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Saturday, August 14, 2010

101-Word Stupor -- Grocery Store Torture

Keywords: Scone, Linebacker, Aphrodisiac 

Helen stops setting groceries on the conveyer belt. She stares at the magazine cover. That's me, she thinks. Well, not anymore. She glances down at her own 45-year old linebacker body, sniffs, and returns her gaze to the airbrushed blond with the high-arched cheeks. Helen grabs the bag of scones from the checker's hand. "Not those," she says, trying to exude the same Aphrodisiac Charm as the girl on the cover. I used to look like that, she thinks. I used to— "Paper or plastic, ma'am." Ma'am. Ma'am. When did people start calling me— "Do you need help to your car?"

Keyword Preview for Tomorrow: Sweatshirt, Cowboy, Vitriol


  1. It was in him all along. Growing up, Charlie’s dad was known for his appreciation for delivering pain. Every lesson his dad sent came with the brute force of his inner-linebacker. Hitting Charlie, or any of his three brothers for that matter, seemed to bring intense joy to their dad, like an opiate aphrodisiac cocktail, served in a chocolate banana scone, with sprinkles.

    It was definitely in him all along, so it only made sense when he savagely beat his dad to death with a hammer, in the backyard, under the same tree that he was beaten countless times before.

  2. Yeesh, guys. Heavy.

    Here's mine:


    Saturday mornings are the aphrodisiac of Sunday.

    Time slows down somehow between the hours of 5 and 9am. The sun rises later. The air stays crisper longer. The sheets and blankets are suddenly the perfect combination of coolness, softness, and weight. The comforting smell of warm nutty coffee and sweet blueberry scones wafts over the entire neighborhood.

    And then come the buzzing sounds of lawnmowers and weedeaters wielded by bronzed linebackers that seduce the air with the aromatic flavors of fresh cut grass and fallen flowers, teasing and wooing all five senses at once.

    But Sunday mornings. Nothing short of. Heaven.