I work on the top floors of a highrise in downtown Atlanta. From my bird’s eye view, I see the most amazing weather unfolding around me.
From blue skies…
to blanketing fog…
a storm rolling in…
and lightning’s strike…
a rare Atlanta snow storm…
to the dazzling Fall nights and bright city lights…
and brilliant sunsets drenching the sky in color.
It’s been such an incredible opportunity to see light and wind and water change the world around me.
I noticed yesterday that my cats were sleeping on the sofa. No giant surprise about the sleep. They went pro several years ago.
The notable part is that they were sleeping next to each other.
As a rule, they don’t get a long so well. They tolerate each other but there’s no love lost and a paw smack here and there tends to escalate into a rolling cat fight around 3 a.m. They are incredibly jealous and take it personally if I pet or play with the other.
Once I ceased reeling from the unexpected détente, it occurred to me how lovely they looked, striped in shadow from afternoon sun streaming through the blinds.
I recalled the assignment from Photography 101 involved “Playing with Light.” I like to think the defined darkness amid the brilliant sunlight illuminates their characters; juxtaposed sweetness and affection against the shadow of a sometimes fierce and feral nature.
The moment, as most beauty, was fleeting. Waking at the sound of my camera, Brodie posed briefly for the second shot, then reached out, popped Keegan on the nose and took off running – the fragile peace destroyed.
I should have known to let sleeping cats lie.
Yay! It’s my turn to comment on the most unusual name I’ve ever heard. Thank you so much, Nerd in the Brain, for tagging me. In turn, I would like to tag Cheney at Blog Apocolypse. Being in the hospitality biz, I know she’s heard some awesome names!
I’m from the South; Alabama to be precise and I can say with all confidence that nutty stuff “don’t get much deeper on the ground” than it gets around there. I grew up in a society where it’s perfectly normal to give your baby a first name that’s the last name of someone important (or rich) in your family. I went to school with a flock of dainty little girls with forenames like Thompson, Finley and Davis, and I’m pretty sure at some point between us my sister and I dated a Hamilton, a Jackson and a Tucker or two.
That said, I have heard some very unusual names in my life, but the craziest of all, I think, would be my great-grandparents’ neighbor, Mr. Opelika. The Opelika’s are an old, old Alabama family (the town of Opelika, near Auburn University, was named after them).
My Daddy used to tell me stories about when he was a little boy and would visit his Nanna and Papoo at their place in the country (the bizarre monikers Southerners give their grandparents being entirely different post). He and the other kids living up and down the dirt road would try to spy on Mr. Opelika, who had become grumpy and anti-social after Mrs. Opelika passed away.
From what I’ve heard, he was a pretty colorful ol’ coot.
He hated dogs, so instead he kept a flock of guinea hens in his front yard to warn him of strangers. The hens screamed and honked at everything that moved and terrorized the little boys with their sharp beaks and vindictive natures.
Mr. Opelika was fond of firearms and had an old cap-and-ball pistol, which he would fire at midnight every New Year’s Eve, “to scare off the devil.”
He had a huge colony of bees and collected their honey, which he begrudgingly doled out to the surrounding families at Christmas time.
The absolute best thing about Mr. Opelika?
His first name was Balthazar.
No one called him Balthazar, of course; they called him Henry, which was his middle name. Or in my Dad’s case, he was always to be called Mr. Opelika. Had he not been so grumpy and reclusive, it would have been “Mr. Henry,” since he was a neighbor; with that respectful familiarity Southern children once used to address adult friends of their family.
I think Balthazar Henry Opelika may be the most fabulous name I have ever heard. Should I become a celebrity and travel incognito or should I one day turn to writing porn, that will be my alias.
Those peppers who have participated in the fun thus far:
Markbialczak
Silver Threading
The Chatter Blog
MeWhoAmI
Lindaghill
Lucy at the Excessive Gardener
DebraB at Debra Books
Mindful Digressions
Fish of Gold
Snoskred
Crawford’s Creative Corner
Love Marriage Worms
Chasing Destino
Nerd in the Brain
When I was a little kid, I was captivated by children’s mystery/adventure books. I inhaled every single Nancy Drew, Bobbsey Twins, Tom Swift and Hardy Boys book in existence. I flew through the slightly more obscure Trixie Beldon series and even dabbled with the Happy Hollisters. Oh, the capers I captured and the crimes I circumvented – if only vicariously in my wee girl brain. If you were an preteen detective (or family of detectives, or just got into mischief a lot) and could find it, fix it, uncover it or discover it, I was your avaricious and devoted fan.
