Corny the Clown

"Get him!" the handle bar moustached man said. The three men with peculiar facial hair or lack thereof chased after Corny.

Corny was lucky that he had all the physical fitness training with the tigers those last two weeks. He had an inkling this was going to happen. The men in suits I mean, he knew it was going to happen.

Corny jumped through the window of the clown car just like they've done in every action movie from 007 to Cop Out. He sped away just as the men reached his car.

"We've got to find Corny, he's done some very bad things, very bad things indeed." The man with no hair whatsoever said.

TO BE CONTINUED

Worst Burger King Experience Ever

Burger King, Southside of Pittsburgh, 12:23 P.M.

My food had already taken twenty minutes to get, but I received a free Hershey's Chocolate Pie, and our meal was free. How could this day be a bad one? I foolishly asked myself. Suddenly a cup of Coke went flying. Screaming started. What was going on? I asked as I enjoyed my chicken tender crisp.

12:30 P.M.

Hunkered under my table, I tried to hide myself and my sobbing. The cup had not been thrown, but shot by a sniper. I had no way of knowing before I walked into that Burger King that the king pin of the Russian mafia was sitting one booth away enjoying a double Whopper. (Can I be sued for copy right infringement by using these terms?) Now the restaurant had turned into a war zone along with all of East Carson Street. The men outside were CIA and FBI agents who had been tracking Mikhail Gorbachev for over ten years. (I learned his name when I had a short conversation while I was in line with him.) I feared for my life. I had been the only one in the establishment besides him and the workers. I'm not sure why the agents couldn't have stopped me before I went inside, but that's a different rant for a different day. All I could think about was getting out of there alive.

12:35 P.M.

The place was surrounded. Gun fire was everywhere. People were running down the streets screaming, and buildings were burning. It was like a scene out of Call of Duty Modern Warfare. I was shocked to see such a battle field in my own country. The Russians had taken over Carson Street holding hostages and demanding that Gorbachev be allowed to walk away from the Burger King without so much as a sneeze from the American agents. If the agents did take him out then Mellon Arena would be blown to bits. I was still scared, but at the same time shocked at the amount of Russians in the city of Pittsburgh. I wondered was this about drugs, or nuclear arms? No one had said anything about the reasoning behind all of this. All I knew was I had to escape.

12:45 P.M.

Still hunkered under my table I was drifting in and out of being awake, because at this point in time nothing had really been happening. The agents were still waiting to either take out Gorbachev, and he was still waiting for them to back down. It was a dumb chess game and I had to figure out a way to end it.

12: 46 P.M.

The agents had slipped a wire into me. They told me if I could get him to turn his back to the window they'd be able to shoot him with a tranquilizer and this whole ordeal would be over. Carson Street had been contained with the help of the National Guard, and the Russians had fled to their private helicopters kept near the old steel mills. I had a plan.

12:48 P.M.

I stood up. This was a risky move because it gave him reason to shoot me. I yelled over to him "Hey the Russian national team is awful. They lost to the Slovaks!" Being a Russian hockey enthusiast this infuriated him. He leaped to his feet and ran full speed at me. I ducked out of the way. The shot was fired and he dropped to the ground.

12:50 P.M.

I walked out of the Burger King a national hero. When I finally ran into one of the agents I asked what this was all about. He said "He was trying to take the city of Pittsburgh hostage so that Sidney Crosby and Evgeni Malkin couldn't get back into the city after the Olympics. His real name was Alexander Ovechkin. He was trying to shut down hockey here in Pittsburgh."

The End

Corny the Clown

Corny the Clown was just a lowly circus clown until one day when he hit it big. He was just aimlessly working on his juggling act under the big tent when three guys wearing suits and sunglasses walked in.

"Well hello strangers!" Corny exclaimed while waving.

"Are you... Corny the Clown?" One of the men said. He had a goatee that was border line soul patch.

"Why yes I am!" Corny was such a nice guy. He had the typical clown look with the big red hair and the nose and the face paint. What set Corny apart though was the machete he kept hidden in his inflated pants.

"Then you need to come with us Corny." The second man said. He had a handle bar moustache that was so nicely taken care of.

"Why?" Corny was started to sweat.

"You've done some bad things Corny, or should we say, FRANK!?" the third man was the worst of all. He was bald with no moustache!

Corny a.k.a. Frank took off to the Clown Car. He got away in the nick of time.

TO BE CONTINUED!!

Ode to Looking Bad

Today I woke up and hit the snooze button.

When I finally rolled out of bed and hit the floor I had little time to get ready.

I looked in the mirror and almost started crying at the site of my face.

It was going to be one of those days.

I put on my make-up. It looked terrible.

I put on my clothes. Sweatpants and a hoodie.

I grabbed breakfast. A cookie.

Today is going to be one of those days.

AUUGGHHH!!!! (The Charlie Brown noise when he misses the football)

Writer's block. My worst nightmare. It pains me. I'm on the verge of a writing breakdown. When was the last time I wrote anything with meaning, or something worth reading? My fingers tap the keys yet I am unable to have a focused, creative product. The creative juices are there, but I am unable to contain them. Oh what despair. I have thoughts of a secret agent bunny, my future, a doomsday epic, and a man stuck on a plateau in New Mexico. None of these ideas have led to anything but a skeleton of a plot with holes and no real meaning to it. The only reason I am writing this write now is to get focus on some sort of writing, but it's gone now too. Writer's block. My ultimate doom.

Where in the World is Benjamin San Francisco?

