212 E. Euclid

story segment

Miss Cricket says: Py, I've got a story for today that someone wrote at a recent Joyful Again! retreat for widowed people.

Madame Python: Who wrote it? Wicky, I'm just not going to be listening to something that is sad or boring.

Miss Cricket: 

Madame Python: Sorry. Right. Go ahead. If it is good enough, I'll consider publishing it for the author. How's that?

Miss Cricket: Just listen, Py. Here goes...



     Charles Dougherty stepped out onto the damp sidewalk in front of his house. He used to hate mornings, but as he had gotten older, he had needed less and less sleep. Now mornings were bright-eyed, early and curiously noisy with the greetings of neighborhood birds calling to one another: "Good morning!" and in return "Good morning!" and yet again "Good morning!"

     Charles made it a point to take little adventures on his morning walks wandering around new corners or down to the river. One morning he found himself buying a coffee at a 7-Eleven at the place where Main St. disappears into soy bean fields as Route 16. But no matter his wanderings, he made it a point to always pass 212 E. Euclid.

     Every day Charles would look for the telltale white wide brimmed hat that moved from plant to beloved plant in the garden at 212 E. Euclid. Little curls of grey hair framed a pale face with large light blue eyes. The corners of her mouth were perpetually turned up in the slightest of smiles. She wore light green gardening gloves and walked with the help of a cane. Every day she would glance up at Charles from under her wide brimmed hat and smile with her eyes before returning to the care of whatever plant she was coaxing into brilliance. She would listen to each of his neat footsteps as they faded away toward his house on Pine.

     Every single morning since mid-March Charles had smiled his toothy smile as he passed 212 E. Euclid - until yesterday. Yesterday started out normal. His heart gathered speed as he began to scan ahead for a glimpse of the white hat busy at work. But no white hat was to be seen. "Maybe she is bending down and I can't see her yet," he thought. And then, "Maybe she has gone to the back for something." And after a bit, "Maybe she is in the house." And finally, "Maybe I am not going to be able to see her today." Charles walked the rest of the way home with his hands in his pockets.

     And then yesterday when Charles went to eat lunch, he realized he had forgotten to eat breakfast. He washed a load of clothes with dish washing liquid, brushed his teeth three extra times, and found his slippers in the hamper. He combed his hair one way and then another and then back again. He drove to the store, forgot why and came home via a silent E. Euclid Ave. Trying to read a Miss Marple mystery turned out to be a terrible way of getting to sleep and Charles had been waiting hours when the morning finally arrived.

     The damp sidewalks told of the gentle rain that had fallen in the night. Only once at 4:30 in the morning had large drops of rain made tap tapping noises on Charles' windows. The neighborhood birds were slow catching up on the morning's news and Charles was trying to force himself not to rush as he turned onto E. Euclid Ave.

     "Where is the white hat?" he craned his neck to see. He walked with equal amounts of deliberation and trepidation. Her pastel dogwood came into view. Then her ruby red rhododendrons. Then her dewy pink azaleas. And then her hat.

     Charles bounded forward. She looked up and smiled a broad smile of small gappy teeth. He stood still, smiling, his hands clasped in front of him like a little boy holding a bouquet. She held an empty pink metal watering can with both hands.

     The birds called out around them.

     "Good morning!" and in return
     "Good morning!" and yet again
     "Good morning!"



Copyright 2013, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved

image credit: http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/591095948/bird-photo-booth-experience-nature-like-never-befo
listen to a finch: http://birds.audubon.org/birds/purple-finch

Wild Blue Yonder

poem

Miss Cricket says: Madame Python, today's topic is inspired by the recent Cherry Blossom parade in Washington, DC.

Madame Python says: Miss Cricket, good selection. I try to attend this annual event because a lot of wealthy lonely Japanese men tend to wander amongst my friends this time of year. It's a good time to get an invitation to Tokyo. Long flights. Mile high club platinum member.

Miss Cricket: Well, I was thinking more about haiku - a form of poetry that becomes popular during the Cherry Blossom festival.

Madame Python: Let me guess, you found a haiku to offer up today. Am I going to understand this one, Wicky?

Miss Cricket: Listen.


signs and flags in the wind
you looked at the sand on my lips
and didn't say my name


Madame Python: I feel sad. I feel sad listening to that crap. You know, if a Japanese guy looks at my lips, believe me, he'll be saying my name. Here's one for you.


up we go
into the wild blue yonder
flying high over the sea.
no we don't
need any help dear stewardess;
i'm helping him, ahem,
and he's helping me.
dropped my ring
on the floor
in front of him.
can you get us some extra blankets now please?


Miss Cricket: Honestly, Py. First of all, that wasn't a haiku. Secondly, ...

Madame Python: Secondly, I wasn't done.

Miss Cricket: Oh, yes, you were.

Madame Python: Okay, Wicky, impromptu haiku aficionado, do you have one to go out with today?

