Actually, sir, I think we are putting far too much thought into it to begin with. It really doesn’t matter what we come up with cause we all know that we are working for Constantius the Second, when every body knows it is Constantire the Second who has all the say. All I know, sir, is things were so much easier before Christianity became the official religion, when we could live without definition.”

Vilinius frowned. “That is no attitude to have here. If we come up with something so perfect to define the message of Jesus, even Constatire the Second will have to listen to us.”

“Who are we to be defining the message of Jesus?”

“We are the The Council to Come Up With A Suitable Meaning to ‘Love Everyone’ ! That’s the very reason we were created! To define the message of Jesus! And today we are to come up with a working definition of his core message, ‘love everyone’ by five o’clock or we will all be put to death by a very impatient and unforgiving tyrant. So, no, I don’t think we are overthinking this, if anything we are underthinking it. Come on, we’re a think tank, think: what do you think love everybody means?”

Antonious shook his head. “We could say anything, it doesn’t matter, sir, relax. It’s not ours to say, so whatever we recommend, good, bad, or ridiculous, is going to be met with the same fate: ignored by the brother emperor with the real power. We could say love everyone means, ‘love everyone’, we could say love everyone means, ‘eat more meat,’ it really isn’t going to matter.”

“Wait, no, that’s good. Love one another means love one another. We define it in its own words. No one can argue with that. It’s perfect. Antonious, you’re brilliant. Even when you’re wrong you’re right.”

Hadrian spoke up. “Sir, all our necks are on the line here. I don’t feel comfortable going to The Emperor with the definition love everyone means love everyone. I think he’s probably looking for a little more.”

“No, I’m the Chairman here and I think this is our best way to go. Love everyone means love everyone. It’s tight because it’s absolutely true.”

“I was kidding,”Antonious, said, suddenly concerned that he had been taken seriously. He felt like Hadrian. He thought they should probably not mock the message, the Emperor might take it as mocking him.

Antonious and Hadrian were dead right, and when Emperor Constantius II heard his committee had spent one week to define love everyone as love everyone, he had the entire committee poisoned and then the Emperor took a steam bath with his harem and complained about how hard his job was.


An Accidental Masterpiece

“We’re going to need you to paint here.” The gallery curator pointed at the space between the Dali and the Magritte.

“There used to be a painting hanging there? Is that why the wall has that weird patch?”

“Exactly, we’re going to need you to paint over that weird patch.”

“Where did the painting go?”

“It was stolen.”

“Stolen? They only stole one painting?”


“Was it the most expensive?”

“No. Actually, it was one of the least expensive paintings in the room. The thief was either not very well versed or a huge Miro fan.”

“Isn’t Miro expensive?”

“Sure, but, look, there’s a Dali, or Picasso. I think the thief might just be a crazy person who some how wandered off with it. Anyway, I have to go. We open in ten minutes, will you be finished by then?”

“Sure. Shouldn’t take more than a couple minutes to paint that.”

The first gallery goers to come through the gallery doors were Alica and Hap. They were both anxious about their relationship. One of them wanted to break up and the other wanted to get married. So they compromised and went to the art gallery. To hide his nervousness, Hap talked on and on about each painting. Sensing Alica’s frustration with him, he was careful not to provoke or disagree with her on anything.

“I think the melting clocks represent how Spanish clocks are poorly made,” Alica commented on Dali’s Persistence of Memory.

“I think you’re right,” Hap agreed. Alicia said that to see if he would agree with anything. She felt she had the arms to take this relationship behind the barn and shoot it. She just needed the legs.

Next to the Dali was the freshly painted patch on the wall. Alicia and Hap stopped in front of it.

“I like it,” said Hap, commenting on the drying paint. “It’s smart. Like, it looks like the wall, but, it stands out cause it’s so shiny.”

“You like this?” Alicia wasn’t sure if he was kidding. She could see it for what it was: drying paint. “Are you kidding?”

“No, I really like it. I think it’s a masterstroke,” Hap confirmed. Internally he couldn’t care less about the painting, he was just trying to sound smart for his unimpressed girlfriend.


“Yeah. Look at it. You can see that the painter really knew what he was doing, cause he painted it just like the wall, but shinier. It’s really smart and playful and-”

“It’s wet paint! You are seriously watching paint dry, and you like it? How can I be with someone who can’t tell the difference between art and paint drying? I am sorry, Hap. It’s been fun to a point, but, now I gotta go.”