(And can I begin to tell you how much I was in love with Jonny Quest?!)
Therefore I draw upon my vast and intensive training as an adolescent gumshoe to completely justify my obsession with Googleing the answer to every single question that crosses my mind.
I am simply sleuthing. Old New school.
Photography101’s challenge today: The Natural World
Capture a moment, big or small, and pay attention to the lines and curves produced by nature.
A sudden moment, walking around a bend in the road near my Mom-in-Law’s house in Augusta, spellbound as magical flights of clouds and colors cloaked the sunset with twilight, as the chill of evening settled in.
A sky-flung veil of heliotrope brocade mirrored cloth of gold in the narrow lake, trimmed by the black lace of trees and buttoned by a diamond moon.
Way back in 4th grade, we were asked to memorize a poem from our English book and recite it in front of the class. Being nine-years old and horse-mad, I chose Robert Frost’s “Stopping through the Woods on a Snowy Evening,” chiefly because he acknowledged his “little horse” and its thoughts about the change in journey.
Yeah, I know. Prepubescent girl-child logic.
The picture in my English book next to the poem looked a lot like this, which I thought was really cool and eerie and bewitching and added to my fascination.
In high school, a slightly older and wiser me stumbled upon Robert Frost’s poetry again and once more fell in love; this time not for visuals of patient ponies but for the lean and lovely lyricism of his words.
During one of those long, wonderfully ramble-y conversations I had with my husband when we first met, we talked about poetry and I remember rather shyly quoting my favorite of all Frost’s poems, “Fire and Ice.”
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
A few months later, on my birthday, he surprised me with an original copy of the 1920 Christmas Edition Harper’s Magazine in which “Fire and Ice” was first published, in a shadow box frame he made himself.
I remember being so blown away by the sweetness and thoughtfulness of the gesture. It brought to my mind the last lines of another of my favorite poems by Frost, “The Rose Family.”
The dear only knows
what will next prove a rose.
You, of course, are a rose –
But were always a rose.
One of this week’s photo challenges is to show a photo that represents what “connection” means to you.
We took this in Rosemary beach last May, on one of our nightly sunset walks. To me, it shows the connection between sky, land and water, the connection between light and dark and of course, the connection between me and my husband.
November 10, 2014
Thanks so much for the tag, Cheney!
Like Cheney, I had a “pass-around” story in when I was younger. Mine was in High School, where my bestie Laura and I exchanged “The Further Adventures of the Little White Duck” during AP English.
And also like Cheney, I’m a newbie and super honored to be part of Nano Poblano!
I would like to toss the baton to LindaGHill at Life in Progress if she’ll catch it!
I hope I get all this right…my part’s at the bottom, after the “****.”
The Blog Hop rules are simple:
Add a new post on your blog with these rules, the story so far, and who’s been tagged.
2. Title and tag the post as Nano Poblano Blog Hop Story.
3. Add at least two sentences to the story.
4. Pick another Pepper to tag. (Preferably one who hasn’t already been tagged).
5. Add a link to your chosen Pepper’s About page to the Tagged list below.
And now here’s the story:
Edward walked into the hotel lobby just as the sun began to light up the city. He dragged a large, heavy trunk to the reception desk and rang the bell
As he waited for someone to answer the bell, he tried to calm his breathing and wiped his sweaty brow with his coat sleeve. He heard a soft thud from the trunk and jerked his head towards it. His eyes had just a touch of fear in them as he listened for any other sounds. He never meant for things to go this far.
When the concierge emerged for the door behind the registration desk Edward stood up straight and tug on the lapel of his coat and says, “Er.” The concierge huffs and says, “Yes, may I help you?” Edward clears his voice and stutters out, “Mr. Maddox told me to deliver this trunk here for him.” Before the concierge could respond Edward abruptly turns and quickly runs out the door.
“What the …,” the concierge half-yelled as Edward cleared the door and ran down the street of still-waking businesses.
The concierge, Randy, was now more than a little put out. First, he had been interrupted while playing Candy Crush at the end of a dull night on the desk. Now, he was having to deal with miscreants leaving junk in the lobby. He hoped his boss didn’t walk in at that moment and chew him out for it.