Miss Cricket: Thanks, Py, yes. I have one more from the same poet.


cranes call in two lines
blue sky beyond leafless branches
four shoes crunch gravel




Copyright 2013, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved

image credit: http://www.etsy.com/listing/83999940/origami-cranes-100-large-floral-pattern

BBC America

story segment

Madame Python says: Wicky, I've got a spicy story from the slush pile for today.

Miss Cricket says: Py, I thought today’s segment was about the relative attractiveness of men in certain types of jeans. I have a chart prepared.

Madame Python: No, Wicky, we're going to be talking about men's asses another day. Today's story is about a middle aged mother of three who decides to dump her inhibitions.

Miss Cricket: Translation: boring story about some wishy washy woman who throws away everything that matters in life because she is temporarily hurt. I like stories about people who have deep character and overcome odds.

Madame Python: Oh, well, she overcomes some odds all right. Odds are women like this aren't getting any. Rolling the dice:



     He was unlocking the hotel room door.

     She couldn't believe it. Here she was standing in the musty hotel hallway at the end of a long runway of green carpet, purse in hand, not having had sex since her husband left nine months and thirteen days ago. The man maneuvering the key was someone she had met at the laundromat two Sunday evenings back.

     He had said, "Hello, beautiful," in a tall thin mustached chocolate voice.

     She, Anne Marie, had looked up, way up, at his noble face and straight eye lashes. No one had called her beautiful in years.

     "What are you reading?" he had asked, "The Glass?"

     "The Glass Menagerie," she offered. The confusion came from an ill placed library sticker that said "DRAMA."

     Two weeks had passed and tonight they had met for coffee at a slightly out of town diner. A neon sign blinked "Loo Loo's Grill and Bar." Anne Marie didn't think she'd bump into too many friends at Loo Loo's Grill and Bar. She didn't want any back chat about how she shouldn't be on a "date" when her divorce wasn't even final.

     Coffee, donut, chat, perhaps a walk to her car and a goodnight kiss. That was the plan.

     But Frederick - who does not go by Fred - Frederick sat close in the booth. He put his thigh against her thigh and said she deserved some happy moments in her life. He said he wanted to be there for her - a shoulder to cry on when she needed one. And would she walk across the diner so he could look at her frame again.

     No walking across the diner ensued, but the mention of a nearby hotel and a commentary about how she had wonderful parts did. Then Anne Marie, after some quick silent moments of gratitude that Mandy was away at a tennis tournament and it was a good time of the month, was now, for once, about to do something for herself.

     Frederick made quick work of her clothes and his own. Skin on skin was an ecstasy. Anne Marie just breathed in this miracle of naked man.

     From above you could see her pressing the back of one hand to her forehead and gripping the hotel sheet with the other. You could see his geometric tattoo draped over one shoulder - dark blue on black. Like his own neon sign blinking: "Sex. Got it."

     From the side you could see her breasts were a little saggy and during certain moments you could see stretch marks from her three pregnancies - four if you count the miscarriage. You could see that he still had his socks on.

     From the back you could see his muscular buttocks and her two naked feet bobbling around.

     She knew she'd never see him again, but for right now, this was for her. This was to make up for all the shit she had been put through, all the solitary nights, all the lonely days, all the somber looks from friends and brave smiles from family. This was "me time." In a big way.

     And when she was on her way home she turned her car radio way up and smiled at the empty light bulb factory and nodded knowingly at a stop sign. She sang, "Hot blooded, check it and see. I got a fever of a hundred and three." The kink in her back was all gone.

     Frederick, for his part, was turning off his three cameras and sipping Pepsi One. He figured it would take him about two hours to splice, render and upload his new video to MommiesBeingBanged.com. Frederick - who also goes by BigBlackCock20 or BBC America to his friends - BigBlackCock20 liked it. Liked it a lot. The only problem was that she had been so quiet. He had pegged her as a squealer.



Miss Cricket: And then...!

Madame Python: What are you doing?

Miss Cricket: You always add inappropriate extra content to the end of stories. It's my turn on this one.

Madame Python: Okay, suit yourself.

Miss Cricket: And then the FBI swooped in on Frederick and confiscated his materials and sent him to jail.

Madame Python:

Miss Cricket: For a long time.

Madame Python: You honestly don't think that improves the story, do you?

Miss Cricket: Nothing could improve the story. It over stretches believability. No one would traipse off to a hotel with a stranger. People don't do that.

Madame Python: Oh, Wicky, yes they do.

Miss Cricket: What moron would have sex with someone they do not know after merely having drunk a cup of coffee?

Madame Python: Someone who wanted to get a kink out of her back.

Miss Cricket: I think she is lucky that the worst thing that happened is that now she is featured on some unspeakable website.

