SPOTLIGHT: Mania, Mirth, Melancholy by David Creighton

Clock Watcher

4:51 – I’m getting nothing done.
4:52 – I don’t know what to do.
4:53 – There’s some place I’d rather be.
4:44 – I’m staring at the door.
4:55 – Am I still alive?
4:56 – The clock plays tricks.
4:57 – I’d rather be in Heaven.
4:58 – It’s times like this I hate.
4:59 – I’m hardly feeling fine.
5:00 – I’m out of here.

TV Died

I raised chickens when I was young

When you think of killing chickens

You typically imagine chopping their entire head off

Then watching the body run or spasm

But we were more modern

We hung the bird from a rusty old swing set

And drove a pointed blade directly into their brain

Ending thinking, not by brute force

But with a single, surgical, strike to the brain



Noticeably predictable

Noticeably unoriginal

Characteristically unoriginal

Characteristically bland

Understandably bland

Understandably ignored

Consistently ignored

Consistently devalued

Marketability devalued

Marketability unfeasible

Unsurprisingly unfeasible

Unsurprisingly predictable


The Roaches

Everyone at the Bridge Street Hostel agreed the roaches were a problem. But most of the volunteers felt it was something they could live with. That is, until they learned to talk.

No one was quite sure how the roaches learned language. There were a lot of wild theories, from aliens to pesticides to black magic. That, however, was not the real issue.

You see, the Bridge Street Hostel was run by a collective. All it took to become a voting member was two hours of volunteer work a week. The newly intelligent roaches had no problem cleaning up garbage, so they easily fulfilled that minimum. And, since no one had ever anticipated this issue, there was nothing in the bylaws that specified members had to be human beings.

At the very next collective meeting, the roaches outnumbered the humans by several thousand to one.

Thus, it was easy for them to force a vote of non-confidence in the board of directors and replace them with roach candidates.

And that is how the Bridge Street Hostel became, literally, a roach motel. 

Big Buts

I love you, but wipe your feet

I love you, but you’re gaining weight

I love you, but milk does not belong on the fridge door

I love you, but even socks should be folded

I love you, but that comb over isn’t fooling anyone

I love you, but you sometimes smell of peppers

I love you, but not ABBA at 7 a.m. on a Sunday

I love you, but don’t feed raccoons

I love you, but leave your damn wife already 


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