That's the Way the Cookie Crumbles

Ron lifted the Oreo Cookie up to the household god Nabisco.  He knew that it was his best chance to win the heart of Ann-Jemima, the one woman in all of Wal-Mart Proper who had captured his heart of hearts. 

“O thou great and creamy Nabisco, god of love and all things sweet:  please capture for me the heart of Ann-Jemima,” Ron said prayerfully.

Suddenly the Oreo crumbled into a million pieces without any cream filling to be seen anywhere.  Was this an omen of goodness?  Had he captured the god’s divine favor?

Ron looked and saw a shadow move across the wall. 

“What in the name of beta-carotene?”

Moving across the wall was a rather reddish looking Tribble.  Now Ron was clearly confused.  The missing cream from the Oreo portended something good and foreshadowed the coming of good fortune.  But this Tribble?  What was the significance of the Tribble? 

“Gotcha,” grunted Ron as he grabbed the Tribble.  He moved the Tribble around in his hands uncertain what to do with it, or what he was actually looking for?   Then he saw something on seeming importance.  In the fur of the Tribble it appeared to clearly say with white fur against the red: “Keep Calm and Live Long and Prosper!”

Ron let out a whoop of adulation.  “Praise Nabisco!”

Surely the god had looked down on Ron with extreme and bountiful favor.  Now Ann-Jemima would surely feel the same about him as he did for her.

Ron punched in Ann-Jemina’s number on his cell phone.  Voicemail!  Ron started to grow perturbed and vexed within himself.  Seriously, he thought to himself, does no one answer their cell phone anymore?  He had a thought.  “Guess I’ll just send her a text then,” he whispered to himself.

Within a few minutes his cell phone vibrated.  He looked at his cell phone.  His cell phone’s screen read: “Message failed to send.”

He was about to press resend when the doorbell rang.  Ron ran to the door and opened it.

Two men dressed in white shirts and black ties were standing outside his door.

“Hello kind sir,” began one of the two men.  “We represent the Cult of the Flying Spaghetti Monster.  We would love to discuss the virtues of becoming the willful servants of the Flying Spaghetti Monster.  Please, allow us to demonstrate the mutual benefits of becoming the meatball."

Ron slammed the door in their face as he muttered, “I don’t have time for this crap.”

Once more he tried to press resend text but now his landline started to ring. 

“Hello,” Ron answered as he picked up the receiver.

“Excuse me, sir, but have you ever considered pre-need funeral services?”

“No,” Ron bellowed as he slammed down the phone.

Finally he was able to press resend text.  BINGO!

Ann-Jemima held the ceremonial Tampon over Ron’s head as Ron grasped her arm with his hand.  Since time in memoriam this had been the way in which two lovers would manifest their mutual affection towards each other.   The ceremonial Tampon was the symbol of granting the male the key to the female’s femininity and sexuality.  By grasping the arm the male was pantomiming his uniting and bonding himself to the female.

“Only one thing is needed to complete the ceremony,” said Ann-Jemima with resolution.

 “Yes, my radiant Skittle?”

“We need the ceremonial syrup,” she said dreamily.

“But my fair Skittle, where will I find this ceremonial syrup?”

“In the breakfast aisle.  Aisle number four, sir.”

Ron blinked.  And then said slowly, “Excuse me?”

“Sir, you’ll find syrup in aisle number four.”

“Umm…I don’t need any syrup.”

“Well what do you need?  Maybe I can help you find it.”

Ron looked around he was at the Wal-Mart Superstore.  What had he come to Wal-Mart for?  He opened his right hand and saw a crumpled piece of paper.  He unfolded the paper carefully.  It read: “Don’t forget to pick up the new Ann-Jemima CD “SHOUTING PANCAKES!!!”

“Doh!”

“I’m sorry sir, did you need help finding cookie dough,” asked a bewildered Wal-Mart Clerk.

“No, I need to find the Music section.”

“Oh, that’s over in aisle seven next to the video games.”

“Th-thanks,” said Ron as he rushed over to aisle seven. 

As he reached Aisle seven he opened his other hand and noticed a bottle of pills.  "That’s it no more of these stupid Dream Maker Pills," Ron muttered to himself.   He tossed the bottle of pills on the floor and then went to look for the SHOUTING PANCAKES CD.