Well, Randy thought, “I guess I can prop my feet up on this at the desk.” He slowly, but carefully as not to ruin the flooring, started to drag the trunk into the office.
As Randy dragged the Victorian-era trunk with brown leather-bound maple paneling and shiny brass studs naied inot the trim, he noticed that the weight wasn’t distributed evenly. Grunting when he tried to lift the heavy luggate over a snag in the office carpet, he finally maneuvered the large object into position. This would be pefect for resting his tired fee, so he plopped his posterior into the cushy high-backed chair and threw his feet up into the light side of the trunk.
Still bitter about his Candy Crush high score getting interrupted, he decided to pull up Plants vs. Zombies instead. Circulation returning to his legs, he vowed silently that no zombies would eat his brains tonight. He’s seen “Walking Dead.” They weren’t getting him or his sunflowers. Maybe it was thinking about zombies, perhaps it was thinking about how immobile he was if the zombie apocalypse hit, it could have even been the soup he made for dinner, but something didn’t sit well with him.
And then he heard and felt a thud coming from inside the trunk.
He whipped his feet off the trunk so fast, one of this shoes went flying across the room, knocking over a coffee cup. Dregs oozed out from between the cracks of his boss’s favourite mug.
“Damn it,” Randy exclaimed momentarily forgetting the sounds from inside the container. And then the screaming started.
The day clark, Hank, had just entered the hotel lobby when he heard the screams coming from the office behind the reception desk. He ran fast as he could into the small office and saw Randy slumped in the cushy office chair, wide-eyed and breathing heavily, and wearing only one shoe. Randy’s face was ashen gray and he was literally shaking.
Hank saw the large, antique trunk, its lid open and some sort of thick liquid inside. “What the hell, Randy?” he asked. “What was all that screaming about? And what is that trunk doing here?”
Randy extended a shaky hand toward the open trunk and pointed. All he could say was “something.” He said it several times, his eyes filled with fear.
Hank looked carefully at the trunk and then walked slowly closer to it. That’s when he noticed rancid smell and a trail of dark liquid leading from the old trunk out of the office and into the hotel lobby.
At precisely the moment that Hank’s addled brain (which, franky, was a rather slow-moving machine in the smoothest of situations) caught up to the reality of what he was witnessing, the sounds of pandemonium crashed into the ears of both men. Screams seeped in under the doors. The metallic crunches and thuds of cars unwillingly having their shapes rearranged filtered through the lobby windows. Hank imagined that he heard bones snapping and blood dripping amidst the chaos, but certainly that wasn’t possible. Was it? Hank locked eyes with Randy, both faces reflecting terror to the other. What had been in the box? More importantly, would they be held responsible? Given his usual weasel-like demeanor, Hank made a brave decision: He would go have a peek at the street to get a better idea of what he had gotten himself into. Inhaling deeply for courage and balance, he shifted his foot to begin the short walk back to the lobby doors. And that’s when he noticed it … he was standing directly in a puddle of the sticky fluid from the trunk, and it was working its way through every opening of his shoe.
All of a sudden, both of his feet started to burn like he had just finished walking on hot coals. He certainly was getting paid enough to deal with such crazy shenanigans. He should have been a lawyer, just like his mother wanted him to be.
A quick detour to the mens room appeared to be in order, and whatever lurked outside the lobby doors would just have to wait. Leaving a trail of shoes and socks and rancid ooze behind him, Hank pushed through the washroom door, noticed that the cuffs of his pants were ruined and decided to drop those too.
He hopped up to the counter, turned the taps on full blast and plopped both of his burning feet under the gushing, cooling water. It immediately turned a sickly greenish purple. One of the cubicle doors opened and a stunned person stopped dead to take in the sight of a disheveled boxer-clad day clerk effectively occupying two of the sinks, decided against washing his hands just this once, and hurriedly scuttled sideways to the exit. Hank heard the door open, he heard the door close, and in between over the thudding of his own heart, he heard the muffled sound of chaos from the streets.
Outside the hotel, meanwhile, Detective Dick Richards swore loudly and then crammed into his mouth the last third of that cream-filled donut that had distracted him enough to slam into the school bus stopped in front of him, causing the city bus following too closely behind him to make an unmarked-car sammich.