Then Alicia turned and walked away from Hap’s helpless cries to stay. She had to walk fast, cause, she knew his voice could hypnotize her. She had fallen in love with his voice before she had fallen in love with his heart. But, now his voice had said something so dumb that she had to leave, not give him a chance to say something smart and redeem himself.

“Alicia! Please!”

He was following her. She walked faster.

“Even if it is drying paint, shouldn’t I have the right to enjoy it?” Hap shouted his question. There was only a yawning security guard in the room, standing at the door. Normally he’d ask the screamer to lower his voice, but, Vince, the security guard, agreed with the question and kept quiet. Alicia flew past Vince, out the door not letting Hap’s question sink in. She had to get out. First the room, then gallery, then the relationship.

She pushed open the gallery doors and stepped on to a Saturday morning city street. The cold and brutal fist of February clocked her right in the face. Her apartment was west. She turned and walked away from a sun that she could see but not feel.

Imaginary Enemy

Mikey was hard on himself. He was never satisfied with anything he did. Mikey was five. Most kids his age had an imaginary friend. Mikey didn’t think he deserved an imaginary friend, so he thought up an imaginary enemy named, Pencils, who dug into him any time he got the chance.

“Come on! You call that finger painting? You’re pathetic!” Pencils hollered at him.

Mikey tried harder, but he simply couldn’t get his five year old finger to draw a recognizable representation of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. It looked closer to a smiley sun than God reaching out to man.

“Good job, Mikey! Good self portrait!” His teacher, Mrs. Eggers, praised, passing by to inspect his benchmate, Jenny’s picture of her family. No one in the family had the same number of fingers according to Jenny. Her dad had eight fingers, while Jenny’s mom had eleven. “Excellent, Jenny!” Mrs. Eggers sang Jenny’s praises.

“See? She even thinks Jenny’s family of mutants looks good, what does she know? Don’t take her praise personally, you dumb bum,” Pencils kept Mikey from getting a big head.

“When I’m older, I’ll be able to paint great, and the paintings will speak for themselves, and I’ll know it and I won’t need you any more,” Mikey told Pencils.

Pencils knew he needed Mikey more than Mikey needed him and hated him for it. For the first time, Pencils saw that Mikey would one day outgrow him, move on and forget all about his imaginary enemy. Pencils knew he was doomed.

“Hey, fatty, why don’t you ask the teacher if you can have your milk and cookies early, so you can get a head start on nap time, cause, you think you belong in the enriched kindergarten.” Pencils thought it wise to branch out the role of imaginary enemy, to include consulting. He realized he would have to revamp his job if he was going to hang on as Mikey’s imaginary enemy.

“I don’t want to nap right now, I want to paint,” Mikey dipped the baby finger of his right hand into the cool blue paint, before dropping it on the paper and drawing swirling trails of blue chasing his baby finger. In his mind, Mikey was looking at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, though, looking over his shoulder, Mrs. Eggers saw the sun in the sky being attacked by giant seagulls.

“You draw clouds very well, Mikey,” complimented Mrs. Eggers, “and those are great birds!”

“Those aren’t birds, they’re angels, can’t you see the halos?” Mikey was insulted.

Mrs. Eggers always tried to be extra positive with this boy, cause he was the most negative kid she had ever met. “Oh, very good! Excellent, Mikey! Good detail!”

“Little good it did me. You thought they were birds.” Mikey turned from his teacher and returned to his painting with his pinky finger.

“Hey, stupid head, why don’t you use your index finger? You’ll have so much more control.” It was Pencils to instruct, not his teacher. Mikey took the instruction, switching from his baby to his pointer finger, and showed improvement immediately. Suddenly, he could detail God’s beard, fine tuning the layers of hair growing out His chin.

“Oh! Is that Niagara Falls?” Mrs. Eggers asked.

“No, it’s God’s beard.” Mikey sulked.

His teacher was afraid of what to say next. She had never had such trouble with a student before. She really wanted to help, but, she feared everything she said was only hurting the child. “Wow!” She started with cause she couldn’t think of anything better to say. “What are you painting, The Sistine Chapel?”

“Yes!” For the first time Mikey felt his teacher could see. He credited it with the new skill that came from switching fingers.

Mrs. Eggers could see she’d said the right thing with the boy. “Oh, wow! The Sistine Chapel! Very nice! Where did you see the Sistine Chapel, in a book?”