Nails, Steering Wheels, and Andromeda

Nails, Steering Wheels, and Andromeda

By Peter Merz

Son (that's what my mom liked to call me), remember when

Uncle Fred kept placing nails under your grandpa's car?

Mom  asked (probably rhetorically, 'cause I'm quite sure

yes or no, she would repeat it down to the last comma and period).

It's a story I've heard over and over

at least 3.5 quadrillion times (and believe me, that's no exaggeration!)-

I wonder what color grandpa's steering wheel was…

Whether black, or brown, or maybe even periwinkle (hey, you never know-

after all, he was always a little bit unusual- yeh kinda like me).

Suddenly, little David burst in with his once blonde hair,

now dyed three shades of orange!

Brilliantly, I used this to my maximum advantage

to quietly egress, sneaking softly outside-

filled with an incurable wanderlust beneath the broken streetlight,

Gazing in awe and wonder at Andromeda.

Fugitive Busted by Facebook

Fugitive busted by Facebook

Assistant U.S. Attorney Michael Scoville displays part of the Facebook page, and an enlarged profile photo, of fugitive Maxi Sopo on Tuesday in Seattle. -- PHOTO: AP SEATTLE - MAXI Sopo was living the dream of a fugitive abroad, kicking back on the beaches of Cancun by day, partying in the clubs by night. Then he did two things that are never a good idea when you're on the run from authorities: He started posting Facebook updates about how much fun he was having - and added a former Justice Department official to his list of friends.

By Peter Merz

Oh, what folly, Maxi Sopo!

Broadcasting escapades in Cancun’s glow.

On the lam, yet living like a king,

Beach by day, by night the dance floors ring.

But, alas, he flubbed his cloak and dagger,

Adding friends to Facebook with a swagger.

Among them, a former Justice hand,

Not the wisest move for a fugitive so grand.

Did he not see, in his sunlit revel,

That social media could be the devil?

A digital trail, a breadcrumb so wide,

He might as well have called the FBI to confide.

Now, forget the tales of wanted men of might,

He’s the star of “America’s Least Bright.”

Grab the popcorn, dim the light,

Tonight’s rerun is his oversight.

Maxi Sopo, the lesson is thus:

Silence is golden when you’re on a bus,

From the law, in shadows you must dwell,

Not in Facebook updates, where tales do tell.

I LIKE THE SOUND OF THAT

By Peter Merz

"So then we are agreed."

"Aye, four years then."

"Get your family and effects and meet me in the square in an hour."

Sean MacDonald was a "Redemptioner" from across the pond. Well from Northern Ireland to be more precise. He had come to the New Country with high hopes and aspirations of creating a new existence in the land of freedom and opportunity. And if that meant be basically an indentured servant for a span of four years, well then that was a small price to pay.

"You're late," said Harold Zimmerman. Harold was a stout and muscular man who stood head and shoulders above most who had come to call Bethlehem, Pennsylvania home. Zimmerman was a carpenter by trade and had bought MacDonald's services due to an increased workload. Harold had immigrated to the colony of Pennsylvania in early 1740's and had become a leader and pillar in the community of Bethlehem.

"Aye, I beg your forgiveness, sir. This place, she is'na Tipperary. I had a devil of a time finding my way around. But fear na' I will make it my foremost priority to learn the ins and outs before week's end," apologized MacDonald with much use of hand gestures and body language. MacDonald was regally slim and stood at 5'10" tall. He had a high Scottish forehead and was a very handsome man of 33 years of age. He and his family were a mere drop in the bucket of families who had left Ireland not just because of the hope of financial reversals, but also because of religious persecution. The MacDonald's were devout Presbyterians and in a heavily Catholic Ireland it had been a struggle to survive under the hand of such heavy religious prejudice. Sean Macdonald had tried his best while still residing in Tipperary to make the best of such a nearly hostile living situation. "For the love of the Saints," MacDonald had tried to tell his Irish neighbors, "The ground that our fathers ploughed are both the same – and the places we pray, they just have different names. Cut me and I bleed!" But he might as well have been speaking to a wall of stone.

"Alright, MacDonald," came Zimmerman's voice interrupting MacDonald's harsh memories of Ireland. "Get yourself and yours into the wagon and let's be off."