All the school kiddies looked fine, but they were bellowing on the sidewalk outside the hotel, the same joint that he’d been casing undercover for weeks now, waiting for those clerk clowns Randy and Hank to take the trunk from that middle man Eddie. Cripers. Those clerks watched so much HBO they probably thought that trunk held zombies or vampires or something. Dick Richards wanted to clean up this mess outside so he could get back to his binoculars and watch for the next player in the game to show up.
Detective Richards was squirming out the passenger side window and was hanging upside down as Detective Sargent Beverly Hills approached his accordioned vehicle. Dick would know those gams anywhere. Bev had the best legs in the Department, although Andy Highwater on bicycle patrol came in second with his long, tanned….
“What the hell are you doing Detective Richards? You are required to stay put while the fire fighters use the “jaws of life” to remove you from this mess.”
“I’m fine, Bev.”
Dick lost his purchase on the car and dropped like a stone further out the window, slamming his head on the curb, effectively knocking himself out. Meanwhile, a HAZMAT Team showed up to contend with the dark ooze that trailed from the hotel. An uniformed officer ran over to Beverly and informed her that a dead man had been found in the men’s washroom of the hotel and he appeared to be one of the desk clerks. An EMT was tending to the revived Detective Richards, so the Detective Sargent followed the Officer into the hotel and to the washroom, relieved to leave the pandemonium outside. Beverly stopped in the washroom doorway, stunned by what she saw.
It was not possible, was it? Given her line of work, she had seen many corpses. But this one was different; this corpse was her ex-husband Hank. “Oh, Hank. What did you get yourself into?” she moaned softly to herself. Despite their divorce, she had no hard feelings toward Hank. He had always been a nice man. He was just so…dim-witted. Ending up as a murder victim in a hotel bathroom was proof, as far as she was concerned, of his general ineptness.
The hardest part of this job was never knowing when you would meet a corpse you recognised.
Slim chance, but there was Hank, with his pale cheeks pressed up against the mirror. A noticeable crack in the glass, overshadowed only by the putrid stench of…what WAS that in the air?
Beverly began to step closer, instead turned away covering her face. A ringtone echoed, and she fumbled for her phone. As she accepted the call, she realised it was not her ringtone but, ‘Everyday I’m Shuffling’, Hank’s favourite song when they were still together.
She hesitated, ‘…Hello?’
‘Hello Bev…you never read my poem’ – the call ended and a text came through.
Beverly sank to her knees frantically trying to open the text with her now trembling fingers, the officer wondering what this idiot woman was doing, tapped her shoulder. Beverly glanced at him and gestured to the phone, ‘It’s from…him’, she mumbled – pointing at the corpse of her ex, ‘I can’t read it, we must read it!’
The officer – being a gentleman – read:
‘You held me with my fears
With a gaze of distant years
Your face reflected in the glass
I breathed in, the scent of arsine
You tried to help me stand,
Then I saw within your hand
Your axe about to thwack
The mirror will expose your crack.’
Heads down, engrossed in the text, they almost didn’t see the dark reflection in the mirror. They looked up just in time to dodge the large axe that seemed to be heading straight towards them. When they turned around, the black cloaked figure was rushing out of the restroom, laughing maniacally saying “objects in the mirror are closer than they appear”. Bev and the officer looked at one another quizzically, was it a clue? What seemed most odd to Bev was the voice of the cloaked man. It sounded just like Hank, but how could that be when she was looking at Hank’s dead body, laid out on the bathroom counter before her? It was becoming clear that this wasn’t a normal murder scene and they were dealing with a lot more than contaminated ooze.
(My bit) ….
Bev’s face felt cool like a slither of ice had been brushed across it, crimson fingertips rose to wipe away a slick of almost slimy sweat from her brow as the other grasped the mobile. Legs weak, trembled like a baby doe as she attempted to rise not initially noticing the officer’s thick hairy topped hands that went to aid her. His greedy digits apparently needed to slide under one ass cheek, stealing a squeeze before hoisting up as the other paw wrapped around her slender upper arm brushing rather too keenly against freshly starched cotton covered breast.
Though Bev was in shock, she detested this Officer, his actions causing a reaction akin to touching an electric wire as delicate hands rose with purpose, palms flat slamming in to his portly chest, pushing with determination and anger. Neat little heals slipped amongst the acrid slime on the floor as shrill voice shouted “Get your grubby hands OFF me Officer you dirty DOG!” as whhooooooosh, feet went out from underneath the enraged patron of order.
