“No, no, no,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking. Just allegedly.” He paused to let that sink in.​​ 

The horrified woman clutched her child to her side even tighter as her​​ eyes widened in shock.

“Allegedly,” he emphasized further, with a brief pause. “I’m​​ the one who called the police about the severed heads. If anything, I’m the hero in the matter.”​​ 

He leaned down toward the young child, “and this young prince is going to​​ get to hear about it all tonight, aren’t you little fella’? You wanna know what the killer did to the bodies first? I betcha do, don’t you.” He stood back up, making eye contact with the mother, waving his hand dismissively. “Kids love hearing about this kinda stuff these days. Like them Saw movies. They go nuts for that gory shit.” He leaned back down to address the child. “And this was some gory shit I can guaran-fucking-tee you! You’ll never guess what he did with their gallbladders! Not in a million years!” He smiled at the young prince.​​ 

The young prince stared back blankly.​​ 

The hero took his cue and began to run frantically down the driveway, as he heard that Mr. and Mrs. Smithfield would in fact, not be attending the movies this evening and would, in​​ fact, be resuming the services of their previous babysitting agency, as well as installing home security at some point in the very near future.​​ 


The Sand Salesman

The​​ Sand Salesman


“Vintage sand.”

“Excuse me?”

The salesman adjusted his tie slightly, as did he his posture.​​ 

“I’m selling vintage sand, ma’am,” he said.

“Vintage… sand…” The barely over forty,​​ but still​​ quite​​ attractive, housewife​​ repeated in confusion.

“That is correct! Vintage. Sand.” He paused, smiling proudly. “You’ve got a nice front yard here, ma’am, and I really admire what you’ve done to accommodate during these last few years of the severe drought we’ve had. I down right admire you for it. And these Zen sand gardens are all the rage. Why, it won’t be too long until ALL of your neighbors have stopped bothering with these pesky green lawns, which require so much upkeep​​ and waste so much water. Why, I can see your neighbor across the street has a brown patch right in the middle of her yard there that she tried to cover up.”

The salesman paused briefly, to look both ways in an exaggerated motion, before bringing his hand to his mouth and saying softly, “But to be honest, it kinda looks like she might have used some green spray paint to cover up a dead spot.” He shook his head. “Down right bad for the environment, if you ask me. Puttin’ those pollutants down the pipes when you water the lawn. And how long does spray paint even STAY on organic grass for? Why, you gotta touch it up every so often, kinda like in those infomercials for the hair spray to cover when you’re balding.”​​ 

The salesman laughed a little too loudly and slapped his belly a little too hard.​​ 

“But soon, she, and I say that assuming it is a she,​​ ma’am, since statistically speaking​​ many​​ women do choose to stay at home, but as a choice of their own and a full time occupation for which they deserve pay but are unjustly denied it, I am using an arbitrary pronoun of the female gender​​ purely out of chance, as there was a fifty fifty I mighta said ‘he’,” the salesman said with a sly wink.

This impressed the housewife​​ slightly, and she involuntarily opened her front door from an eighty-four degree angle to an eighty-seven degree angle.​​ 

This did not go unnoticed.

“But she, or he, is going to be converting to a sand garden soon enough I tell you, soon enough.” He slapped his fist in his hand. “It’s the wave of the future, and they’ll remember YOU​​ were the one who​​ did it first. And quite frankly ma’am,” he said while he took off his fedora to reveal a robust hair of wavy brown locks, “they’re gonna resent you for it. It’s inevitable. They’re gonna resent you. Because you were first. I assume you yourself made the decision to have the sand garden in place of the green lawn, if I may assume​​ that is the case.”

“You may assume,” she said.

“I bet your hubby was downright against it. He said a real man has to have a healthy lawn. A green, beautiful healthy lawn, that he gets to mow on Saturday mornings​​ after a hard week of workin’ in a stuffy office, and pretends to hate​​ doing it, but really loves it​​ deep down.​​ Really loves it.​​ Because he gets that fresh odor of newly mowed grass and he feels like a man.​​ A real man. A man’s man.​​ Why, anything BUT a green grassy lawn on a nice house like this, why, that’s downright un-American.​​ I betcha he said it was un-American didn’t he?”

