Cornflake

We’d been high stepping through the green thicket of Sandot’s farm a mere twenty minutes when we saw him.

Poor thing all tangled and wrangled round that tree. Sandot said he must have been there at least two days now. Two days! We couldn’t let such a cute fatigued face languish toward a droopy death. So we set out on a K-9 reconnaissance mission.

Our four-legged friend had apparently hurdled through the outstretched arms of a pimply-assed tree grasping for opposite ends of the sky, when he snagged his chain-linked leash round the tree’s trousers, instantly ensnaring himself in an uncomfortably smelly situation. So the furry little frolicker’s afternoon of carefree prancing quickly turned into a struggle for doggy survival.

We cautiously approached the petrified creature who seemed skeptical of our intentions. He sat nervously, legs folded under belly, growling in fear and glaring at our every step as we crept through the muddy copse.

We poured fresh water into a skinny bamboo bowl and extended it to our shivering friend. After sniffing for signs of anthrax, he slowly lapped a few gulps into his parched puppy mouth as we seized his leash from the relentless grasp of that stubborn tree.

Now that we’d gained his thirst-quenching trust, we thought to feed the dog. So I offered him some cereal. Our new friend sniffed the gift again—although this time with significantly less skepticism—then devoured each nutritious flake with slobbering gratitude.

The dog stretched his sore, dilapidated legs for the first time in two days and then followed us back up the trail with a gaping smile. We christened him “Cornflake”.

Betsy Blue

It’s the tenth frame.
Andy is beating John by one point. One pin.
Your average Joe might shit his socks in this situation.
But John is more composed than Mozart.
(Plus he’s not even wearing any socks).

John rises from his red plastic bucket seat one big toe at a time.
He slurps down his last gulp of Johnny Walker
And scrupulously situates the empty glass on his glossy red throne.
Licking his lips with whiskey delight
John whisks around and gives Andy the stink eye.
He doesn’t really know what the stink eye is
But John hopes he has struck fear in the heart of his opponent.
(With any luck Andy won’t misinterpret John’s taunting as a retort to his flatulence).

This is the moment of truth.
John struts over to the conveyor belt.
He reaches for Betsy Blue—
A darling beauty with the fiberglass curves of a Laotian Queen.
John presses Betsy to his lips and gives her a smack of whiskey breath.
He licks his lips again
Savoring the flavor of Betsy’s bowling alley lip-gloss.
John takes three intoxicated strides forward
And lets Betsy fly…

Game over.