Madame Python: True. Okay, alternative ending number two:

     Anne Marie's sisters contacted Mr. BBC a week later with a proposed swap. He takes down the "mom cockoulds with black panther" video and they destroy the video of him being spanked while in a diaper (which doesn't fit his BigBlackCock20 persona too well). They shipped the 3D Robotics personal drone ArduCopter Quad-D with frame mounted camera back for a refund saying that the quality of the video was poor even though it was anything but.



Copyright 2013, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved

image credit: http://www.etsy.com/listing/93091844/digital-slr-camera-bag-dslr-camera-bag

Vectors

story segment

Madame Python says: Well, Wicket, I possibly found something decent in the slush pile today.

Miss Cricket says: Py, I thought today’s segment was about how sledding is the perfect aphrodisiac.

Madame Python: No, Wicky, we're not slipping and sliding toward renewed romantic fire today.  But our story is set on a snowy day in January.  Have a listen:



     There was frost on the kitchen window and tea kettle steam in the air when Karen gazed over the back yard to where Neil was splitting wood.  She always admired the way Neil drew a nearly circular arc with the sledgehammer before bringing it down on the splitting wedge – like an Olympic hammer thrower enscribing perfect circles before releasing the hammer. It was physics. Vectors.

     Karen took a tall brown plastic tumbler out of the cabinet. It was the last of a set that Neil's mother had given them early in their marriage. She filled it up half with cold water, half with warm, no ice, to within a half inch of the lip. She pulled on a hideous fluorescent orange knit hat because she knew Neil felt happy to see her wearing it. No white hats, white mittens, or white handkerchiefs. Neil feared she'd be mistaken for a deer by an errant hunter. Red mittens today. She had to balance the water on the palm of one hand and pull the door shut behind her with the other.

     Saturday splitting wood was an oasis of quiet and concentration – a time to lose track of time. Karen stood on the back porch feeling her nose hairs acknowledge the January air. For seventeen years Neil had plied his strength and perseverance to provide her and their twin girls with a home. Each day his early risings and skill with the farm had meant everything from boots to braces, a truck, four bicycles and a tree house.

     Neil put down the sledgehammer when he saw Karen coming. He had long since thrown his jacket on the wood pile and steam was rising from his flanneled shoulders.

     "You've split enough to keep us warm all winter," she said.

     Neil tilted the glass and drank down the water in one go. Rivulets of water escaped at the corners of his mouth, turned at the edge of his red and black checked collar and dove under the front of his t-shirt.

     "At least part of the winter," Neil said handing back the empty glass.

     He gave Karen a kiss, soft as a cat's paw on spring snow.

     "I found this," Neil put a round pine cone in her red mittens.

     She knew he'd be out there until darkness brought him in. And then he'd be in the garage and the basement doing things like fixing the shower head that had been dripping since Wednesday. He'd reappear at seven o'clock. These were their Saturdays. He'd spend the day in his own space working in relative calm. Regenerating himself. From the crack of dawn until seven o'clock she could watch from afar his strong hands and flannel, decades of knowledge put to clever use and the arc of his hammer.

     Karen put the glass in the sink and thought about how their Saturdays might have been different if they had lived in the suburbs and Neil had an office job.

     At the crack of dawn, Neil would get up and go into the office. The office on a Saturday was an oasis of quiet and concentration – a time to work in the relative calm. He could lose track of time and do his best thinking, organize himself and gird his loins for the battle of the coming week. He could think about the seventeen years he had provided a good home for Karen and how he almost had enough set aside to pay for the twins' education when they got into Brown and Wesleyan. He could buy Karen a pewter rabbit during an afternoon walk and get home by seven.

     Karen would, she considered, wake up to another Saturday where she had been left alone in the house with the chores and the children. Monday through Friday they worked. They only had two days each week when they could spend time together and every Saturday she would be – as always – by herself.

     She would put on a white hat and drag the garbage cans to the curb hurting her arm. The girls would pout and hate her because she'd say she didn't have energy for friends to come over. At two o'clock, she would be fed up and call a fucking plumber because Neil had had all week to do something about the dripping shower head. The plumber would give her a bill for $267.23 for the house call – like we have that kind of money to waste just because lazy boy has to play in the office every Saturday.

     She would eat pizza with the girls at five and not turn around when Neil came in at seven.

     "We ate already. Yours is in the refrigerator," she'd say.

     Neil would shove the pewter rabbit straight into the garbage can. He'd push the pink bag with the two rattan handles down under the pizza box and Diet Pepsi cans.

     He would turn and make himself a sandwich and would start to think about Julie at work. Julie watches him work. She sees his power walk and his Nordstrom tie. She admires how he closes deals and brings in money. She FedEx's his marketing materials to him in Houston before he even realizes he's forgotten them. Through the glass wall of his office, she watches his strong hands and Italian cotton, his decades of knowledge put to clever use, and the arc of his hammer.