“He did,” she said.​​ 

“Sometimes people confuse dissent with disloyalty, ma’am.​​ I learned that from a smart woman, I did. God help those kinda people,​​ they mean well, but they just don’t understand, the water you’re saving on this lawn, there are all sorts of better ways to use that water​​ – why, it’s probably going right into the mouths of our troops​​ out there in the desert, and he didn’t quite understand that at first, did​​ he?”

“No, he did​​ not,” she said.​​ 

“But now he’s on board saying to everyone, ‘Hey, I’m watering the troops​​ instead of my lawn,​​ everybody,’ while he shows off the sand garden to the neighbors. ‘I’m a loyal American, and I’m watering the troops.’ I bet you he said that, didn’t he ma’am?​​ He said that and bragged to the neighbors,​​ to everyone he knew,​​ that he was ‘watering the troops’?”

“He did say he was​​ ‘watering the troops’​​ to several neighbors​​ and many other people,” she said.

“Some people,” the salesman said shaking his head​​ sadly. “He probably just gone and made the whole thing worse for you. Now they’re REALLY going to resent you for having the first sand garden on the block. Even after they get theirs, they’ll come sneakin’ by when they think you aren’t at home, think you aren’t lookin’, they’ll come sneakin’ by and pick up a hand full of your sand garden, and do you know what they’re going to say to themselves? Do you know what they’ll be muttering to themselves under their voice out of pure jealousy and resentment?​​ Do you have any idea what they will be sayin’?”

“I bet that’s not even real vintage sand,” she said.​​ 

The salesman slapped his fists together. “Yer darn tootin’!” he exclaimed. “That is exactly what they will say. Why, you​​ are a smart lady. It’s too bad you’re taken,​​ a darn shame,” he said with a wink. “They will say, ‘Why, that​​ is​​ not​​ real​​ vintage sand!’ and then they’ll go off and find some vintage sand for THEIR garden, so they can be the first one on the block with a​​ real vintage sand garden. They might not have been the first one on the block with a sand garden, but you bet they’ll be the first ones to claim that THEIR sand garden is the first one with VINTAGE SAND.”

“The first one with vintage sand,” she repeated.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, holding his fedora over his heart. “One hundred and fifty​​ year old vintage sand taken from the remains of an ancient Navajo settlement in​​ Northern​​ Texas. Now of course the sand is older than that. I mean, who knows how old sand really is? Can you tell me how old the sand in your garden really is?” he asked.

“No, I cannot tell you how old the sand in my sand garden really is,” she said.

“Well hot damn, there we go. I can give you the Teddy Lee guarantee that this is some vintage sand taken from the Navajo nation in​​ Northern​​ Texas from​​ one hundred and fifty​​ years ago, sealed in​​ sand bags during a ‘renovation’ after the inhabitants were​​ ever so​​ tragically removed from their land by force.” He shook his head again. “Sad thing to have happen, sad thing.​​ But​​ we can’t change the past, though we can make the best of a terrible tragedy.​​ This sand, it’s been sitting in a warehouse since 1867.​​ Real vintage sand – you might even call it a monument to the unspeakable tragedy that brought it into my hands. Real,​​ vintage sand.​​ I got a bill of ladling and everything.”

“I think you mean bill of lading,” she said.

“Well,” the salesman said laughing, “I do believe you are right ma’am. I misspoke. I do that when I get excited. Anyway, this sa-”

The woman sighed and cut him off.

“Teddy, I know you were against me getting the sand garden in the first place,” she said as she leaned against the front door,​​ leaving it fully open. “But, first of all, the Navajos weren’t in Northern Texas. If you want to go around trying to sell our neighbors​​ ‘vintage sand’ so we’re not the only people on the block with a sand garden to soothe your diminished masculinity, at-”

“Hey!” Teddy, the sand salesman interjected.