MacDonald composed himself and guided his family into the awaiting wagon. Best to let the dead bury the dead, he thought to himself. His eyes fell upon a newspaper in the wagon. July 4, 1755 the date read. "July 4th," he muttered under his breath. "I like the sound of that. It has a nice ring to it."

"Did you have a question?"

"Nay, Mr. Zimmerman. Just thinking aloud."

The wagon rode off into the sunset towards Harold Zimmerman's homestead, carrying with it a man willing to trade four years of his life for a chance at freedom and prosperity. The newspaper that MacDonald had studied with such vigor, fell from the wagon.

The following morning a traveling tinkerer happened upon the newspaper. "July 4th!" The Tinkerer mused excitedly. "I much like the sound of that. It has a ring of excitement. Revolutionary! Yes, very revolutionary."

Episode at Journey’s End

Episode at Journey’s End

By Peter Merz

Peering through the mists of time,

thoughts collide, dreams stand ajar.

I catch but a glimpse

of

the

voyage

that awaits --

from galaxy’s end burns a star!

Are our fates and futures set, or

can

I

alter it?

Can I bend

the

rainbow

that

holds

my

destiny?

Escape the grip

of predetermined motion?

And Through sheer introspect

dig down deep to the best in me?

Planned

coincidence

sows her seeds of doubt.

Hard to decipher in this fog,

as I set out on an Odyssey of the soul --

keeping clear of three-headed dogs.

Shadows of Chimera haunt my waking dreams;

I feel the bite of the Winter of Discontent,

as I cower before the trials of Hercules:

who am I

 to run the gauntlet

with the gods even for a moment?

Jaded by the journey, have I lost more than I’ve gained?

I’m trying to find shelter from this acid rain…

Am I lost or am I reborn?

Have I been weakened

or have I found a new strength?

And as I reach journey’s end,

I wonder for a moment…for many moments…

How to go on with the rest of my days --

Until hidden inertia starts me off again.

You're In My Heart

NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

By Peter Merz

Iago Uziel rubbed his hands together briskly in the cool Iberian night air, as he walked softly through the town square of Baza. The faint thunder of horses' hooves echoed in the distance and Iago doubled, nay, tripled his pace seemingly in response. He happened upon a secluded alleyway and hurriedly darted down the alleyway – befriending the shadows as the clock-tower rang eleven times. Just as he had become almost completely absorbed by the alleyway's night-shadows, twenty or so horses galloped by.

Suddenly Iago felt a hand grip his right arm, "El Diablo take you!" Iago immediately unsheathed an espada ropera[1] from beneath his cloak. "I am not undisciplined in the art of sword-wielding, bellaco![2]"

"Peace, Iago," cried the shadowy stranger in a harsh whisper. "You would do well to keep your voice at an even keel."

"You ass, Alonso," Iago replied in a half-annoyed whisper. "Don't be sneaking up on a fellow like that." He returned his blade back to its sheath.

Alonso let out a muffled chortle. "Isabella's curs are long past, I believe. Albeit, in times like these caution can be an earnest ally and its overuse may well save one from facing inquisition," said Alonso soberly.

"I hate it when you make a sensible point, Alonso," said Iago reluctantly. "I can't believe that I'm in fear of being hunted down like some sort of common criminal. These are distressing times that we live in, Alonso." Iago heaved a heavy sigh.

"These are trying times that make for unusual allies. Never on my life did I think I would fall in with a Jew," Alonso said wistfully.

"You know, there was a time when I would take great offense at that kind of remark, my friend," replied Iago. "But then I could say the same about me falling in with a Christian like you, Alonso."

"It's well past getting late, Iago," said Alonso, changing the subject. "Why don't you come with me? I know a place where we can wait out the night until the sun graces us again."

Iago Uziel was in his late thirties, a man of proud Jewish descent, he had black hair and a well-trimmed mustache and beard – and piercing blue eyes. Iago had a fairly muscular build about him and was known to be hot-tempered at times. He wore a gray travelers cloak, white linen sleeves peeked out from his dark-gray tunic, and he sported a pair of beige breeches complimented by a pair of black leather boots. All in all he had found that he could move in and out of crowds quite easily without worry of being singled out as a Jew. But even that was not a guarantee that Queen Isabella's troops would not take notice of him.