“No, in Rome. Well, in the Vatican City, really.” Mikey stopped thinking his teacher was smarting up.

“Oh! Have you been to the Vatican?” Being a devout Catholic, Mrs. Eggers was truly fascinated.

“Just twice,” replied Mikey. He thought of his two summer vacations in Italy with his family. He hoped they could go somewhere new this summer, but, since his mother came from the old country, he expected a repeat of last summer.

“What’s it like?” Mrs. Eggers looked a giant sitting on the little seat next to her pupil.

“It’s ok, I guess. It hurts your neck having to look up all the time. Be better if he’d painted the floor.”

“And did the painting move you? Did you see God touching man and feel inspired?” Mrs. Eggers was leaning forward in the little chair.

“I felt sleepy. We went there the day after we got in Italy; I had jet lag.”

Mrs. Eggers realized she was looking for instruction from a five year old. She felt ridiculous sitting in the too tiny chair for her, and stood, towering over the little boy.

“Keep it up, you’re a budding Da Vinci!” The teacher encouraged.

“Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel,” said Mikey, unimpressed with the woman who called herself his kindergarten teacher.

“Yes, but Da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa, so there you go,” Mrs. Eggers walked away before she could do more damage to both their egos.

Pencils sensed it prime time to assert his place. “Hey, butt-face, what’s worse, being a bad teacher, or, being taught by a bad teacher?”

Mikey knew Pencils hated him, so it made him trust him more. He made a decision to stop listening to his teachers and trust his imaginary enemy who would one day grow to be his imaginary friend.

UnEmployed Mascot Welfare Center

“It’s a mixed up world, when that racist looking Cleveland Indian mascot’s still working, and I’m here every day filling out forms trying to get any job,” complained Chief Noc-A-Homa. The Chief had been making this same complaint every day since 1983, when he had been unceremoniously crapped from the employ of the Atlanta Braves baseball team. The Chief complained to whoever listened, and those who didn’t. It didn’t matter, The Chief had nothing better to do. He knew he had no chance of getting picked up by another team and that he was doomed to spend his remaining days in the Unemployed Mascot Welfare Center.

There were a lot of Native mascots in the Center. There was the Indian Warrior who had been dumped from the Golden State basketball team, sitting next to Willie Wampum, who had been dumped by Marquette U. in the same year. They took turns riding the horse, Warpaint, that had been fired from the Kansas City Chiefs football team.

“Sure, they fire the horse, but keep the team name. Right, blame the horse. Blame the mascot your team sucks, come on!” The Chief raged to the walls. The walls answered in muted echo. “And why fire me? Why break up my marriage to Princess Win-a-Lotta? What did we do? You hypocrites! You’ve still got the Edmonton Eskimos and The Washington Redskins! I’m just Chief Noc-A-Homa! I’m the good guy! Princess Win-A-Lotta didn’t hurt a fly!”

The door of the Center opened and in shuffled the recently released mascot of Jazz College, The Shooting Junkie.

“Is this A.A.?” asked The Shooting Junkie. “I’m looking for a place to crash.”

The Chief didn’t think this burnt out shell of a man could be a mascot. “No, this is the Unemployed Mascot Welfare Center. A.A.’s across the hall.”

Suddenly The Shooting Junkie perked up. “There’s an unemployment center for mascots?”

“Yes, and give me an L!” The Chief waited for an L that wasn’t coming. He tried again, “Come on, give me an L!”

“L,” The Shooting Junkie mumbled. He wasn’t in the mood for giving Ls.

“Give me an, E!”

“E,” The Shooting Junkie humored The Chief.



“Give me a V!”


“Give me an E!”


“What does it spell?”

The Shooting Junkie hadn’t been paying attention. “Steroids?” he guessed.

“What? Can’t you spell?”

“Look, man, maybe you guys can help me sue Jazz College for breaking contract.”

“Contract for what, drugs? Are you some sort of lab experiment gone wrong? Did somebody spill you from a petri dish?”

“No, I’m their mascot. Well, I was, til they fired me. But, I had two more years on the contract.”

“Hold on. You’re a mascot? You actually represented a team?”

“Yeah, The Jazz College basketball team. I’m The Shooting Junkie.”

The Chief was stunned. He had always considered the job of a mascot to be honored and sacred. Though he berated and belittled them constantly, The Chief had great admiration for all his fellow mascots, for he knew the pressure and responsibility it required. Now he saw that any druggie dropout could be a mascot. “Well, it’s no wonder why they fired you, look at you! You can barely stand up!”