“TEDDY!” she​​ scolded.

The sand salesman stayed silent.

She continued.

“If you want to sell sand to our neighbors to soothe your diminished masculinity​​ at the loss of our ‘precious green lawn’, and cover up the fact that you went around telling our neighbors that you were ‘watering our troops’ by ‘filling their parched mouths’ with ‘your gift to them’ while they​​ were​​ ‘all hot in the desert’, and that you were practically ‘spraying them with​​ your gift’, I am not going to stop you. In fact, I would encourage you to do everything you can to make them forget that you said you were going to go around filling our​​ troops’​​ mouths with anything​​ at all.”

The sand man shrunk​​ back​​ and lowered his head.

“But for the love of God, at least get the basic facts of your BS backstory right. And drop the whole 1950’s salesman shtick, it just looks stupid. No one wears fedoras anymore,​​ Teddy, no one wears them except hipsters in their twenties trying to look cool. You are a​​ forty three​​ year old accountant who lost his job because he told his boss in front of the entire office that he likes​​ to​​ ‘spray into the mouths of our troops’​​ before explaining that it had anything to do with water, or a sand garden. You picked up some sand from the desert, put it in burlap bags and are now trying to sell it. And for the​​ further​​ love of God,” she added as she shifted more weight on to the door​​ and her voice hardened into​​ adamancy, “take off the fake nose and moustache. You’re not fooling anybody,​​ especially when you use your real name.​​ You just look like Teddy Lee the troop sprayer in a fake moustache and with a fake nose and for some reason I still don’t understand, a beige shade of​​ lipstick and some eyeliner. In fact, I really don’t want to know, because I don’t even have beige lipstick or that color eyeliner​​ – perhaps​​ you bought it yourself so you will​​ look better when you​​ go ‘spray the troops’ with what you’ve ‘saved up for them’​​ by​​ ‘holding off on using your hose’.”

She glared at him.​​ 

Her glare made her even more attractive.

“Now I have to go clean the kitchen and somehow try and​​ get all the sand you left there out of the tile floor.​​ You know actually accomplish something with my day, because I had a busy week, unlike some of us.​​ So take off the stupid outfit,​​ and go sell some​​ ‘vintage​​ sand’​​ to people you’ve embarrassed both of us to,​​ or at the very least, make​​ ME​​ look like less of an idiotic ‘troop sprayer’,”​​ she​​ commanded,​​ slamming the front door in his face.

Teddy Lee,​​ the vintage sand salesman sighed.

“God,” he said under his breath, “what​​ died and​​ crawled up her a-”

“I CAN STILL HEAR YOU TEDDY,”​​ came loudly from behind the door

The sand salesman mouthed something silently to himself, then​​ put his fedora back on, brushed off his very wide lapelled suit, smoothed his fake moustache, and prepared to spend his now free Saturday morning going door to door as​​ Freddy Lee, the Vintage Sand Salesman.​​ 

The Swan

The Swan


“But you’re a swan…”

The swan nodded its head. It​​ made an obscene gesture​​ with one of its wings.​​ 

Leda folded her arms and stared at the swan, a​​ mixture of emotions​​ brewing​​ on her face.​​ The swan stared back expectantly.​​ 

“You… are… a…​​ swan!”​​ she cried​​ incredulously.

The swan made the obscene gesture​​ again, this time with​​ considerably​​ more enthusiasm. She could have sworn it was smiling.​​ 

Leda​​ stared​​ at the gesticulating swan​​ with eyes wide.​​ Her​​ thoughts​​ then​​ turned to the​​ men back in Sparta.​​ 

She sighed loudly.​​ 

“Oh…​​ hell, why not,” she said as she​​ threw her hands in the air.​​ “I’ll try anything once.​​ What’s the worst that could happen?”

The Hitler Next Door

The Hitler Next Door


“Hitler? As in Adolf Hitler?”

