why god why

"For God's sake, do something." That's what the bumper sticker read. It was a Christian ministry's clever advertising campaign, expressing what some people usually say when taking the lord's name in vain but reappropriating it as an innocuous—playful, even—slogan.

But he couldn't get past its typical meaning; its lyrical meaning. He pictured a priest or minister or pastor or some such clergyman standing before his flock, screaming at them to do something, for God's sake!!! For Christ's sake! To not just sit there.

The little priest inside of him seemed to be saying the exact same.

"Do something! Do something! Do something!" It became a sort of chant.

He was conflicted where religion was concerned, especially organized religion.

What he needed was a sign. It had to be really obvious. None of the old, oh, "a person who looks like Jesus comes to him and says he needs to do this or that." He'd been there. It was a dead end street.

"I just want your giant hand to come out of the sky, and I want it to point at how you want me to proceed," he prayed. "I don't care how any of this is blasphemous or could be construed as blasphemous. I just want a really overt sign. A sign that's your hand possibly gesturing at what you want me to do."

To his amazement, his prayer was answered at once. God's giant hand descended from the heavens. It picked up a nearby boulder, cocked its giant, vaguely disembodied arm and skipped the boulder as a stone against the surface of a nearby lake. The giant hand pointed after the boulder-stone it had skipped. It vigorously pointed.

"What the hell does that mean?" the man said. "What the hell?"

the cooler

What is the cooler? I'm not at liberty to say.

I don't know, anyhow. Don't want to know, ever.

But they're putting me in the cooler, because they say I need to "cool down."

I told them I didn't want to go. Not in.

When they said, we think you need to cool down so we're putting you in the cooler, I did not say O.K.; I did not say sure thing; I did not say that's where I'd like to be put so put me there, soon as you can?

I began clawing and scratching the wood nearest me, for sensation. Sensation to fill in the void of no sense. It reminded me of how it feels to breathe coarse air. The air that I hate! I hated the clawing-wood sensation, too, but that didn't mean I did not need it.

Then they took my wood, knowing full well the ill it would do me.

They once more affirmed they will be putting me in the cooler, because time is now for me "to cool jets," to "be cool," to "hop on the first train to Coldsville."

Coldsville is the town in which they store the cooler. It's the town's claim to fame. The cooler has inspired festivals, celebrating all things the cooler in Coldsville.

They sent me on my way with my ticket. I was expected to disembark at the Coldsville train station by noon. They wanted my feet on the Coldsville train station platform by then or else you-know-what will be in the cards, in store.

And after I disembark and leave the train station is when they'll put me in the cooler, even though I don't want to go in.

So I climbed my train car's steps, found my seat. It was cushioned, a nice thing for my sciatica. Nice, that is, until there was the upturn of hot bile in back of my throat. I felt bilious and suddenly un-cushioned. I dreamed of violence for the little while I was asleep, after the train had begun to take us over the mountains and through the fields.

Roused from sleep by a not-too-subtle erection, my gaze wandered out of the window and the world passing there before me. I envisioned faces on the people-shaped blurs whizzing by and imagined them delighted at not having to suffer my fate. The faces looked gray to me, not sick but simple gray visions of empty humanity. The faces looked like they just wanted to go about their lives.

That is all I remember of my train ride, though, not too long after I was arrived at Coldsville.

No one was there to meet me. I decided then to wander away. Maybe see some sights, killing time.

The first thing I wanted was some sauce, because I was famished. Train rides make me famished. Maybe you are able to live without any sauce, but not me. I searched for a sauce stand, hopefully one that served warm sauce on a bun. I knew that in the cooler there would be no sauce, at least none at the optimum temperature, room temperature. I wanted to enjoy sauce while I could.

I eventually found a sauce salesperson. He did not have buns of any kind. He didn't even have a sesame-seed bun, the least of all buns. I was crestfallen. Horribly so. And yet, the truth was I had expected this in Coldsville. Having no other option, I purchased his bunless, substandard sauce.

All the storefronts were only storefronts. There was nothing inside. There wasn't even empty space. It was packed solid and full. Full of nothing. So you couldn't get in there, even if you'd wanted to. I had my sauce, though, and was content to be outside. I walked along the sidewalk eating my sauce with a clear plastic spoon. The fun is in getting to lick the spoon. That's the best.

I would see if they would let me keep my spoon in the cooler. I knew that they would not, as they knew the ill it would do me to lose it.They always knew just how to do me ill.

But I didn't have time to worry.

I saw the steel up there. The steel led directly to the cooler, and I knew it was time to go in. Into that cooler.

penalty

"Penalty, unnecessary attempted murder," the referee voiced the call following his entering the living room, whereupon the murderer was attempting to murder his victim. The referee had thrown a yellow flag into the room seconds earlier, from the opposite side of the lighted kitchen's threshold.