Slender body crumpled and bent like a piece of old parchment as limbs flailed in attempt to block the obvious conclusion of her action. The accused Officer did as instructed, moving away, only to see the saucy morsel crash to the floor, raven locks billowing over slippery floor as a ‘CRACK’ of skull echoed over the tiled floor.
“OH BOLLOCKS” could be heard loudly from the restroom. “SHE’S DEAD THE SILLY BITCH” followed with a tone of indignance at the inconvenience of it all. He crouched down just to double check, muttering “what a waste.” Thick set knuckles tugged the mobile from her grasp, standing to stretch as leisurely as a rise from a good nights slumber, cracking a few joints before proceeding to leave.
“FORENSICS” he bellowed, doing a quick dart back of body avoiding being face slammed by the opening bathroom door as a group of officials rushed in. “WATCH THE FLOOR” he yelled, tucking the mobile in to his trouser pocket, leaving and murmuring “you know what to do”.
Heavy footsteps slowed a moment as a “buzz buzz” was felt against his hip. The phone gyrated like a limber pilates teacher as sweaty fingers lifted it out, swiping to open the message “I am watching you, you filthy pig faced man, don’t ever touch my ass again!”
The Officers mouth resembled a breath starved goldfish momentarily as he turned, retreating to pop his head back in the restroom.
“She is dead isn’t she?” he asked the gang of forensics.
“Oh yes man, head split open like a melon” one geeky spotty male answered.
A sigh of relief escaped stubble ridden lips as he turned to leave feeling a slither of cold, as cold as ice pass his face.
Blinking repeatedly, a form appeared, floating before his eyes; it was Bev as if made of glass, or water, shimmering almost ethereal like, turning and advancing towards him. He glanced entranced by the pure beauty of what was before him, oblivious as she opened her mouth as if to scream. A sound not heard by others catapulted through his brain, as if splitting it in two, eyes burning and bulging as hands pushed either side of his head as if to hold it together.
Time slowed, everyone slowed, sounds of voices became blurred, movements merged one in to the other as the silhouette of glassy form left.
“This is officially the worst migraine,” thought the officer.
He looked in the mirror in order to fix his hat. It felt tighter than usual. Funny things happened to him whenever the migraines made their presence known.
As he adjusted his hat, he caught a glimpse of Bev’s silouette in the mirror. By the time he saw the hammer in Bev’s hand, it was too late. He was right though. This was the worst migraine the officer would ever have.
***
Hours later, Detective Dick Richards knelt just outside the restroom door and put a hand over his nose to try to stifle the thick stench of blood emanating from the room. Now there were five bodies in the restroom, and a trail of bloody foot prints leading down the hall, into the lobby, and out to the street.
Richards took out his cell phone and dialed an old, familiar number. It only had three digits. All of them were the same.
“Yesssssss?” a voice hissed on the other end of the line.
“The plan’s been foiled again. The contents of the trunk are… missing. At least five people are dead. Five good people.”
“And you think I care about thisssssss?”
“No, of course not. But it’s my job to keep you informed. What’s my next move, boss?”
“Since the contents of the trunk have been misplaced, His Excellence will not be pleassssssed.”
“Clearly.” Detective Richards fidgeted, wondering what exactly His Excellence would come up with as punishment this time. Another trip into The Pit? Richards shuddered to think of the time he accidentally misplaced the twelve virgins to be ritually sacrificed.
“Don’t worry, Richardsssss. The Great and Powerful Cortoogoo has wonderful plans for you. Now, it is time to move on to the next step. You must acquire The Key.”
****
Tiffany Van Helsing, Demon Hunter, hated early mornings with all her heart. She especially hated really early mornings. She also hated cold weather and field work a whole lot and when all three combined as they had this morning, it was extra-special annoying.
She supposed it was all part of paying her dues as the youngest member of the infamous clan of Van Helsings, who had been running a wildy successful Supernatural Critter Disposal company for the past 100 plus years, since Old Gramps Van Helsing first took a cross to Count Dracula in the 1890s. It still wasn’t fair, though. Her older sister, Morgana, not only got the the Van Helsing raven curls, height and slender but super-humanly strong build, but she got all the plum assignments too, tracking only the highest-level VIP demons in their swanky jet-set, private club and Monte Carlo yacht environment. Tiffany got five feet of ordinariness, mousy hair, a tendency to put on a few extra that time of the month, and all the crappy jobs. Oh yeah, and she inherited Grandma’s ability to see ghosts. Big whoop.