“I don’t know of any other,” Simon said.​​ 

“I didn’t ask you if you knew of any other Hitlers. I asked if you meant Adolf Hitler when you said you realized Hitler was living next door to you.”​​ The​​ tone​​ this was said in​​ was not pleasant.​​ 

“Sorry… Yes, I meant Adolf Hitler. Adolf Hitler lives next door to me.”

He sighed. “I’m really not sure even where to begin with that. When did you begin to think your neighbor was Adolf Hitler?”

“I knew as soon as he moved in.”

“How did you know?”

Simon stroked his once full head of hair. “I don’t know… just knew. I just knew he was Hitler the moment he moved in. I can’t explain it rationally, I can’t. But I knew right away.”

“You just knew?” The incredulous look that accompanied this question only frustrated Simon further.

“Look, I know how it sounds, ok? I know how it sounds, Adolf Hitler living next door.​​ It’s improbable. I know that. But I swear to God, he’s Hitler. I just know it.”

“Adolf Hitler is dead. He has been dead for a long time. He killed himself.”

Simon laughed. “Really, you think so? You really think so? What, because the Soviets said he killed himself? Those records aren’t reliable.”

“You don’t think that the records of what happened in world war two are reliable?

No,​​ I mean… yes… wait… Argh. You’re putting words into my mouth. I mean, some no, some are not reliable, but of course most are.”

“Just some?” This was said in a voice that rubbed Simon the wrong way.​​ 

“I mean about Hitler. Not in general. I’m just saying that it seems possible that he faked his death and escaped as the Soviets… don’t look at me that way. I know how it sounds. But I’m telling you, he somehow faked his death and he is living next door to me! Why won’t you believe me?”

“I didn’t say I don’t believe you. I’m just confused about this whole thing, and I’d like to make sense of it. Do you know what year Adolf Hitler was born in?”

“He was born April 20th, 1889,” Simon answered.​​ 

“Uhh… you know his birthday offhand? Why is it you know Adolf Hitler’s birthday offhand?”

“I looked it up. I wanted to … don’t give me that look.”

“I’m not. Please answer the question.”

“Argh,” Simon said with a dry throat. He sipped his water and tried to calm himself. “You don’t believe me, I know you don’t believe me. I looked it up. At first I thought, no way this guy could be Hitler, ‘cuz Hitler’s way too old to be alive… but I dunno… People are getting to live older and older, and if the Chancellor of Nazi Germany didn’t have access to life prolonging technology, a technical country like that, who would have? You see what I mean?”

“Oh, I see what you mean very well. How old would you say your neighbor is?”

“I don’t know… I can’t know, that’s my point. He looks like he’s in his sixties.​​ But he’s obviously older since he’s Adolf Hitler.”

“Would you describe your neighbor, please?”

Simon rolled his eyes. “Fine… I don’t know, maybe five foot ten, a hundred and fifty pounds. He’s old, very quiet, keeps to himself, which makes sense because Hitler wouldn’t want to draw attention to himself. He’s very clever.”

“I see. Would you say you can describe any other feature of your neighbor?”

Simon paused to think. “Uh… he has dark hair? Just like Hitler, you know, just like old Adolf.”

“And he’s African-American.” This was stated flatly.​​ 

“Oh… yeah. You see, that’s how clever he is.” Simon tapped his temple with his finger. “He’s really thought this out.”

“I’m sure he did… Mr. Strudelgruber, Simon… How long have you had a shaved head?”

“How long have I…? Oh, that’s right,” Simon Strudelgruber said as he patted his bald head, “the hair. I forgot. A week. I had to shave my head. I got lice from my dog Hermann. Or it was from the other one, the German Shepherd, Heinrich. The shampoos didn’t work.”