The victim was cowering on the living room's hardwood floor and the murderer stood over him, dagger held pendulously from his fingertips, as though to say "let's wait and let's see." The murderer eyed the referee curiously.

The referee glared at the murderer, a squinting "try me" glare, waiting for some kind of effect. Maybe the murderer would comically deride the referee in a way that parodies what coaches will sometimes do on the sidelines of big games, when such penalties are often crucial to the big game's outcome.

The murderer plunged his weapon into the victim's chest, easily puncturing the victim's heart.

The referee threw a second yellow flag.

garage sales

"Hello, this is a garage sale?"

"I'm sorry?"

"This," the prospective patron makes swirling and grabby pantomime at the garage owner's garage. "This is a garage sale?"

"You mean? What…?" the garage owner looks around for anyone else nearby. Then the question is suddenly understood. "No, no I just a second ago opened my garage. Nothing is for sale. Where'd you come from?"

"I was waiting."

"No, I meant—well, for what?"

"For you to open the garage door, and for you to possibly allow me to inspect your wares. I have been here awhile, possibly all night. I laid in wait in that bush, the one with the broken twigs and that is now malformed from my climbing into and out of it."

"I know. I saw you. You really climbed out of there, coughing up leaves," The garage owner thinks the prospective patron seemed to be bursting from a novelty birthday cake, except that this was much more startling. The garage owner's heart hurt now, after his being startled.The garage owner is upset about the bush. It is his bush, and it is ruined. "But I meant where do you live? Who is your caretaker? That's what I actually meant earlier when I said 'Where'd you come from?'"

"I will buy this for a dollar."

"That's my car."

"And this for an additional dollar."

"That's my arm."

"And, l will buy this for yet one more dollar."

"That's my face."

"I am in the market for sooo many things today!"

"My heart still hurts," the garage owner says, realizing that it isn't just his heart that hurt but his entire chest, too. And he is sweaty and feeling faint. "Oh no, I am having another heart attack, and you're the only one near! Search for help!" The garage owner keels over. Instead of searching for help the prospective patron puts three dollars in the garage owner's left breast pocket. Picks up a saw from the garage owner's workbench. He shakes his head. Puts the saw down. Takes out an additional dollar and puts it with the others in the man's left breast pocket. He picks up the prone garage owner and sets him entirely in the trunk. Takes the garage owner's keys from the garage owner's right pant pocket. He drives away, saying "Zooooooom" as he goes.

++

"And that is how I came into possession of my new used car and this man not in the best health, Nephew," the prospective patron tells an open bag of chaff.

nice, new & white t-shirts we've now got

"Ok, let's go out and try out our nice white t-shirts, which are new because we just got them in that three pack. Let's seriously take our nice white t-shirts out for a first spin. Cruise the streets in them to show them off. Everyone we see will see."

"Who gets the third? You wear one and I wear one but who gets the third?"

"Let's not worry about that just yet. Let's go out and wear our nice new white t-shirts and see what people say as we walk around wearing them. We can gauge public opinion of them and practice at keeping them nice and white."

"I cannot fucking wait. Seriously, why are we not out there, already driving in your car with our nice and new and white t-shirts on for all the world to eventually see? Why are we not?"

++

"We totally were driven by me in my car to this strip mall that you love."

"I love this strip mall but do you think people are noticing our nice, new and white t-shirts to the utmost? Or what?"

"No, I do not. Let's adjourn to elsewhere so that our shirts might be better appreciated for their white."

++

"Here we both are at the wholesale warehouse at which I am a member and at which I do the shopping for both of us, because you are not a member."

"We are such great friends and always have been!"

"And now we have the nice, new t-shirts to prove it! To show the world, those guys are best friends! They're dressed almost exactly the same!"

"My one wish is that our shirts never get stained, so we can remain the same best friends in our nice, new and white t-shirts forever."

"I think I agree with that and I also think people who see us cannot get enough of what they are seeing. It does not get whiter than this, folks! Feast your eyes on it! Drink it up while you can because eventually we will be going home in our car to our beds and you won't have the luxury of us in our nice white t-shirts anymore."

"I'm not saying people are jealous, because who could know for sure, but they seem really jealous of our t-shirts, the whiteness especially."

"Oh, totally yes."

++

"It's great to be home after an evening of parading around in our nice, new and white t-shirts. It's also nice to be so snug in my twin bed adjacent to your twin bed."

"The best thing about our nice, new and white t-shirts is we can wear them to bed with us, which we have. I feel today has been a total success and I will sleep contented and happy for it. I look forward to continued narration in unconsciousness."

"I will sleep and experience my usual nightmares."