“Guess our ages,” the clearly slightly oldest one says. “Start with our widdle baby.” I’d chosen the remotest nook of a bar that I choose daily at whatever hour my house gets cold, to bear in mind the end of my most painful, lonely, robust bond, which I’d since smoothly prolonged only another year. I compare the tiny bald face of the massive one, the baby, to the faces on both sides of him. “How old am I?” asks the one by the wilted plastic palm tree. “Here’s a hint: It’s one of our birthdays tonight. You may be off

We demand the presence of Marge Simpson—no family, no security—this Friday, 10am, at the Mt. Splashmore front entrance, right when they open the gates. A day of thrill and adventure for Marge and whichever suitor she will choose, her one true Husband and her, culminating in a weekend at Rancho Relaxo—any Marge fan worth their salt remembers Marge’s spa getaway. But the irresponsibilities of Homer brought her back to the rags of the household. This server, once the Husband’s chosen, will self-destruct—no rubbing it in, no rushing to screenshot what’s different about this hotel breakfast from their morning before. Those

I was nursing a beer at Hoosier’s Bar in Cooke City, Montana, when he walked in. Little guy, about my age. Mid-twenties. He had blond dreadlocks and a scruffy goatee. There were a few people sitting at tables, but except for me, the bar was empty.  With a dozen-or-so stools to choose from, Dreadlocks sat two down from me.  I’d been working on my beer for most of a Chiefs/Colts game. The fourth quarter was about to start. Until then, the only words I’d heard the bartender say were, “We’re out of that,” to the waitress and, “Drink up, we

Bet you’re wondering, aren’t you, your eminence – how’d a broad like this even afford Tom Ford. Bespoke menswear. Real tailoring. You know, back in the glory days, when I still had my own body, it was this exact blend, this exact cut I had on when they swore me in. Hand to Gosh. I’ll be the first to admit, Mona’s a lot slimmer than I was, but you’re looking at a sixtyfive-year-old man in here. Have a heart, come on. I’m sorry she couldn’t be here to explain this herself. No respect for an exorcism. Not a Catholic, that