“You shave your head… and you have dogs named​​ Heinrich​​ and​​ Hermann…

Simon had a confused look on his face. “Yeah, I do… Why are you asking? They’re named after my two favorite authors, Hermann Hesse and Heinrich Heine. I don’t get…”

“They’re not named after the Nazi leaders Hermann Goering and Heinrich Himmler? And you shaved your head because of lice, not because of​​ any affiliation with a Neo-Nazi party?” This was delivered even more flatly.​​ 

“A member of…? What?” It was then that Simon realized where all these questions had been leading. “What?! No no no! No no no, no you’re so taking that out of-”

The judge banged his gavel as the courtroom erupted.​​ “Mr. Strudelgruber, please answer the questions as asked and refrain from raising your voice or I will hold you in contempt.” Judge Fiddlestein’s hatred was obvious.​​ 

The prosecuting attorney turned to the jury and sighed, before walking back toward the witness’s box to ask his next question as Simon began to panic.

“So, you believe that your neighbor, Mr. Charles Montgomery Davis, an African-American male in his sixties who has lived next door to you for only a month, is Adolf Hitler. You believe that he somehow escaped from Germany as the Soviets were closing in, received some sort of treatment that significantly reduced his age, and moved in next door to you? This is what you’re telling me?”

“Yes, but… that’s not fair. You’re making it seem ridiculous. It could happen, it could happen!” Simon’s face began to flush.​​ 

“Mr. Strudelgruber, do you have any knowledge of how a swastika came to be spray painted on Mr. Davis’s front door?” The prosecutor smiled.

“Yeah, I painted​​ it there.”​​ 

A​​ collective gasp​​ was heard in the courtroom. Simon’s face dropped.​​ 

Oh come on!!! No no no no, that’s not fair, I thought he was Hitler and I was trying to warn everyone that a Nazi lived there!!! No no no!”​​ 

The judge banged his gavel again. “One final​​ warning Mr. Strudelgruber! You will-”

Simon started shouting again over the judge. He’d finally had enough.​​ 

No!​​ ​​ This isn’t fair. I know he’s Hitler. You’re trying to make me look like a skinhead who was terrorizing a black man! I’m not! You don’t understand, you don’t understand! I’m not a skinhead, my dogs had lice… Look, he is Hitler. I’m telling you,​​ he is Hitler. I was trying to warn everyone. Don’t you people get it, don’t you get it? He’s going to kills us all!​​ He’s going to kill us all! LOOK AT HIM!!!”

Every set of eyes in the courtroom turned to Charles Montgomery Davis, the elderly African-American man sitting all alone in the last row. His gnarled arthritic hands rested on the back of the seat in front of him; his​​ sorrowful​​ eyes hung beneath a weakly furrowed brow, betraying the intense sadness he had so bravely tried to suppress, but was unable to; his jutted frame swayed ever so slightly, as he tried valiantly to keep himself upright while a​​ cloud of grief that hung about him at all times​​ oppressed him bitterly. Every heart in the courtroom broke, and all the eyes returned to Simon, filled with anger and outrage. The verdict​​ had yet to be formally passed, but​​ the outcome was obvious to all. ​​ 

Yet no one in the courtroom heard the tiny laugh that came from​​ “Mr.​​ Charles Montgomery​​ Davis”​​ when all the backs were turned to him once again as he muttered, “Schachmatt, mein freund; checkmate.”​​ 

He locked eyes with Simon and smiled.

Simon wept.


The Gilded Lily Pad

The Gilded Lily Pad


“Shut up.”


“I said, shut up!”


“Shut up, shut up, shut up! I’m trying to think. For God’s sake will you let me-”

“Bobby, we’re frogs.”

“I know we’re frogs. I know we’re frogs, Tommy, I know. I am trying to think if you’ll just let me.”

“We got turned into frogs.”

“Yes, I know!”

“I have a cloaca, Bobby. I have a cloaca now.”

“I know, and so do I. If only you hadn’t-”

“I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t know, Tommy. But that’s no excuse.”

“How could I have known?”

“Well, why the hell would it have even occurred to you to laugh at an old woman on the side of the road and call her a gypsy? Why on earth would you even think of that?”

“I was being ironic.”

“How exactly is that ironic?”

“Well I-”

“Don’t tell me. For the love of God don’t tell me. I don’t want to know what goes on inside your head.”

