by Bill Mickleless


Did you ever want to jump into a woman’s cleavage?


It wasn’t until I went into the men’s room at Grand Central Station that I realized I had put my pants on backwards, that is to say the fly was in the back which made it awkward, especially with a bunch of men watching and wondering what the hell I was doing trying to pee with my hands tugging at the back of my pants.


It’s late summer in the canyons of Manhattan and the sun cannot find the streets — it is so damn cold down here.


A comical guy sent an outrageously funny letter to an ailing friend with emphysema who upon reading the letter laughed so much he had a coughing fit and couldn’t regain his breath and died, and when his body was discovered he was still holding the funny guy’s letter and when the funny guy went to his friend’s funeral he was snubbed and scorned by all the mourners who figured the funny guy was the cause of death.


A talented but unpublished writer was said throughout his life by friends and everybody who knew him to be always working on a novel and when he died his obituary did not mention the books he had written for the simple reason they had never been published and the obit ended by saying that at the time of his death he was working on a novel.


What is Nothing you ask and I say Nothing is the absence of Everything, in other words without Everything there is Nothing which leads one of course to the question what is Everything? but it is not as simple as saying Everything is the absence of Nothing which it may be but Everything is more complex than that although one can never be sure about Anything.


I transmogrified myself into a jumping worm and jumped into an earthy woman’s cleavage and wriggled my way down into the oh so warm depths of delight.


I am in my study reading ‘The Art of War’ by Sun Tzu. I hear from the living room the comforting purr of the vacuum cleaner. Ah, a wife in the house.


You cannot put a woolen sweater over a corduroy shirt. It goes against the grain, so to speak, the basic and fundamental law of conflicting fabrics.


There are pieces of my life, large slices of time that I cannot remember which my wife with whom I shared most of the forgotten memorable memories and remembered non memories remembers all of them in intricate detail which is amazing to me.


I have spent more New Year’s Days so hungover than I cannot remember how many, in fact I cannot remember any.


An empty beer can on the coffee table trembles in the rush of air from the electric fan.


Old age makes gargoyles of us all.


The glassblower who inhaled. End of story.


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