It was a dark day for Benjamin San Francisco. He had spent his last $5 on a cheap bottle of Pepsi. He was hovering in the alley between the Build-A-Bear Workshop and Victoria's Secret. He couldn't find his way to his home. He knew there were people looking for him. Searching. But he couldn't help them find him. Why? Because he didn't remember his name, his address, or what he had been doing just hours earlier. He had been hit on the head with a giant hammer, like the ones at carnivals to prove your strength. He had no memory to speak of and didn't know what to do.

Ben laid down in the alley hoping that in the morning all would get better.

THE NEXT MORNING

Things weren't better. Ben was soaked to the bone and crying. Then this beautiful lady walked past. He ran out of the alley and poked her really hard.

"LADY! HELP ME!"

BAM, she hit him with her purse and ran away.

Ben fell down to the ground crying and screaming. The pain he felt, the agony. Oh, the agony.

Ben started rolling and twitching on the ground. He was sad because he still couldn't remember who he was.

All of a sudden the local dog catchers drove past. They picked up Ben because he was foaming at the mouth and they felt they had a moral obligation to get him off the streets. They dropped him off at the town's insane asylum.

The workers at the asylum instantly took Ben in because they saw that he needed some serious help.

They locked him up in his own room and only fed him Princess Fruit Gummies for the next 40 years.

40 YEARS LATER

Ben remembered who he was. He was Benjamin San Francisco and before he had been hit over the head he had been working to become the Magenta Power Ranger. He had made up this Power Ranger all on his own because he really wanted to be one.

Ben told the workers at the asylum that he was a Power Ranger.

They never let him out.

Poor Benjamin San Francisco.

A Very Brady War

Bullet shells were raining on my helmet. Explosions lit up the sky like the night of my senior prom. Men were cussing and yelling and dying all around me. How I'd made it that far I'll never know. I looked to my left and saw the glimmer of blond hair. I started to chase after it. It was her again.

I left her when I went to 'Nam and I'd been seeing her ever since. Maybe that was what was keeping me alive. I wanted so badly to lay my eyes on her again. I ran faster and faster because the hair was getting farther away.

Then I fell. I looked up and she was gone. I fell because Charlie had thrown another bomb to our side. I slowly stood up and wiped off the dirt and returned to my station.

Greg looked at me as he always did when I went off chasing my girl. "Look Peter, Cindy's not here, she ain't gonna be here, she ain't never comin' over here. You got to do your job if you ever want to see Cindy again. Or your parents Carol and Mike. Greg, you ain't the only one that's hurtin'. I'm missin' my girl Marcia. Sure her sister Jan gets in the way of our relationship all the time but I'd trade anythin' to be with her."

"I understand."

"Then get out there and fight Charlie!"

Bobby gave me a small bite of his biscuit at dinner tonight and called me his brother. He's the closest I've gotten to anyone here other than Peter. They're almost like my brothers. Greg's like an older brother with the wisdom and advice he gives to me and Bobby's younger like I got to take care of him and such.

I just wanted to go home and hold Cindy. Her blond curls were to die for. Sometimes her lisp got in the way of our conversations, but I would just tell her to let me do the talking.

Then Alice walked into the room and started collecting their clothing for washing. "Come on boys, I don't have all day!" Alice signed up to do laundry, why? no one knew. She just must have enjoyed doing maid like activities. Alice's boyfriend Same was a butcher and would sometimes send meat and other delectable food along with Alice for the boys.

Ten months later the boys were sent home. Peter got to be with Cindy, Greg enjoyed his time with Marcia and Jan who tagged along (constantly saying "Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!"). Little Bobby became a cop due to his history of safety monitoring before the war. Peter's parents Carol and Mike lived a happy life after the war as well as Alice and Sam.

Running With Imagination

It was winter. There was a chill in the air that was so remarkably cold it couldn't have just been the wind. Or the snow. There was something else in that air. Something sinister maybe. Intrusive. I started to walk faster but the stretch of land between my home and me was increasingly expanding. I could have sworn to that. I was constantly looking to my left, then to my right.

I picked up my pace. I heard rustling in the trees around me. My pink mittens weren't keeping out the cold like I had intended. The wind was biting my nose and ears. The snow started to furiously fall. Whipping me and beating me as I tried to get home.

As I got closer to my intended destination it started growing darker. Someones eyes were upon me, I knew this for a fact. I started to jog. I heard noises behind me. Sounds of crunching snow behind me as though someone was following me. I took a second and peered behind me. I saw a huge shadow. Faster and faster and faster. I couldn't go fast enough. My muscles were aching, my eyes were streaming with tears.

I finally made it onto my street. This was the moment of truth. As my feet beat the icy pavement that was below me, my heart beat at a rhythm all it's own. Like native Africans along the Congo River.

My house. My house. A hundred feet from my house. I knew my pursuer was close behind me. I leaped onto my porch, swung open the door and landed in the foyer of my home just as my captor would have taken me prisoner.

My family was enjoying dinner wondering what had taken me so long. I smelled turkey and potatoes as my face and hands started to sting from the heat of my house hitting the cold of my skin. I look out the door. No one was there.

Had there been a man chasing me?

Or had my imagination put him there?

I turned the lock on the door and went into the kitchen to have my dinner.

Dang. The Spektors are losers.

I can feel her disappointment

Her heart growing heavy

She no longer believes in us.

We have become failures.

Oh why have we stopped creating?

Is it so hard to write?

These questions are answered by this poem.

We just need an inspiration,

But it's so hard to find these days.

We are a let down.

We are sorry.

Creative juices must start flowing again.

Will there ever be . . .

another word

another phrase

another clever line or two

just one more episode

one more haunting poetic voice

or shared laugh

at times I think

it's all played out

the words arranged

in every combination

all the possibilities exhausted

at times I think

that there will never be

another word.