The Funny Short Story

Welcome to our website or webpage or homepage or whatever you want to call it. This is site is not really dedicated to anything--well at least not anything as cool as some of the other ones out there. It's really just a few friends getting together in cyber space and having fun time. We all have the sort of sense of humor that makes most people cry a little bit, so we hope you enjoy this blog sitepage.

People say that good writers read a lot of books, which by principle, would rule me out of the club. My urge to write didn't activate until a late afternoon one Spring, when I was playing golf with a shaman friend of mine. We were closing in on the first nine, me two strokes ahead, when he said something rather profound. "You know Matt, the world doesn't have room for ordinary people like you. You've gotta do something like what I'm doing. Be a shaman. Something special, like a shaman" he said, "learn how to do origami or something. Anything." It was from that day on, that I decided to devote my life to crows, and up until about 8 months ago, it was a good career path. Due to some small injuries though, I decided to choose the safer, less intellectually stimulating hobby that is now writing.

Being weird is all relative. People've told me my whole life that something just wasn't quite right about me: whether it was my ability to jump higher than most deer, or the court jester style hat I wore indoors for the better part of my ninth year, they didn't know. But if you look at some of the accomplishments I've made, I'm sure you'll agree that being 'weird' in this normal world can lead to some pretty uncanny things.

Take for example the stunning discoveries I've made in the development potato-powered remote control boats: I'm essentially the second most renowned pioneer in the industry behind the guy who invented the potato gun. My potato boat theories had many social implications, such as providing jobs for jailhouse inmates and entertainment for weekend picnickers, but the best part of all was that you could bake and eat the thing when you were through.

I spent a good four-year stint back in the mid seventies creating cool phrases, which I would then work to weave into society amongst the nation's impressionable youth. Some of the phrases that I invented and that you might know: hot potato, crow on a fence, and radical (a word which mostly only caught on in surfing circles). A hobby such as inventing phrases (or as we like to call it, axiom fabrication) is very rewarding to the soul, but not financially supportive enough for someone with my eating habits.

I have semi-bothersome allergies which usually restrict me to the confines of my bathtub, and if it weren't for my manservant Cleat, I probably wouldn't be where I am today. Cleat comes from a small town in Alabama known best for its crocodile po-boys which I must say, are some of the best I've ever had. When his mother left him at the age of 12, Cleat was adopted by a small pod of humpback whales who were all too happy to bring Cleat into their home. The next phase of his life--in what I now like to call his 'crying period'—Cleat only spoke in high-pitched shrieks and whistles. (It still comes out every now and then when he's angry.)

Cleat has not only taught me about deep things like honor and self-respect, but he has also opened my eyes to some of the simpler things in life, such as tying my shoelaces in triple knots. Some people say true love is hard to find, but Cleat found it for me in a bagel shop downtown. Her name was Emma and she had the presence of a flamingo; tall, beautiful, pink. When I first met her it was because Cleat had set us up on a blind date and as she entered the room, I was speechless, except for the one phrase that I repeated over and over that night: "You look like a flamingo to me."

Emma had my greatest admiration, and we got along so well because we were both interested in many of the same things. She, for example, was a passionate Shoots & Ladders player and so was I. She didn't like anchovies and neither did I. She had this deranged impulse while walking down the street, to scream aloud in a strangers face or punt a small dog, and that for me, was what sealed the deal.

Emma was very encouraging of my hobbies and endeavors and for the most part, she inspired me to become who I am today, a famous celebrity-like idol to many of my cyber friends. While she has always been a fan of my brilliant inventions and various activities, she most enjoys my writing, which I read to her at night before she goes to sleep. That was, until Emma was hit by a commuter train last year. Broke into a thousand pieces.

To be continued…

Rule 1: Making history isn't as easy as it sounds
Making a meat smoker isn't easy, but then again, what revolutionary idea ever is? The process of turning an unused refrigerator into a powerful barbeque monster will be one of the hardest things you will ever have to do, and the fire regulations in your building will not make things easy. I often find that the best time to try to solve problems comes in the wee hours of the morning. The first hour or so, after I wake up, when my mind is running like a tank engine with all these great ideas. Granted, these ideas aren't always that useful--actually they're almost never useful--but they give my day meaning and more than anything, they are a reason for me to get out of bed. It has been during this early morning period that I have cracked many of the following rules.

Rule 2: Fundamentals
The final result I have in mind looks sort of like a refrigerator astronaut: with tubes coming out the top and clear plastic viewing windows allowing you to peer in. I was, for the most part, prepared for all the snags I would face in building this piece of modern ingenuity, however there have been certain holdups that I would never have expected. Take its name for example. Much like the excitement of having a baby, it is easy to get caught up in the thrill of the activity so much, that you lose sight of the basics, like what to name the damn thing. In fact, at the end of the project I imagine I'll feel like a new parent, except my baby will have a temperature gauge and my baby will be able to fire out pastrami in less than twenty eight minutes.

