When St. Peter came to Irvine High School, he bid the people to “give an account of the hope that is in you.” It fell to Bob Hamelin to introduce to the world “apologia via placard” … “Bob Hamelin,” St. Peter said. “Why do you present to me a placard that reads ‘Bob Hamelin’”? “Because,” Bob Hamelin said, “You told me to account for the hope that is in me. Bob Hamelin is in me. Thus, ergo, and therefore: Bob Hamelin is the hope in me. Q.E.D.” Bob Hamelin wandered off, and the slapping and fapping of his weathered leather … Continue reading Bob Hamelin Accounts for the Joy within
The god he does not believe in has never been more absent. It is not like the time when he thought he saw his father, who had been dead for 20 years, standing in his kitchen in the middle of the night. But something — an unnameable something — has grown restless and turned back. It is nothing he could impart, nothing that even has a name. But the continental-drift of a gnaw is enough to tear notches into the strong hearts of oaks rooted forever to the floor of the world. His library is but a burnt offering to … Continue reading The sad baseball frog
Milwaukee’s Brewers once shared a league with the Tigers of Detroit. They don’t anymore, but sometimes, under cover of night, they still play each other in the darkened blind alleys of the American Midwest. Third-generation Poles part their bungalow curtains and watch. Across all such contests, whether sanctioned or questionable, the Brewers are 1,005-0 against the Tigers. To what is their rousing success against the Jungle Cats O’ Michy-Gandy owing? Crippling alcoholism. Witness this revealing pen-and-ink dispatch: The Tigers, miserable sots one and all, are unable to resist the foggy inveiglements of the tipple. “Firewater, as fresh as it is … Continue reading How to Defeat the Detroit Tigers
Author’s note: If you haven’t already, you are invited to partake of the Banknotes Harper origin story. “Then I guess,” concluded Banknotes Harper from across the conference table shaped like bad-ass tits, “we can’t agree to a sale price.” “I suppose not,” drawled Col. Harland Sanders. “The Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise will remain mine, as it should be.” “So it would seem,” said Banknotes Harper. “Perhaps I’ll console myself by instead purchasing …” Banknotes Harper stood, and his erection flipped the table. Colonel Sanders stood, too, flaccid as silly, floppy pancakes. “You wouldn’t dare,” Colonel Sanders trailed off. “By purchasing, … Continue reading Banknotes Harper Versus Colonel Sanders for Good and All
Congratulations. Great news, registered user. You won a pizza. Did you realize you won a pizza. Did you. Congratulations. Your pizza will arrive shortly. Congratulations. We’re excited for you. We’re also excited about the no-hitter that entitled you to this pizza. Did you see the final out. It was something. Always is under those circumstances. Hope you enjoy the pizza. Have you ordered with us before. We hope you’ll consider doing business with us again. Next time, would you consider actually paying for our goods and services. Trying to run a business here. We’re franchised. Did you know that. So … Continue reading Congratulations.
Young Kevin Youkilis is the only varsity athlete to be bullied by an asthmatic National Merit Semi-Finalist. Young Kevin Youkilis uses flashcards to remind him of his deepest regrets and of the specific ways in which he will one day show them all. Young Kevin Youkilis will not be voted “Most Handsome” or “Most Likely to Succeed”; Young Kevin Youkilis, in an informal and unsanctioned straw poll, will be voted “Most Likely to Try So Hard It’s Almost Adorable.” Young Kevin Youkilis, if he’s honest with himself, is probably too old to identify so strongly with the full complement of … Continue reading Young Kevin Youkilis
Adrian Beltre crested the hill in front of Rucker. He scanned the tree-line for the white throat of the buck. That, or the eyes, was what you usually saw first. Nothing moved except the leaves, which seemed to rustle themselves. There was no wind. His next step was on a mossy stone which slid underfoot. He fell on his hip. He dropped his rifle and rolled on his back. “Goddammit,” he muttered. “You OK, old man?” grinned Rucker as he clasped his forearm to pull him up. “Better let me blaze the trail.” After Adrian Beltre got on his … Continue reading Minimalist short fiction starring Adrian Beltre, II