Copyright 2013, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved

image credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/library_of_congress/2163717338/sizes/o/in/photostream/

Squirrel Power

a segment

Secret Squirrel says: How do I turn this stuff on? Testing, testing, testing, testing, testing, testing. Oh, it is working. Ahem. [cough]

Hello, world! This is Secret Squirrel coming to you once again with some new squirrely secrets and investigative intrigue. I've been away due to circumstances beyond my control, but I'm back! Cracker Jack back flappin' pancake crackin' super slappin' Seeeeeecret Squirrel!

First order of business today is some inside scoop on Madame Python and Miss Cricket. Madame Python is hottttttttttt! Miss Cricket is nottttttttt!

Miss Cricket: Where is Alice? And why is the studio door ajar, Py? I know we locked it.

Secret Squirrel: [whispering] The chunky beast herself. Thirty minutes early. Figures.

Miss Cricket: Someone's been in here. My tea cup has been moved. My stapler has been moved.

Secret Squirrel: Surprise!

Miss Cricket: Aaaaargh!!

Secret Squirrel: Aaaaaaaaaahh!!

Madame Python: Aaaaaaaahh!!


Miss Cricket: What are you doing in here, Squirrel? And how did you get in here? You were asked to turn in your key.

Secret Squirrel: I turned in my key. Just because I turned in one key doesn't mean I didn't keep a copy, you stupid witch.

Miss Cricket: Get out. And don't touch anything.

Secret Squirrel: Ooooh, Miss Cripple doesn't want the little squirrel touching anything, huh? Touch. Touch. Touch. Touch. Touch. You big wind bag. Touch. Touch. Let me tell you something. You don't know anything. You got rid of the one person around here who actually had a faithful audience. You know why? Because I know things. Yeah, I know about Chavez and his "pretend" illness. And I know about Mauritania. I could tell you about missions I went on, but I can't. But I can tell you I was sent to three months of jungle training if that tells you anything. Me, a squirrel, was still required to spend three months in a skanky jungle like I needed to learn how to climb trees. But they saw. They saw later what I could do. Once I got into an F15, people sat up and took notice of the squirrel. Touching, touching, touching. You have no idea what I can do.

Miss Cricket: You have no idea what personal space is. And you are permanently afflicted with verbal diarrhea. You're not allowed in the building. Get out.

Secret Squirrel: You pampas pearl-wearing throw back wind bag! You know what the legal department calls you? "Wide load." They take turns pushing the file cart around the cubicles going "bleep bleep" pretending to be the lead vehicle in your caravan.

And the maintenance department calls you "Crickwitch," as in, "What picky thing does Crickwitch want now?"

You're gonna step toward me? Come on. Come on. I can hop around faster than Muhammad Ali. I should slap your face. What are you gonna do? Fire me? I'll slap your face. I will slap your face with my tail. See it. See it.

Miss Cricket: You little bucktoothed rodent. How dare you threaten people? You ought to be arrested.

Secret Squirrel: You ought to be halved.

Miss Cricket: You ought to be stewed.

Secret Squirrel: You ought to BE a luau.

Miss Cricket: Close the door, Py, and hand me that fire extinguisher. This ends now.

Secret Squirrel: Luau. Luau. Touching, touching. I'll be back. [scramble] And I peed in your tea cup yesterday.

Madame Python: He got out, Wicky.

Miss Cricket: I swear if he ever comes back in here I will have his tail as a souvenir on my desk. Little worm-ridden loose-lipped shriveled-up has-been. I'll kill him. And he was on secret ops and psyops and has a lot of knowledge about Croatia, the Medellín cartel, connections between Pyongyang and Prague. If any of this stuff ever got out.

Madame Python: Wicky, we're live.

Miss Cricket:

Madame Python: Did he really fly F15's?

Miss Cricket: Booster seat.



Copyright 2013, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved

image credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/sdasmarchives/4565000130/in/photostream

Dear Mr. Bear

found correspondence

Madame Python says: I'm so glad you could come over, Wicky. It's a perfect afternoon for tea. How's it been sorting through your grandparents' stuff?

Miss Cricket says: Well, it's been very interesting. Hats and hat boxes. Tons of rubber bands. They saved everything. I think that's because they lived through the Great Depression. But the best part is that I found some of their correspondence from when they were first married.

Madame Python: These are the famous grandparents that met, got engaged a couple of weeks later and then got married hours before your grandfather was deployed in World War II? Helen and Walter? 

Miss Cricket: Right, my mother's parents. Well, it seems that my grandfather kept some letters that my grandmother wrote just after he deployed. I found two of them yesterday and I brought them to show you. You're not going to believe it. She calls him "Mr. Bear."

Madame Python: How long were they married, Wicky?

