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Archive for the ‘humor’ Category


In humor, Stories on May 12, 2016 at 6:10 pm

rolls royce

            Harold, Marty and Murray were sitting on a park bench one morning as they always do, drinking their coffee. Suddenly a Rolls stopped before them, and stood for a while. Then a well-dressed man came out of the car, and asked for Marty Spencer.

Then Murray asked, “Who wants to know?”

The man said, “Bill Harrow.”

When Murray responded with, “Bill Who?,” the man said, “That’s not important. I just want to talk to Marty. Say you in the middle—you never looked at me since I got out of the car, so you must be Marty.”

Marty said, “Why you say that?

The man replied, “Cause I think you know who I am.”

“No sir, I never saw you before.”

The man said, “That’s right.” Then he asked, “Do you remember Doris Simmons?”

Then Marty said, “Doris from 138th Street? Yes, I knew her about 40 years ago. I haven’t seen her in so long.”

“Ha-ha,” the man laughed. “Well, Marty Spencer,” the man held his hand out for a handshake, “pleased to meet you finally. My name is Bill Spencer, your son. Doris, my mother, is sitting in the car. Come here, Mama.”

After a couple of seconds the Rolls Royce door opened, and a woman appeared in a long dress with diamonds around her neck and a large diamond on her wedding ring finger. She also had a white turban-like hat on her head.

She stood erect, and Bill said, “Mother, this is my father.”

She said, “I know.” Then she started, “You dirty son of a….”

Then Bill said, “Mother, watch your tongue. We spoke of this before. We will be civil to each other.”

Then an unusual thing happened. She clasped her hands, as if she were praying. Then she bowed before Marty, and said, “Please forgive my outburst. I apologize for my error in judgement. Please forgive me.”

There is more to this story. If you believe it.


The End

by George Cousins



In fiction, Friendship, humor, Stories, Stories, secrets & dreams on January 19, 2016 at 5:45 pm

elevator buttons

            Pamela Santucci works as a cleaning woman in a medical building where there are many medical offices. She cleans daily from 5 a.m. to 2 p.m. One morning, around 4:30, she got on  the elevator, and a passenger came in after her, and said, “14, please.” So Pamela pressed the floor she wanted.

As the elevator was moving, she kept staring at the passenger, until it finally dawned on her who the person was. It was her daughter’s best friend. The passenger also kept staring at Pamela. Both said nothing. The elevator stopped on the 14th floor, and when the passenger got off, Pamela saw that the floor only has psycho offices, so Pamela wondered why Gloria Banapoli would be going to see a shrink.

When she got home, she told her daughter, gossip that she is. Her daughter said, “Ma, sit down. But please do not repeat this. She is married to Richie Cannoli.”

Then Pamela said, “The mob guy? But he’s in prison!”

Then her daughter said, “Ma, Ma, read between the lines. He married her so she can carry things in and out of jail for him.”

Pamela put her hands to her mouth, then over her head, and said, “You didn’t stop her from doing this crazy thing? What did her parents say—they don’t know?”

Her daughter said, “No.”

And Pamela said, “Of all the cockamamie things! I will have a talk with her the next time I see her. And that has to be now. Today. Find her, please, and bring her here.”

And that evening, there was Gloria, sitting at Pamela’s kitchen table.

“You being married to Richie, can’t you see what a mess you’re in? Can’t you annul the marriage?”

Gloria’s response was to ask, “You know I used to go with Bobby Fantusa?”

Pamela said, “Yes.”

Gloria then told her that Richie was going to kill her if he didn’t leave her, “So Bobby dropped me, which I found out later was a lie. You see, Bobby had borrowed money from the mob, and for payment—I was the payment.”

Pamela said, “My God, what are you going to do?”

Gloria said, “That isn’t the worst part. When you saw me this morning, I was making a delivery to the doctor. There are quite a few doctors I deliver drugs to weekly, but rarely that early. Usually after 4 p.m. That doctor was going to California later that day, and I couldn’t miss him. Then I gave the cash to Richie’s father. That’s my story. Bobby Fantusa got me in this mess.”

Then Pamela said, “And Bobby will get you out of this mess.”

After Gloria left, Pamela sat down at the table on the same chair Gloria had just left. She started smiling to herself. You see, when she was at Erasmus High, there was a boy who had a big crush on her. His name was Emilio Lagatuta. He had a great voice, like the great Caruso, Alonso, or even Robison. Anyways, his father forbade him to take up singing. He said, “That profession does not pay any money. You should come into the family business.”

His father was Vinnie Lagatuta, the head of the mob of Amalie. Over the years Emilio became the leader of the family. And over the years Gloria and Emilio kept in touch. So Gloria called Emilio, told him the problem, and he agreed to take care of it.

Within two days she got a call from Gloria. The problem was solved, and she was free from her husband. You see, when you have friends in high place, things happen. Of course, this story is entirely made up.

by George Cousins

Among the Stars

In humor, Prose, Stories, secrets & dreams on February 13, 2015 at 9:12 pm


by Annie Quintano

“I am so sick and tired of this,” Rosemary blurted out, slamming the plate on the counter and spilling the galloping, wild meatballs off the spaghetti so they were sent racing along the Formica counter. She knew such outbursts were bound to get her in trouble. She had run into that before – Sam Feeter had almost fired her. But she had glared at him with her sharp blue eyes narrowed to a slit defying his power and authority. He had backed off mumbling and equivocating and she had thrown her dirty dish rag toward him when she turned and walked away.

