Wednesday, September 19, 2007

~Obgyny by Jess Wundrun~

There are days that I really do like being the chief OB/GYN at Bethesda. I've a crack staff (that's one of my favorite jokes) but there are the other times, the sad times.

I know what you are thinking but that's not what I'm talking about today. No. Today is Lynne Cheney's exam day. I couldn't force any of my underlings to do it, and her husband has been known to shoot. It fell to me.

Did you see the x-ray? She doesn't need a doctor, she needs a cleaning lady and an Orkin man.

Please don't tell I told. Confidentiality dictates.

***We just couldn't help ourselves.***

~Damn Drum by Cynthia~

"Why do I always end up next to the damn drum?"

He blows a few more notes, squelching the need to cover his ears. The signal comes for him to take a solo, a short one because revelers have short attention spans.

As he plays, he looks down at the open instrument cases. He tries to take a fast count of the money collecting in the banged up receptacles but there's too much movement. When his solo ends, no one notices.

He keeps playing, backing another's riff. As the musical notes slide into each other, his eyes shift to the right and he sees his wife and children. They're all looking at him, clapping to the beat and smiling.

"I will get us out of this hell hole," he vows. "I will make them smile even more."

~Helpful Citizen by Cynthia~

The local news camera zoomed in for a close up.

"Hi. I'm Joe Catalano. I've been working for the city for over thirty years. Now I deliver documents for people trying to get into our low income housing."

"Joe," said the new (and in her mind, better) reporter, "what's the best part about your job?"

"Well, that's easy. When I see the kids going into their apartment and yelling about who gets what bedroom."

Hoping to get a better sound bite, the reporter responds, "That's very nice. What's the worst part of your job?"

Joe stops pushing the cart filled with hopes. He looks down, takes a deep breath, and, ignoring the camera, looks at the playground filled with children, looks at the bedroom windows covered with cartoon characters, and then looks directly at the camera.

"I help to get them in here. I help. A bad part is when a kid I helped goes bad. The worst part is when someone's kid is just sleeping and a bullet goes through their window."

The reporter says it's a wrap.

"Thanks, Joe. This will air tomorrow on the 11 o'clock newscast."

Joe nods. He looks up at the windows. He hopes this will help.

***We're certain it helped.***

~The Castle by Comrade Kevin~

The refugees arrived on our shores in a slow trickle which quickly became a raging flood. When enough had established a solid presence on the island, they decided to painstakingly reconstruct all the amenities of the Old Country. Stonemasons, forced to transform their occupation into building houses for the wealthy elite, now used their talents in the manner in which they had been originally taught.

What they produced was a none-too-shabby facsimile of the castle that had for centuries defended their home nation from invasion. Everyone, regardless of age or stature, participated in scooping dirt from the soil--digging deep enough into the ground to fashion a suitable moat.

~Wrestling Erections by Comrade Kevin~

I don't think I'm the only person who thinks that wrestling is an extremely homoerotic sport: two men in tight, form fitting pants-- pants that prominently leave nothing to the imagination regarding private parts; two men grunting, sweating, and attempting to wrest the other into a compromising position on the floor.

Nor do I think I'm the only one who finds the sight of wrestling comical. I picture two homosexual space aliens clad in polyester attempting to throw each other to the ground. Their bizarrely shaped helmets function as antennae.

I wonder why wrestling hasn't become a spectator sport for gay men in the way that the WNBA is for gay women. I have friends who can't watch the action without getting an erection.

***It's the lack of fashion sense, Kevin, we're sure of it.***

~Satterfield by Cynthia~

That's my great-grandfather, fourth from the left in the top row. The newspaper didn't know his first name but it was James. James Satterfield.
When I was a child I called him Pop Jim. I didn't know him but my grandmother, his daughter, told us a bit about his life. Looking back, his life was interesting but when I heard the stories he was an embarrassment.
For most of his life he was on the run. Running from the law, women who trusted him with their hearts and futures, and men who trusted him with their money. His "business deals" involved whiskey, card games and, let's say, manly pleasures.
James met my great-grandmother, Gertrude, while he was moving from one town to another. She was sitting on her daddy's front porch cooling off after tending chickens and cows, washing clothes and helping her mama cook the big mid-day meal.
James walked by, covered in dust and stinking to the heavens, and he thought, "Here's a free dinner."
He asked for a glass of water, and she invited him to come through the gate. As James watched Gertrude gracefully and kindly get his water, he knew he was done running.
He stayed at her daddy's place, sleeping in the barn, for six months. He worked as hard as the family. He fell in love with Gertrude. Gertrude fell in love with James. Daddy gave his permission for them to marry.
They bought a small farm in the next town over. They had six children - four boys and two girls. Every so often James would think about his past and shake his head. He got lucky on the run but he still missed the whiskey.
My grandmother told me this photo was taken in town with some of his neighbors. It was taken after the men grudgingly attended church. She told me the women back then may not have been vocal about their wants and needs but they usually got what they wanted. The women just had a way.
She also told me that though her father was a good man and a hard worker, she always felt there was something dangerous about him.
Just look at his right hand. He's instinctively feeling for his gun.

~The Fool by Diane~

We met in Central Park. I was out for a morning run, and he was walking two of the cutest dogs I had ever seen. I’d find out later he had his wedding ring slipped off and tucked it into the pocket of his pants.
It’s been two years now and I can’t seem to get out.--despite knowing what I am doing is not right, despite knowing that there is not just a wife but also a child, and despite knowing I am not the only one. He doesn’t buy me expensive presents or take me out for extravagant dinners and order a bottle of the finest wine. He is not movie-star handsome, and he doesn’t have an exotic job that has him traveling the world. All in all he could really be anybody’s husband. Except, of course, he couldn’t be mine.

~Cheering! by Xegbp~

He had made it to the pinnacle of his career. He was the President of the most powerful country in the world. He commanded one of the strongest armies ever to exsist. He had it all. Or so it seemed, but underneath it all he was a simple man. He liked hanging out with his friends and being on his ranch. When he looked in the mirror he did not recognize the old man who looked back. God, this job was way more stressful then anyone told him it would be. He really just wished he could go back to that time in his life when he had been the happiest. Cheering! Cheering! Cheering!

***A cheer for you.***

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

From the Management

***We promise, NEW CONTESTS TOMORROW!***