Miss Cricket: Well, let's see... he passed away just after their 57^th wedding anniversary. I think there might be more of these letters, but you've got to see these first two that I found. She must have had lined paper underneath this white writing paper because her writing is just perfectly lined up. And the paper is fragile. It must have been fragile to begin with – that thin airmail paper. And she doesn't have any other notes in these letters. From start to finish it is just a letter to "Mr. Bear" in both cases. Here. Read these…

***

Dear Mr. Bear,

I accept your thoughtful invitation to visit your bear cave after my switchboard work today.  I should arrive around 6:00 p.m.

I will bring chocolate if you will make tea.

I am certain your intentions are honorable.  However, if your intentions are not honorable, then my intentions are not honorable either.

And if your intentions are not honorable, then please be certain that your bear cave is warm, your bear bed is soft, and promise that you will not bite.

I promise not to bite.  And I promise to brush your fur.  And I promise to kiss your nose if you fall asleep.  And I promise to make you very happy before you fall asleep.

Thank you for the key to your bear cave.  May I keep it?

Yours truly,

Miss Emerald

*** 

Darling Mr. Bear,

Thank you for the wonderful time the other night.  You are the most wonderful bear I've ever met.  (Actually, you are the only bear I've ever met - but you are still wonderful.)

Thank you for the tea.  And thank you for the honey in the tea.  That was very kind of you.

Your teeth are very sharp.  Thank you for only touching me with your teeth and not biting.  Your fur is very soft.  May I comb your fur again?

I was wondering if when I arrive at your bear cave on Friday night, if we could leave the candles lit this time.  I was so fascinated when I climbed into your bear bed.  It was very warm and soft, and you were very warm and soft.  And when you gripped my back with your claws and touched your teeth to my neck, something amazing happened.  I lost all sense of time.  I lost all sense of everything except you.  Your claws, your teeth, your fur.  It was as if I was swimming in you.  And then when you kissed me, the whole world spun around.  It is possible that we were floating.  And then the most profound pleasure washed over me in waves.  My eyes were closed, but I think we traveled far far into the night stars.  All I could breathe was you.  All I could see was you.  All I could know was you.  I know we landed back in your bed with three great groans.  And it is possible that you embraced me a little too tightly.  You are very very strong you know.  But after you relaxed your bear embrace, I was able to breathe again.  Anyway, all this was fascinating, and I was wondering if you could leave the candles lit tomorrow night.  I do not know if I will be able to keep my eyes open, but if I am able to keep my eyes open, I would like to see us floating and see the stars nearby and the world swirling around.  Did you see the stars nearby?

And I am also wondering what magic you send to me during the day when we are apart.  It is as if your tender bear self is next to me as I move about in my day.  And even when we are not together in the night, it is as if your gentle bear self is next to me in my night.  Is this special bear magic?  Is it special Monongahela bear magic?

Well, I feel as if I am a very very lucky young lady to have met not only a wonderful bear, but a wonderful magic Monongahela bear.

See you tomorrow!

Miss Emerald

P.S.  I will bring more chocolate.  -me

***



Copyright 2013, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved

image credit: http://worldwildlife.org/photos/polar-bear--9

On Fatties

advice segment

Miss Cricket says: Madame Python, we don't often hear men complaining of how their body shape is impacting their relationships, but we know it is an issue of concern for many men.

Madame Python says: Miss Cricket, it most certainly is. Fatties aren't getting laid. They need a sex rescue. They need a sexcue. They need Madame Python.

Miss Cricket: The topic of men's health is too often overcrowded with unhelpful articles about things like balding and low testosterone. This is not helpful to men who have a body image problem. Men need to know that being overweight does not need to mean less fulfilling relationships.  I have created a chart to help demonstrate.

Miss Cricket continues: As you can see, when men are more in touch with their feelings, in touch with who they are, they are more likely...

Madame Python: Oh, for fuck sake. Here's a chart for you.

Miss Cricket: Py, thank you for the work that you clearly did preparing this visual aid. Are you trying to demonstrate that the more healthful a man's body size, the more happy he is?

Madame Python: Wicky, Madame Python does not mince words. Heads up fatties: lose the pounds; get the pussie. A lot of people will tell you a lot of b.s. about how being fat doesn't matter. Yes, it does.

Miss Cricket: I would like to point out, Py, that I distinctly remember hearing you say that your vacation with Dmitry was one of the best romantic get aways you'd ever had. Dmitry is not a small man.

Madame Python: Well, that's different. Dmitry is filthy rich.

Miss Cricket:

Madame Python: Yes, okay. There are, actually, precisely three antidotes to sex-killing extra pounds: money (lots of it), power, and fame. If you are rolling in money, you can be as fat as you want and it will not impact your sex life.

Miss Cricket: Then I will argue that having a good sex life has nothing inherently to do with body shape. It has to do with confidence.

Madame Python: I am confident that having more money than God will help your sex life, yes.

Miss Cricket: It is my contention that it is not the extra pounds which create a barrier to intimacy, but feelings of shame.