“Hey, brother, you shoulda seen me. I could shoot threes while shooting up, I was the real deal. Then they fire me cause of my drug problem, but, they’re the ones who gave me the drug problem. I mean, they named me, The Shooting Junkie, what did they expect? I mean, my God, I’m just hurting myself, what about that bastard, The Fighting Irish guy over at Notre Dame? That guy’s always looking to punch somebody; I’m peaceful, man. I shoot my baskets, shoot up some heroin, then pass out on center court, and the players have to play around me for the whole second half. It really gives home court advantage, cause, my guys are used to playing around me, so, it gives them the edge. Why’d they fire me?”

The Chief was filled with a rare sense of compassion and empathy for this poor shriveled up mascot. The Chief saw so much of his own story in the pleading eyes of The Shooting Junkie. “Get out, you’re not welcome here,” he said to him.

The Shooting Junkie stepped back at the force of the words. “Who are you to speak?”

“I am The Chief.” The Chief placed his hands on his hip, gun-slinger style.

The Shooting Junkie struggled to define reality from insanity, as he looked across the room at a horse playing poker with two men dressed in loin cloth, so, he was in no mood to fight a man who called himself, The Chief. “Ok, Chief, could you just point me to the window, I’ll fly home.”

“Use the door, it’s right there.”

The Shooting Junkie went across the hall to Alcoholics Anonymous and found a more welcoming environment. After finishing their twelve step program, he changed his identity from The Shooting Junkie to The Prudent Accountant, trying to get back into the mascot market. He found his new persona as difficult to find work as his old, so, eventually, after a series of failed job interviews, he gave up, built a cabin in the middle of the forest and started blogging.

Voting For Anarchy

        No hay noche sin dia, y no hay democracia sin anarquia

      (There’s no night without day and there’s no democracy without anarchy.)

– grafitti I found in Spain.

In sports, Fred supported The Chicago Cubs. In politics, Fred supported nihilistic anarchy. He liked both for the same reason. The Cubs were the nilhistic anarchy of baseball. Fred could rest assured, every April, that the Cubs would go through an entire season of sound and fury and amount to nothing come October. Believing in the Cubs was the equivilent of believing in nothing. It was easier for Fred to believe in nothing than something. Fred didn’t know it, but, religiously he was a non-practising Buddhist. He thought he was non-practising Catholic.

Fred thought, (though, he didn’t believe, he reminded himself he didn’t believe in anything) that he was the only anarchist working in his elementary school. Fred figured, (though never believed) the rest of the teachers were left wing, sure, but, none leaned all the way head over heels to anarchy, that is, until he found himself sharing a bottle of tequila with Kathy, during the teachers’ Christmas party.

“Well, I can tell you who I’m not voting for, everyone,” Kathy said before knocking back a shot of tequila, topping it off by sucking on a slice of lemon. She looked like she was smiling with bright yellow stained teeth. Fred noticed himself leaning in closer to hear her, though he heard her just fine, he was simply trying to breathe her perfume.

“I’m a nihilist anarchist,” Fred said. The tequila had emboldened his convictions. Normally, Fred kept his views to himself.

“You are?” Kathy was so impressed, she overpoured her next tequila shot.

“I am. Democracy’s a sad clown painted happy.” Fred heard the tequila take over his speech and he was powerless to stop it.

“A sad clown painted happy? I know exactly what you mean,” Kathy said, spitting out the next lemon slice.

“You do?” Fred was impressed, cause, he didn’t know what he meant. “Could you tell me what I mean?”

“You mean it pretends to be what it’s not. It’s pretends to represent the majority, but, it really represents the richest minority. Yeah, a sad clown painted happy, yeah! Cheers!” Kathy had poured them both a shot, and handed one to Fred.

“Ok, one more, then I gotta get back to class. Lunchtime was over a half hour ago.”

“Relax, it’s the Christmas party. And, don’t you know nothing worth learning can be taught in a classroom? Those kids are better off without a teacher. Really, they’re learning more without us. Cheers!”

Fred couldn’t believe he had never noticed Kathy before. They had worked at the same school for over two years together, but, until this very moment he had only seen her as someone to borrow chalk from. Suddenly she was a woman he could imagine marrying and divorcing. A woman he could see sharing a family with, followed by sharing court dates over custody battles. With tequila, Fred didn’t get beer goggles, he got marriage-divorce goggles.