Alonso Garcia was a fairly new convert to the Protestant wing of Christianity, who had already felt the reprisals from kith and kin for turning his back on the faith of his family. Be that as it may, he had learned to forge new alliances and had eked out an existence that had turned out to be more than just a little profitable. Now a man in his late twenties, he had amassed a small fortune (a fortune that was dwindling of late due to this damnable Inquisition business of the Queen). He was tall and regally slim, standing at just an inch or two over six feet; he had brooding brown eyes and had shoulder length jet-black hair with a thin mustache and goatee. He shunned the use of cloaks as he found them to be quite restrictive and as such wore a simple teal tunic over a white shirt, an almost off-white pair of breeches and black leather boots.

The Spanish Inquisition that had singled out non-Catholics for imprisonment, exile, or worse had caused quite a stir in all of Granada and not just the village of Baza – in truth the Inquisition had had an extraordinary affect on the whole Iberian Peninsula. Protestant Christians, Jews, and whatever remnant of Muslims still remained on the peninsula had nearly overnight become marked men, women, and children. It was not enough for Queen Isabella to have finally crushed and rooted out the Moors but she had to take things even further now with hunting down anyone who did not swear allegiance to the Pope and Rome.

Iago awoke with a start. There was a loud commotion outside, what in God's good heaven is going on, he asked himself inwardly. Iago quickly dressed himself and then started to look for his host. Where has Alonso run off too, he wondered. He searched the whole of the house, but there was no sign or trace of Alonso. Not liking the prospects of this situation, Iago made for one of the backdoor's, but just as he reached to turn the handle on the door – he saw the door handle turn and the door creaked open.

"Alonso, I've been searching high and low for you. Where have you been," asked a perturbed Iago.

"I am sorry, amigo[3]," said Alonso as he walked in the door followed by nine men all donning black hoods and cloaks.

"Who are these men," asked Iago growing quite worried.

"I am sorry amigo. This is nothing personal. It's just business. "

"Wh-what? What are you talking about, Alonso," asked an alarmed Iago.

The hooded men moved in on Iago and bound him with ropes. "Again my amigo, it's nothing personal. This is just a matter of business. I was made an offer I couldn't refuse," Alonso said matter-of-factly.

Iago struggled and the hooded strangers began to lead him away. "Wait? You betrayed me? But why, Alonso? Why? And don't you dare say it's just business or so help me—"

"You are in no position to do anything, amigo. But I'm not totally heartless. Exile isn't such a bad idea, yes?"

"But you're a Protestant bastard! They should be taking you, too," exclaimed an enraged Iago.

"Indeed. They would be doing that for sure. But these are not the queen's men. They are Mohammed's men," Alonso said smugly with a wink.

"This isn't over, Alonso! You hear me? I don't know how but I will repay you for this," shouted Iago as the hooded men forced him out the backdoor.

"Perhaps, Iago, perhaps. But if you think about it I'm really doing you a favor. Exile from Spain really is in your best interest. Jews have no place here anymore. My time is fading, too, no doubt. But at least if I can increase my worth in what little time I have left on this peninsula, I will have an easier go at starting over somewhere else," said Alonso justifying his underhanded tactics. He then added, "And in the end is slavery to the Mohammedeans such a bad lot?"

"Slavery? What have you done? What have you done?!!"

"Saved you and made me a profit at the same time, nothing more and nothing less."

Alonso sat in an ottoman with his feet up. He was counting out the silver that the Mohammedeans had paid him for Iago. "It really was a shame about poor, Iago," he muttered, "I was growing rather fond of him. But business is business."

Suddenly there was a loud knock at the front door. Alonso jumped up, a little wary, but he went to answer the door nonetheless. As the door opened he saw a dozen of the queen's troops outside his door.

"Alonso Garcia. I have orders from Queen Isabella to bring you in for inquisition," said the official in the lead.

"For 'tis sport to have the engineer hoist by his own petard; and it shall go hard," Alonso said in a taut whisper, sad with irony.

---

[1] The espada ropera was a sword developed in the mid-15^th century in Spain; literally sword of the robe – a forerunner in Spain of the rapier.

[2] An unprincipled, crafty fellow.

[3] Friend.