But there were more and more mo0ments like this for Rosemary: the pressure of readying plates of food, or taking orders or having to be courteous to those aloof, arrogant and rude customers. Their air of superiority and entitlement left her spent and angry. Her strength was wearing thin.

She had taken to stepping away from the counter, away from the din of the lower level food court where now even the smell of foods sickened her and had begun walking up the rap by the Oyster Bar to circle around into the center of the terminal. She would walk toward the famous Grand Central clock, one of the dishtowels still hanging around rom her left hand, her hair net clinging tenaciously to her sweaty forehead and there she would lean her head far back and raise her eyes to the ceiling.

There the sky would reveal itself: the blues, the tiny lights of the constellations, the life of stars made real, come alive on a painted ceiling.

When she first began these excursions from the food court to the blue sky of Grand central, they were brief and infrequent. But now the smell of garlic and hot oil, or the smell of simmering spices or the stale smell of beer from the nearby bar all began to nauseate her. They rose as such violently offensive odors that they often triggered a migraine. She began to flee to the upper level now just to avoid becoming sick. But it wasn’t just the smells that began to repulse her, but also the sights. The soft whiteness of Junior’s cheesecake, the glossy bright red of the strawberries dripping a thick red syrup from the top down its sides, or the plump round or oblong loaves of bread at Zaro’s… any of the colors and textures began to disturb her, left her feeling off balance and distressed.

But mostly, it was the people. Short tempered, sometimes impatient and belligerent customers. Demanding, dictating, dismissive. She felt a revolution inside her. A refusal to put up with this shit any longer.

So her treks to the upper level became more frequent, abandoning customers un-served, ranting down there for service, agitated, swearing, disagreeable customers. Rosemary simply thought: ‘to hell with them.’

She began now to traipse up the stairs to the main rotunda before Sam Feeter could find her, come after her to fire her. Once there in the rotunda, she would lie down on the floor in the center of Grand Central so that she might better view the sky, count the stars, set her mind and heart to dance upon the constellations.

The always came, of course. The Grand Central Police. The same ones who drove the people who were homeless from the terminal’s warmth to the violent cold of the streets. The same ones puffed up in blue uniforms as if in Halloween costumes making believe they were people of consequence, people of power. They would circle her. One red haired, plump-faced cop tapping his baton against his left palm impatiently as if indicating the enormous restraint eh was exercising in not smacking her with it instead. They would help her to her feet as the demanded but she would pull her arm away from them angrily. Who were they, after all, to own the sky, the stars, the dancing constellations? Who were they to cast her back down into the dungeon of bowls of spaghetti and tight-assed blonds in grey suits or stuffy white men with fanciful silk ties racing in and out of the city in their commute and demanding her to attend to their needs?

She knew she had to walk away from it all. Take that dirty towel of hers and roll up that soiled apron and matted hair net and toss it all into the dungeon and leave while she still had her sanity, still had her soul intact.

She walked with purpose and intent and speed. And she just kept walking. Away from the smells, the sights, the sounds, the people of that infernal terminal.

She walked until the lowering afternoon sun cast long shadows from the buildings and from her own body. Until the day’s dampness built up into the chill of an early evening, the air sharp and cold but clear. The city darkened as she walked and wove her way through the small pathways of Central park. Now the darkness was thick and palpable and it was the night of no moon when it had run its course in the heavens and would return tomorrow in the slim silver of a new moon. Nothing now but darkness. How perfect, Rosemary thought. She lay herself down on the soft grass of the park in the night chill and gazed lovingly skyward. No ceiling. No tiny lights – just pure sky. And there they came one after another. The glow of the stars sent off on their way thousands and thousands of years ago arriving here before her eyes now. That starlight, those dancing constellations and she, able to be alone with them at last.

Me and My Big Mouth

In humor, Prose, Stories, secrets & dreams on January 16, 2015 at 8:28 pm


by Bill Acheson

Germs, germs, germs. All over New York City. That’s what me and my big mouth are into these days.

Last week I had this little tickle in my throat that turned into a drippy, messy nose. The last two days, this cold has developed into a strong, oud cough. An inconvenience to me as I lose sleep, an inconvenience to other people as they feel threatened by my germs.

Comments from the cold front:

“Cover your mouth.” (But my mouth is covered, I thought.)

“Sorry,” I said.

“Cover your mouth.” (But my nose is also gushing and mess, and I am trying to find a tissue.)

“Sorry,” I said.

“Cover your mouth, bullet-nose!” (Time for me to move away fast.)

Others say nothing and uncomfortably shirt away. Still others have a bored, stoic response, as if this is normal in New York City—probably my response in their situation.

Soon this cold will disappear. I will have other opportunities to exert my right to be a minor pest to others as they return, in kind, their irritating behavior to me, in this hotbed of overpopulation.

A True Story

In Friendship, humor, Uncategorized on August 9, 2014 at 5:03 pm

homeless-charityThe homeless man was “on”. Jumping up and down, bobbing, weaving, smiling, shouting, smelly, and sweating. “Please,” he cried. “Give me a dollar. Pleeeease, I need a dollar,” he said to everyone who walked by. He was adamant.

I don’t know why, I stopped. Not that I had a dollar to give him but I asked, “Why do you want a dollar?” Still smiling and in my face, he shouted, “I need a dollar to get married.”

I made a decision and gave him my change, (not a dollar). “This is so you won’t get married,” I shouted as I walked away. “It will cost you too much to get single again.”

He laughed as he collected a new dollar from the next passerby. No questions asked.

-Carol West