“Wanna get married and start a family of anarchists?” Kathy laughed; she thought he was joking. Fred changed tact, “Or, let’s form a political group of anarchists. We’ll put up signs, have meetings-”

“We can’t have meetings, we’re anarchists! We’re against meetings!”

Fred very much wanted to form an anarchist group with this woman, but knew she was right. The one thing that connected them: anarchy, could never bring them together, cause, the whole point of anarchy was to not be bound to anything, even anarchy.

Still, he thought he could prove this wrong by running as a candidate for the Nihilist Anarchist Party of Everywhere. He hoped by forming the party, Kathy would be tempted to join, and help him spread the joy of nihilist anarchy.


Fred posted on several political sites Kathy liked to read. The only one who showed up in person was, Justin Webbs. Justin was seventeen, and too young to vote. Justin showed up for the first meeting, saw there were no girl anarchists, and never came back.

On election day, Fred’s Anarchist Party of Everywhere got a grand total of zero votes. Fred didn’t even vote for himself.

That October, a miracle, the Cubs won the World Series. Fred couldn’t believe it, but he had to: the Cubs won, the Cubs won the World Series for the first time in well over 100 years. Now it was Fred’s turn to go through such emotions as sound and fury and amount to nothing, cause, the Cubbies had shown that with hard work and perseverance, any thing is possible.

And with such inspiration, Fred changed exactly nothing in his life. He went to school, taught his grade five class all about preparing for disappointment, and not to expect to ever see their dreams come true, all the while, looking through the door window over at Kathy, who taught grade six across the hall. He wondered if she was worth divorcing.

Freud’s Worst Patient

“Tell me about your dreams,” Freud asked his patient, Herr Shreuder. Herr Wolfgang Shreuder lay reclined on Freud’s office couch. Herr Shreuder was Freud’s least favorite patient. This was something Freud told only his wife, Martha, because, Herr Shreuder was a powerful businessman in Vienna and referred several high paying clients.

More than the money, Freud liked hearing about the filthy problems of the filthy rich. Herr Shreuder’s problem was that he was boring and both the psychiatrist and patient knew it. Though the psychiatrist tried to get the patient to act on his problem, it was like dragging a dead horse to water.

“I know, I am boring, I bore myself endlessly, Dr. Freud, but, there is nothing I can do, I can’t think of anything else to do or think.”

“We both know you’re boring, so, for once do something not boring, and tell me an interesting dream you had.”

“I once dreamed I was the Queen of England, and I spent the entire dream speaking Urdu to pack of monkeys dressed in the clothes of my ex gardiner, who I fired in the dream for planting tulips in my ass, does this mean anything? I’d appreciate it if you didn’t giggle at my dream, Doctor Freud.”

“It is a natural response to such a story.”

“I don’t think giggling’s very professional, or, very manly.”

“Hey! Who’s lying on whose couch? Let’s not lose sight of who the patient is here!” The doctor never lost sight of knowing the reason he got and kept so many rich clients, was because he made them feel cheap. These royalty and aristocracy loved playing master and servant; Freud was the only one in town who realised, sometimes, they liked playing servant, too. “Now, shut up and tell me more of the dream. We left off, you had some tulips planted in your ass.”

“Yes, I’m afraid of what that could mean.”

“What do you think it could mean?”

“I don’t know, but, I’m afraid.”

“Do you hear yourself? You’re afraid but you don’t know what you’re afraid of.”

“Yes.” Herr Shreuder was laying there on his back, sucking his thumb.

And there was the problem, he was so boring, he couldn’t imagine ever doing anything exciting. Freud had given up on Herr Shreuder sessions before. Freud milked him for dreams, because, though the man’s life was dry like toast, his dreams were fantastic, so fantastic, that even Herr Shreuder’s dulled speech, couldn’t completely beat the dream completely senseless. They were often hilarious.   

“Tell me another dream.”

“You promise not to laugh?” Herr Shreuder begged.

Freud snorted cocaine. “Just tell me a fucking joke,” he said between snorts.

“What is that?”

“It’s something that gets me through these sessions with you. Now, let’s go, let’s hear a dream.”