Rule 3: Loose lips sink ships
When going to the hardware store to get supplies, you will inevitably be asked by the nosy people working there, what you are using your parts for. Do not reveal anything. This is how great ideas get ruined: you tell little Jose behind the key-making counter and next thing you know, you'll have homemade meat smoking competition on your hands. One good explanation, I have found, is to say you are making a small animal trap. If they prod further, asking why you need industrial tubing, point to your stomach--rubbing it tenderly as if you had a stomach ache--and say the animal is in there. This is a sure fire way to get any snoops off your tail because no one (not even a hardware store employee) likes a crazy person.

Rule 4: Squirrel, the other white meat
Once your homemade smoker is in form, you can start smoking. Don't restrict yourself to beef or pork or chicken or fish though. If you have ever been a free trapper for an Indian tribe in your life, you have witnessed the glorious ongoing ritual of catching, butchering, and smoking squirrel (genus sciuridae) meat. Smoked squirrel meat weighs about one half the amount of fresh meat, however a poorly-smoked product can look like leather and taste like tree bark. What I like to do is dip the meat in some sort of hot grease (ghee works well) then suspend it from a clothes line where it will keep forever. Serve it with some blood soup and your guests will go crazy.

My Friend's Favorite Squirrel Recipe
3 squirrels, quartered
Creole seasoning
2 strips bacon, cut up
1/2 stick margerine
1 shallot, chopped
4 cloves garlic, finely chopped
2 jalapeno peppers, chopped
2 ribs celery, chopped
3 potatoes, cubed
5 cups squirrel stock (use vegetable stock or water if you are trying to cut back on salt)
1/4 cup burgundy wine

-Rub the Creole seasoning liberally over the squirrels.
-In a Dutch oven, melt the butter. Add the bacon.
-Add the squirrel to the Dutch oven and brown evenly. Remove.
-To the Dutch oven, add the shallot, garlic, peppers and celery. Saute until the veggies are soft.
-Add the meat back to the pot along with the water and potatoes. Stir together.
-Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer 1 1/2 hours stirring occasionally.
-Remove the squirrel pieces. Cool and de-bone.
-Return meat to the pot. Stir in the wine. Heat to boiling again then reduce heat and simmer 10 minutes.
Serve over biscuits or toast.

TO MOST PEOPLE, A TOWN WITH PICKPOCKETS IS A BAD THING, but to me, there could be no better place to practice some stealing of my own. There is, in fact, a gaggle of thieves who's hangout or headquarters (if you want to call it that) is right near my apartment. I know them pretty well, and more importantly they recognize me, so they don't steal nearly as much from me as they do from the normal passerby.

Their ring leader is named Herm and he's the only minority--a Peruvian--in the entire group of white dudes. He's always eating, any time of day, and always the same thing: this slimy phallic-shaped piece of rubber disguised as a hotdog. His head is not really a normal head in that he only has one ear--lost the second in some sort of bike accident. He is pretty fat, and has stubby legs that are straight and have no curves. The funniest part about him though, is that he always carries a pet bird named Tonto who he keeps not in a cage, but on a leash, the way you might your bichon fries. Tonto sits on his shoulder and can supposedly speak though I've never heard a word.

"Speak Tonto! Speak!"

Herm is the sort of guy who, if you didn't know he was involved in his own little ring of unorganized crime, you might figure him to be a desk man or a bell boy--something in the hotel industry. He is sort of charming to people who he doesn't steal from and if he reaches to scratch his head when you're around him, you'll see that he wears a Smurf collector's item watch. Really takes away from the whole bandit shtick. I've seen him with other members of his family, his mother most often, doing some of the most ordinary things: grocery shopping, eating dinner, walking to church. Herm's a pretty normal dude, it's just that when other people reach into desk drawers, Herm reaches into pockets.

"Tonto! Speak!"

Herm is also very interested in outer space and claims that after he eats lunch, he's starting a new TV show called Pimp My Spaceship. While no one really believes him, it is in all our best interests to humor him with his stupid little idea the way you might your four year-old. ("Yes honey, you can become a Transformer when you grow up.")

I would usually be weary of a criminal who says he collects things, but Herm's collection is fun: he collects frisbees. He keeps them stacked all neatly, like pancakes, in this box that appears to once have belonged to a top hat. Being from Paraguay, he has trouble with English and often confuses words like cheesesteak and cheapskate. This problem with English has actually cemented our bond as friends.

One fun thing about being an American in a foreign country is that I am--by default--an ambassador to the English language: my expertise and wisdom highly sought after. Everywhere I go, without any background check or anything, people will rely on me to be their source for everything English. Herm is one of my students, if you want to call him that, and I enjoy teaching him not because I want him to learn, but because listening to Herm try to speak English is incredibly entertaining to me. Going along with the abnormal theme of our relationship, is the fact that Herm for the most part, has no interest in learning normal English. No, he is strictly into porn terminology and food. A funny combination, but I'm not about to ask.

"Herm, Speak!"