Madame Python: Okay, Wicky. We're going to do it your way. I'm willing to test out your theory. We'll do the two naked guys in a courtyard test. Imagine a guy who weighs 280 pounds. He's been on a health kick, does cardio five days a week, weight lifts three days a week, belongs to a biking club and has just lost 100 pounds. He's serenading naked in a courtyard with long stemmed red roses tucked into his ass crack and every fat fold he can find. Another guy who weighs 280 pounds is ineffectively hiding behind a wintry bush. Who gets the girl? You are right, Wicky: the guy with the rose in his ass crack.

Miss Cricket: Right. The man with the roses is not burdened by shame and therefore does not have a barrier to intimacy.

Madame Python: Yep, he's gettin' laid.

Miss Cricket: Any last words, Py?

Madame Python: Madame Python's sexcue prescription for dealing with being fat: get the fat off. But to Wicky's point, it takes time to get in shape and you don't have to put your romantic life on hold while you are working out. Obliterate your shame. Suggested technique: make a commitment to yourself to do some small workout-related thing each day – and do not break your promise for two weeks. Do not cheat yourself. After two weeks, start packing your shame into a personalized surface-to-air missile. After three weeks, shoulder fire that fucker into low orbit. Sit back and listen to the neighbors talk about a new type of northern lights. Buy some long stemmed red roses and start practicing holding them in your ass crack.

Miss Cricket: Thank you, Py, for the nice wrap up.

Madame Python: What if the roses were chocolate roses? What if they melted? What if…

Miss Cricket: We're done. Cut. Good lord. Are we still live? Alice, kill the feed.

Copyright 2013, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved

100% Fleshlight

story segment

Madame Python says: Well, Wicket, another unpublishable story crossed my desk this week that I thought you might like.

Miss Cricket says: Py, I thought we agreed that today’s segment would be about how mango puree is not an aphrodisiac unless you are counting the studies that discovered that if you smeared...

Madame Python: That’ll have to be another day, Wicky.  No fruity frolicking today. Today’s story is right up your alley. It’s long, so I’m going to start right in. And this one has a title:

Zero T-Shirt, 100% Fleshlight

     I’ve been sleeping with my t-shirt on for about 3 months now, two pairs of socks, underwear, and two knit hats one on top of the other.  I look like a cross between a guy from GQ magazine and a homeless person.  Most of us are on a second deployment and we look like it.

     I got a package from Anne’s mom today.  My mother-in-law can cook and she likes to send me these large chocolate covered stick pretzel things.

     “Cep’s got dog shit again!” someone yelled when I opened the box.  Five other GQ/homeless sorry asses took almost all of my dog shit and ate it within 5 minutes.  I still got mine though.  I always keep a secret stash.

     Anyway, today my mind’s focused on going to Shandaiz’s restaurant - not on Saran wrapped homemade snacks.  Not my usual hang out, but today is the day I’m going to tell the girl in there my name. She’s a state-side 10 and a desert 15.

     It started when I stopped in the Shandaiz’s restaurant to duck out of the path of a sudden dirt devil.  When I was paying up, she said that I seemed to have a southern accent.  Yes, I said I was from Iowa (which isn’t really south, but close enough for making small talk).  She was from Kentucky.  Horse country.  She had been on a State Department internship but had stayed a bit longer and was working.  She said she had been on the volleyball team at school and just couldn’t find anyone to get a team together.  She fumbled my change when she was giving it to me.  Flustered.  Eyes demurely looking down.

     “We’ll have to find you that volleyball team,” I said stupidly.

     I didn’t go back for several weeks, but when I did she remembered me.  Her face lit up like I was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen walking tall in a uniform.  It was like whisky warming me up from the inside out.

     “I still haven’t found people for my volleyball team,” she said.  We talked a little.  I went home and couldn’t sleep for 2 nights in a row.

     “You don’t even know her name,” I would say to myself.  “It’s ridiculous.  You don’t know her.  She doesn’t know you.  You’re married.  All you did was talk about a volleyball team.  You’re an idiot.  You know for a fact that if you could have Anne’s company for one hour – no, one minute – you would forget you ever even saw this girl.  That’s a fact.”  But a part of me that had been asleep for a long time had woken up.  And it felt good.  And I just wanted to hold onto that - all night if possible.

     In the couple of weeks that followed, my distraction was noted.  I have great hearing.  I picked up things like:

     “Bicep’s gone all quiet,” and

     “Pounded his Fleshlight so many times it rotted his head,” and

     “Oye gilipollas, me robó tu mierda secreta.”  That would be Toe thinking that I didn’t know Spanish - as in: "Hey, asshole, I stole your secret shit." Later that day was when Toe lost track of his lucky playing cards – which was a bummer for Toe because he plays a lot of Texas holdem and is superstitious.