“Not if you’re going to laugh. It’s hard enough without you-”

“Stop your belly-aching and tell me a goddamn dream!” The cocaine always made Freud feel more powerful, more abusive. His genius got more arrogant, and he shouted at his patients. Some quit, some doubled their sessions.

“Ok! So, there I am with the tulips in my ass-”

“What were the tulips doing?”

“They were just there, in between my buttcheeks.”

“What color were they?”

“Is that important?”


“They were yellow.”

“Ok, and?” Freud was getting impatient with the color.

“And, so this door hinge flies up to ask if it can sniff my butt and polinate me, and I think that sounds disgusting, so I start running, but as I’m running, the tulips sprout and grow into a gigantic forest that I go through riding my first year accounting professor who wants to teach me accounting through counting all the stars in the sky and dividing them by constellations resembling dogs, multiplied by Jupiter’s rings from the bottom of a coffee cup, which I jump into looking for my lost jar of happiness, knowing, if I lose it, I’ll be forced to fertilize myself and become a match, good for one life, burn, and turn into a used match-stick. Could this mean anything Doctor?”

The mad Doctor Freud was disappointed with this latest dream installment. It was obvious and predictable. The cocaine snap crackle popping in his body gave him the power to get through the hearing of it.

“Hey, I got an idea. Come over and try some of this.”

“What?” Herr Shreuder lay on the couch, his arms across his chest like he was dead.

“Get up and get over here. Try some of this.”

“What is it?”

“It’s something that will make you not so boring. Put some life into you. Get over here.”

Herr Shreuder rose from the couch and approached his psychiatrist, who was looking up at him with one blood shot eye. Freud had a streak of white powder running down his chin. “Try this,” the Doctor prescribed.

“How? What is it?”

“It’ll help you be less boring. Just bend down take that spoonful and snort it up your nose.”

“My nose? I’ve never taken drugs up my nose. Are you sure that’s how you do cocaine?”

“Positive. Just bend right over there and snort as much of that you can up your nose, let’s go.”

The patient did as his doctor prescribed. No sooner had the cocaine hit every nerve in Herr Shreuder’s body, did he know he had the greatest psychiatrist in the world, and he’d be coming back tomorrow at noon, two, four, six, eight and ten thirty.

Twittering During Sex


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

Expecting Jen soon. It’s our third date, you know what that means. Wish me luck!

2 hours ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

@LeeBeard God speed, son! @Cottonbombs2 Thanks, mom!

2 hours ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

Someone’s knocking on the door. Could this be love?

2 hours ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

Not love, not even lust. Just Rog, the apt. super telling me there’s a fire drill tomorrow.

2 hours ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

Another knock! I don’t want to jinx it like last time, so. Whoever it is sure is knocking loud. Better get it before they break down the door.

2 hours ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

Jen’s here looking fine. Fine don’t define the dress. Jan’s sexy sleek. I’m looking fine in my best sweater. Jen says I look like Bill Cosby.

2 hours ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

Got the laptop on the kitchen table. Dinner seems to be a hit. Jen asked for another slice of pizza. Woulda cooked if I knew how. I dial well.

1 hour ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

The conversation is going smoothly. Though, her voice did betray a sense of impatience when she asked why I keep typing on my laptop.

53 minutes ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

We’re making out!!

43 minutes ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

@LeeBeard Remember what I told you. @Cottonbombs2 Not now, mom!

42 minutes ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

How do you get this bra off?

34 minutes ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

@LeeBeard What kind of bra is it? @Cottonbombs2 I don’t know, a hard one. It’s like a rubik’s cube back here.

34 minutes ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

Got it!

21 minutes ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

@LeeBeard I’m proud of you, son! @Cottonbombs2 Really, Mom, not now! This is hard enough to make out and twitter, w/out testing Freud.

20 minutes ago 


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

Can’t find condoms. I thought of everything, except condoms. I guess I never thought it’d get this far.

15 minutes ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

Jen found one at the bottom of her purse. She’s giving it to me on condition I stop twittering. Good night, my followers!

13 minutes ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

Jen’s in the washroom. I’m naked at the kitchen table. If sex was a baseball game, we’d be in the middle innings.

4 minutes ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

@JenIsHere Because you’re reading this, I’m gone. @Cottonbombs2 Wait! Jen! I’ll stop!

1 minute ago


Cottonbombs2 Peter Fulton

I’ve decided it was worth it. Cause, instead of almost having sex with one, I almost had sex with thirteen. Let’s lay back and almost smoke a cigarette.