“Fine, Bobby. Fine, be that way if you’re going to be that way. But I didn’t know and it’s not fair for you to blame me.”

“Tommy, we’re sitting on a lily pad in the middle of a pond talking to each other. Blaming you is not the first thing on my- ribbit.”

“Oh my God did you just ribbit?”

“Oh God I just ribitted. Oh my God I- ribbit.”


“Shut up!”

“Hahahaha – ribbit. Holy crap!”

“Ha! See? You just ribbited too! Doesn’t feel so good now does it, Tommy?”

“… well… It kinda did feel good.”

“I… I know. Me too. I liked it.”

Ribbit. Hee hee!”

Ribbit ribbit ribbit.

“This… you know, Bobby… this isn’t so bad.”

“I was thinking the same thing. It’s a nice day out. We’re on a lily pad on the water where it’s cool and moist. Nothing to do but sit here, kick back and relax. Maybe, maybe this isn’t the worst thing that could happen.”

“I know Bobby… but my girlfriend… my girlfriend will leave me. She won’t want to be with a frog. She’ll leave me for good. She’ll find someone else in no time.”

“Yeah, you’re tellin’ me.”

“… What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, I didn’t say nothing, just ignore it. You’ll move on. The heart finds what the hear-”

“Don’t change the subject. What’s that supposed to mean, ‘you’re tellin’ me?”

“Tommy, you need to calm down. I didn’t mean anything by it, I’m just saying, maybe she… already has a few people in mind, or maybe, she maybe, kind of already was seeing… It doesn’t matter.”

“Who told you that?”

“No one.”

“Who the hell told you that?!”

“No one. I- Ok. I slept with her. And I wasn’t the only one. I mean I wasn’t the only one at that time.”

You son of a bitch!! How could you do that to me?! You are such an asshole, Bobby, you are such an asshole!!”

“Well… technically wouldn’t I be a cloaca now?”

“… Hahahahahaha. Ribbit. Oh well… we’re frogs now. I guess none of that matters anymore, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t matter at all. Our old lives are gone. We’re frogs, and that’s that. No more girlfriends, no more bills, no more worries. Just eating flies, ribbiting, and sitting around on a lily pad enjoying ourselves. We have to accept our reality and make the best of it. It’s a gift in a way, it’s a gift.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Bobby, yeah. But… Uh… Does that make us…”

No it does not make us gay, Tommy. We’re just two heterosexual men who got turned into frogs by a gypsy woman and now happen to share a lily pad. And yes, we ribbit. But we are frogs. That’s what we do now as frogs. There is nothing gay about that. Just… just don’t mention the cloaca again…”

“Yeah… Ok.”

“Good. That’s settled.”

“Wait… Bobby… I just thought of something…”


“What if that old gypsy turns us back?”

The Grand Vizier

The Grand Vizier


“I know where you can find him,” she said. Her eyes lowered to the ground.


“Fantastic! Let us go at once and find him,” the intrepid explorer said with a grin.


“I…”​​ she lifted her eyes from the ground. “I don’t know if… you’ll have to be sure that you really want to.”


​​ “Of course I’m sure. I have made it my life’s work to find the grand vizier. I have dedicated a decade and a half to finding him. I have journeyed from one corner of the globe to the other. Why on earth would I stop now?”


A look of compassion flooded her eyes. She returned them to the ground.


“You’re sure? You want to find him no matter what? You wouldn’t maybe consider…” she trailed off.


The explorer stared at the young woman with a look of confusion. What horrifying secret could be so bad that she would want to deny him his life’s purpose?


“I am sure. I will find him wherever he is. Long and hard is the ro-”


“He’s over there,” she said as she pointed her finger.




“He’s right there. Standing there. In the corner.”


The explorer turned around. In the corner stood the grand vizier. The grand vizier stuck his tongue out.


The explorer turned back to the woman.​​ 


“I don’t understand,” he said.


