Kindest regards and our warmest welcome to the third issue of Amazingly Short Stories, which aims to provide a look into a day in the life of a certain Mr. H. N. Anderson, whose cynical outlook on life probably began shortly after his house burned down when he was 15 years old. He has held a very unforgiving attitude towards the world ever since.
Fuck You Guys, I'm Leaving
I ripped open the package, loaded the batteries into my cassette player, and then discarded the packaging on my floor. My guests observed this and began to ash their cigarettes on my bed and proceed to butt them on the carpet. I figured there would be a similar sense of comfort when I would go to visit their own dwellings individually, but my assumptions were quite wrong. The thing that really got to me about this, though, was that my battery garbage was totally harmless; the sort of thing I could pick up later when I was in the mood. Instead I had to clean these horrendous burns and stains out of the carpet. Those ungrateful little fucks.
I was cleaning the dog shit out of the carpet last night and I came across a fresh cigarette burn, and by God did I get fucking furious. I work hard for my things, all day long, toiling for meager payment in return for what sort of treatment? To constantly be applying obnoxious chemicals to my carpet and getting scrubbing fingers from spending a little bit too much quality time with the sponge?
This is getting out of hand. I can tolerate it no longer. I know which guest is the culprit, because the other is presently out of town. I head over to his place and light up a smoke. “Dude, you can't smoke inside here...” So I start pissing on the carpet. Boy, is he getting angry now. That man does not look happy at all. He looks downright shocked. He is giving me a very concerned expression. I butt out the cigarette on his carpet, and then finish up urinating to put out the remnants of smoke. “I hope you have learned a valuable lesson,” I say as I exit.
Nothing Compares to Your Company
I feel ridiculous. Here I am, standing in the rain without an umbrella. My hair is getting wet. I look like a fucking asshole.
James “Jelly” Sucrose is idling up to me with his flashy umbrella, casually eying my figure while feeding his own sense of pity for my miserable condition as he inches closer to my presence.
“Do you want some shelter?” I look at Jelly and I ask one simple question of myself: 'What would this man do if he were dictator of the world?' I imagined a world that Jelly would rule with an iron fist: nobody would be allowed to wear clothes, except those that Jelly deemed unattractive; and Jelly would likely demand to be called by some outrageous title like 'Most Gracious Global Emperor of Sucrose' and make everyone swear allegiance to his likeness before eating breakfast.
“Fuck no, Jelly Sucrose.”
My Job Sucks
I'm not really sure what I sell anymore, but I definitely know that I've sold out.
Today I was given the task of writing a new advertising slogan for a product being released by the assholes I work for, Maconnaise™ (Macaroni & Cheese-Flavored Mayonnaise). I sat at my desk, drinking cup of filter coffee after another until my tongue began to go black and my heart was beating faster than was comfortable for me – at all. I started to lose my sense of focus and concentration, and a raft of suppressed memories were all rushing to my head in the same moment. I fixated on one which earned me a criminal record.
One fateful November day, I was taking a bag of trash to the garbage can in the backyard when I needed to go to the bathroom. I dropped the bag of disposables and fled next door to the McRae’s, where I came across the Mrs.’ famed garden, displaying strawberries, tomatoes and cucumbers. Mrs. McRae, a 63-year-old widow whose college drop-out son was currently living in the same residence, was preparing dinner—turkey and mashed potatoes, a classic Thanksgiving meal—in the kitchen. The garden was viewable from the kitchen assuming the curtains were up, which they were. There I was, pissing all over the roots of a tomato plant, when Mrs. McRae stormed outside, very upset, asking me what I had done.
That's when it came to me: Maconnaise: It's Not Even Fresh™. This is one way to earn $11,500.