     During a morning PT, I didn’t need any special hearing skills to hear, “Get your mind in the game you jack ass!”  I had been floating through another run and almost broke my ankle stepping on a big rock.  Also, no problem hearing, “You’re going to fucking get us killed.”

     So no more dereliction for me.  No more volleyball team, daydream, jack off, southern accent bull shit for me.  I had a job to do.  That is, until I saw her on the street a couple days later and she embraced me like a long lost friend.  The smell of her hair, the touch of her breasts on my chest, the fact that she held me a little too long.  It only took a moment and then she was gone, but I was going to learn her name.  And she was going to know my name.  Somehow I was going to know this woman.

     And she was a woman.  Long brown legs that must have looked best in those short shorts volleyball players wear.  Jet black hair sometimes tossed onto the top of her head showing off her dangling earrings.  A silver ring on almost every finger and heels that had to have been magic to have propelled her around the mean streets of our metropolis.

     “I deserve to be happy,” I reasoned.  “I don’t know how long I have on this earth.  And I deserve some happiness.  And this girl makes me happy.  No one has to know about it.  And it doesn’t even have to be anything.  I just want to know her.  I just want to see her smile at me.  She makes me feel like I was numb and am coming back to life.  And I want to be alive.  It’s like water to the desert.  Like food to a starving man.  I need this.  And anyway, I’ll be less distracted if I actually get to know her.  That’ll be good.  Better focus.”  At this point, my every waking moment’s focus was consumed by this beautiful creature.  “I have to think about how to see her.  Have to think about how to tell her my name.  Maybe she’ll ask me for my name.”

     Three days in a row I drove past the Shandaiz’s restaurant trying to look in without being noticed.  Three days I tried to get my courage up.  Three days I kept twirling my wedding ring.  Now, no more waiting.

      “Where are my fuckin’ lucky cards pajeros?  I’m going to kill whoever has them,” Toe was saying.

      “Sierra Tango Foxtrot Uniform,” someone told him from across the B-hut, “Shut The Fuck Up.”

     “Got a game tonight, maricón?” I said.  I knew he did and normally I would be in, but tonight I was skipping the DFAC and was going to see her.  There was a bright moon helping light my way as I headed toward the restaurant.  I was 100% GQ as I stepped through the door.  When her eyes caught mine, her face lit up like I was somebody.  She came across to me like we were already lovers. I wanted to take care of her. I wanted to caress that long black hair.

     “You know,” the southern bell looked up at me, “I don’t know your name.”  She blinked slowly twice.  “What is your name?”  She put the tips of her fingers on my arm. She blinked again.

     I looked down at her innocent face. I was all warrior, honor, respect, band of brothers, mud and grit and fidelity.  You could hear the slamming of a car door. The scrape on a skillet in the kitchen. I took her fingers off my arm, looked her straight in the eyes and lied.  I said, “It’s DH.”

     “DH?  What a funny name.  What does that stand for?”

     “Devoted Husband.”

     My eyes must have said it all: not now, not ever, sorry, wish I could help you, someone else is going to have to be your friend, someone else is going to have to help you with the volleyball team, someone else is going to have to protect you in this strange place, I’m done.

     She looked at me as if I had backhanded a puppy.  The blue heels clicked around the corner into the kitchen.  I heard the faint scratch of a cigarette lighter and a murmured, “Prick,” and then, “Damn it,” with less Kentucky horse country than Brooklyn deli shop accent.  She was composing herself and coming up with Plan B.  Didn’t know I had dog hearing.

     A chair scraped on the tiled floor and I realized I could see the moon shining through the thin curtains.

     “Prick. Damn it,” I thought to myself, “Prick-damn-it.  Well, I’ll be God damned.  I’m a Prick-Damn-It.  I’ve always wanted to be a Prick-Damn-It.  I bet I’m the very best Prick-Damn-It in this whole God damned town.  I got an Eagle Scout based on a Prick-Damn-It project.  Future interview:  ‘Tell us about yourself.’  Well, first of all, I’m a born and bred Prick-Damn-It.”

     I walked out.

     When I showed up at the compound, I whipped Toe’s lucky playing cards at him hard.  He caught them mid-air and only shot me his famous toothy smile.  Later, I discovered the rest of my mother-in-law’s care package had been raided.  Son of a bitch.  But I was in time for the game and was up when I got out.

     That night, I took off my t-shirt.  I’ve got some scars front and back.  The largest scar is across the bottom of my bicep – like a tattoo showing off my guns.  Doesn’t matter.  The guys that gave me these scars got way worse.

     I put Anne’s t-shirt across my pillow.  It has long since lost her scent, but it’s soft and it’s hers.  And I got into bed letting the sheet touch my skin so that I could imagine that it was Anne touching me.  I was cold.  I didn’t care.