“Well, here’s the thing,” she said. “I assumed that when you came here fifteen years ago and you were asking where the grand vizier was that you were either drunk or a lunatic. Because he was standing right there in the corner, where he always is. I assumed you either saw him and still asked, in which case you were a lunatic, or you didn’t see him and were just drunk or something, so I said in that weird voice, ‘Yes, you must search the world for him.’”


She cleared her throat.


“I didn’t know you were actually an explorer, and since he was standing​​ right there,​​ I didn’t know you’d actually go and search the world for a decade and a half. But when you came​​ back, I realized that you weren’t drunk or crazy and actually did and I felt bad. Really, really bad. ‘Cuz you have​​ spent fifteen years searching for a guy who has been standing in that corner pretty much the entire time.”


“But that’s absurd! Why would a grand vizier be hanging out in the corner of​​ this​​ room?”


She sighed as her arms fell to her sides. “Because he’s not​​ a grand vizier.”


“What? I don’t underst-”


“Dude,” she exclaimed. “You are in a​​ mental asylum.​​ That’s why he’s standing in the corner. Who told you he was a grand vizier? Did he tell you that?”


The explorer’s cheeks flushed red.


“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You get a letter from a guy claiming to be a grand vizier and you go to the return address on the envelope and it’s a​​ mental asylum.​​ Then you talk to me, a​​ patient in a mental asylum​​ saying you’re an ‘explorer’ asking where to find the ‘grand vizier’ while holding up a picture of Larry with a pair of diapers on his head. Larry’s right there in the corner. Where he always is. That’s why I thought you were crazy.”


The explorer stared blankly.​​ 


“No, no, no,” he said as he wiped the sweat from his forehead and adjusted his Stetson hat. “That doesn’t check out at all. One can only conclude that the secret elite international organization the grand vizier informed me he was a member of planted that lookalike and has obviously gotten to you, forcing you to say…”

A Reasonable Explanation

A Reasonable Explanation



“There is an entirely reasonable explanation for this.”​​ His hands came to rest on his chest​​ over his racing heart.

She glared. “How can there….​​ Fine.​​ Ok, fine.​​ Tell me.”

He sighed and began. “I-”

Do not​​ waste my time.” Her finger danced menacingly in front of his face.

“Ok… Here goes… Did you know that crazy glue was invented originally to seal wounds on the battlefield?”

“No… What does that have to​​ do wi-”

“Ok, just hear me out. Just hear me out ok… Ok, so crazy glue…” His gulping was audible to her. “So the etymology of the word crazy ultimately comes from Latin, it mea-”

“No it does not. It does not come from Latin. That is incorrect. It comes from the Teutonic branch of Indo-European, not the Latin branch.​​ Scandinavian, actually.”

Oh God, what are the odds she would know that?!​​ he asked himself.

“And that has nothing to do with why you have a rabbit in your pants,”​​ she declared.

The rabbit continued thumping away. Poor Ginger Rabbit was still stuck in the man’s pants, going nowhere at all.​​ 

He​​ stared blankly. “I’m a magician. Of sorts,” he said.​​ 

The look on her face told him that not only did she not believe him, but she didn’t care.​​ 

“Why do you people keep coming in here and stuffing rabbits down your pants. What, is this some sort of​​ perverted​​ new kick?” she asked indignantly.

His mind began to race.​​ You people… Oh God, do people come in here and stuff rabbits down their pants for some sort of unwholesome thrill? No, no she’ll get the wrong idea, I have to explain…​​ He tried to speak but she cut him off​​ with the menacing finger.

“That’s it, I’m calling the cops.” She turned toward the phone.​​ 

He glanced​​ at the pet store exit. He guessed it was at least twenty​​ feet away. If he ran for it, he might hurt poor Ginger Rabbit. No, best to try to reason this one out.​​ An innocent man has nothing to fear,​​ he told himself.​​ Her hand​​ had yet to touch the phone.

“Wait, wait, just hear me out. Trust me, you’ll be apologizing to me after you … let me finish… uhh… Ok,​​ from the​​ very​​ beginning… When sperm penetrates​​ an​​ ovary, the cells…”