She had brushed past five spirits already as she gingerly picked her way through the fragile dawn light over the loose branches and slippery leaves of the deserted forest. Damn it, she hated the 5-inch heel over-the-knee platform boots she had to wear on hunting expeditions too. “I mean really,” she bitched to herself for the umpteenth time, “who the hell tracks demons in a boots and a leather mini skirt when it’s 40 degrees outside?” She’d been pushing to update the mandatory uniform for years, but Morgana loved it, and Morgana always got her way. What she would give for some tennies and warm fleecy sweatpants. “Oh well,” she sighed, absent-mindedly tugging the skirt leather over her exposed butt cheek. “Once I corner this evil detective, stop him from opening a portal from the underworld and releasing hellspawn on the unsuspecting populace, I should have time for a Pumpkin Spice Latte from that new Starbucks across from the office.”
She reached the top of the hill, and crouched suddenly, cursing under her breath as her stiletto heel snapped a twig in the chilly silence. She could see her target, Detective Dick Richards, below her in the faint light, all dolled up in the Standard Issue Robe and Pointy Hood, etching a pentagram in the loose dirt of the hollow. He had already set out a bunch of candles and she could smell the stench of burning incense. Looked like a basic Key Invocation to her; shouldn’t take long to wrap this up. Then she could get on to some warm pumpkin-spiked goodness and much more comfy shoes.
Who has contributed so far?
Fish of Gold
To Breathe Is To Write
Silently Heard Once
Not a Punk Rocker
Amusing Nonsense
Inspiration in Progress (LindaGHill)
Mindful Digressions
Nerd in the Brain
Knocked Over By a Feather
Breathing Space
markbialczak.com
Lucy at the Excessive Gardener
Debra at Booking It
Idiot Writer at Idiot writing
Storm Chaser at Parenting a Teenage Tornado
Eclectic Odds and Sods
Destino at Chasing Destino
Cheney at Blog Apocalypse
Kim at Drunk on Life
More Team Pepper Members can be found on the blog roll here:
http://markbialczak.com/2014/11/07/one-week-down-nano-poblano-many-great-posts-written-a-blog-roll/
UPDATE: 11.10.14
Oops, my bad – I tagged Linda and she’s already contributed through her other blog.
Love Marriage Worms, would you like to take it from here?
We visited my parents this weekend, and I was fortunate to get a chance to see my sister and her daughter as well.
I was showing my little niece Olivia some pictures from my phone: a hodgepodge of work events, odd things that catch my eye and of course, random sunset shots whenever I can get them. She pointed to a photo taken from the place I work, which is a 3-story glass-walled dining complex on the 71st floor of an Atlanta highrise.
“That’s the Jedi Academy.” she proudly announced.
I choked up, suddenly so stricken with sadness that my place of employment wasn’t in fact, the Jedi Academy.
“No, honey. It’s not the academy, it’s just a restaurant.” I told her, but I’m not sure that she believed me.
Later, I shared this with my Dad, who said to me, “The only answer when someone asks if you work at the Jedi Academy, is ‘Yes, you are correct. And may the force be with you.'”
Back home in Atlanta that night, we walked over to the neighborhood Sunday Food Truck party, held in the large park several streets over from our house. We brought a bottle of wine and a blanket with us and enjoyed some very delicious pizza from Dominic’s on the nearby lawn.
Other neighbors settled nearby with their chairs and blankets and wafts of their conversation drifted our way.
“Bacon is definitely the gateway meat.” one fellow loudly announced.
I didn’t hear the rest, but I didn’t need to. That statement truly shines, as is, free of any context.
What have you heard amusing lately?
We are visiting my parents this weekend in Chelsea, Alabama and I ended up going to the store with my husband and my dad to pick up some stuff my mom needed. My father, who is left-handed, noticed that the guy in front of him at the register was writing out a check with his left hand (you never see checks at a grocery store anymore in Atlanta.)
My dad addressed the guy jovially: “So, us left-handers will take over the world someday, won’t we!?!”
The guy smiled and said, “You know, I think you’re right. It’s kinda funny you mention, but I actually work at a very small company, and all ten of us employees are left-handed.”
I said, “Ohmigod, that’s kinda sinister.
Have you ever had a joke or story fall completely flat?
Drunk on Life 