     “Hi, Anne.  This is your Prick-Damn-It husband checking in,” I said silently to her t-shirt.  “You always said I was an asshole.  Turns out you were right.  I got your mom’s care package today.  I told you that she’d come to love me.  Thanks for your letter.  Things are okay.  I gotta tell you, honey, that sometimes I can’t miss you because it hurts too much.  I gotta shut that down for a while so I can survive.  I can’t be thinking about you 24/7 because I’ve got to focus on what’s in front of me – for my sake and the unit’s sake.  But I’m gonna tell you right now, I miss you.  I need you and you aren’t here.  And that pisses me off.”

     I put my hand across her t-shirt.

     “Thanks for holding down the home front for me.  I know you’re doing a great job and I know it is hard.  Do me a favor and eat one of Sonny’s onion burgers for me.  I know you hate them, but I’m about to die over here if I don’t get some real food.  Send a picture like you did when you and Mom went downtown.  Listen, there’s a big moon out tonight.  Like I always do I sent my love up to the moon so that when you see the moon tonight, my love can come back down to you.  You look at the moon tonight, baby, and know that I’m sending my love down.  Good night, Anne.  I love you, baby.  And baby, I’ve got all the Prick-Damn-It you’re ever going to want, right here.”

And then

                A mortar screamed overhead and smashed a huge whole in half of Disney spewing chunks of asphalt 300 feet into the air. Bicep stayed with Anne’s t-shirt. A goat took a wrong turn in the old mine field and bits of goat and mud rained down on the B-hut. Bicep stayed with Anne’s t-shirt. Someone with a grudge overturned a porta-john with a Sargent Major still inside, the DFAC alarm went off and the Big Voice said, “Anyone in a bunk right now, get up!” Bicep stayed with Anne’s t-shirt. Then an MRV wrecker backed into the water tower and it buckled to the ground. As a wall of water rocked the B-hut, Bicep’s roommates poured inside.

     “What the fuck! We usually get sniper fire, too. We gettin’ gypped,” complained Riley.

     “No, we ain’t,” corrected Cobb, “Toe’s about to have Skype sex with his girlfriend and we all gonna watch.”

     “Move over, Riley,” said Bicep, “I get my usual spot.”

Miss Cricket:

Madame Python: What?

Miss Cricket: It was a very sweet story until you ruined it with the goat bits and water tower and things, Py.

Madame Python: It was so sappy, Wicket, I could hardly stand it. Ack! Ack! I don’t want to read about people doing the right thing. I want to read about people doing the wrong thing. I want to read about people making bigger mistakes than I’ve ever made.

Miss Cricket: [pause] Yes, well, thank you, Py for bringing us this sweet story. Any last words, Py?

Madame Python: Thanks, Wicky! I just want to tell all you servicemen that you just chuck your Fleshlight in the stewardess’ garbage cart when you get on board in Frankfort. You come and see Madame Python and, if I’m not in Mumbai, I’m gonna show you how you don’t need no stinkin’ Fleshlight.

Miss Cricket: [cough] We support all our service men and women both here and overseas.

Madame Python: Yes, we do.

Miss Cricket: Py, get the back of your finger out from between your teeth.

Madame Python: Wicky, which is your favorite branch of service? I like…

Miss Cricket: God save the Queen.

Madame Python: Yeah, her, too.

Copyright 2013, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved

image credit: http://www.peocscss.army.mil/PMMRAP.html

On Stepchildren

advice segment

Miss Cricket says: We've been getting a lot of questions recently about stepchildren, so I thought we’d do a segment on how to best nurture stepchildren. Now Madame Python and I have never had stepchildren respectively, but some of our friends do.

Madame Python says: I had stepchildren, Wicket.

Miss Cricket: You did? I don’t remember that.

Madame Python: Dennis had two children, the little snots.

Miss Cricket: Whatever happened to Dennis? If I remember correctly, that didn’t last long. Did it have anything to do with the stepchildren?

Madame Python: No, it had to do with Vasily. I met him on a retreat on the Crimea. He spoke Russian to me.

Miss Cricket: What did he say?

Madame Python: It didn’t matter.

Miss Cricket: Oh, yes, I know what you mean about Russian. It’s a delicious language – like dark chocolate. One time I was at a party in the Soviet Embassy in Prague and a man started talking to me in Russian. His eyes were grey. [sigh] His face was rugged like a mountain side and his voice made my knees go weak.

Madame Python: But you were obviously married to Ed at the time.

Miss Cricket: Oh, yes. It was because of Ed that we were there. I was never more in love with Ed. Beautiful city, Prague. You can walk across the bridge where Mozart walked; be annoyed at the same geese that probably annoyed Mozart. But just because you are in love with your spouse, it doesn’t mean your biology is somehow shut off. Nothing wrong with my marriage, but also nothing wrong with that man’s Russian.

Madame Python: Well, what happened?

Miss Cricket: What do you mean what happened?

Madame Python: What happened between you and that grey-eyed Russian wolf in Prague?

Miss Cricket: Well, nothing happened, obviously. I thanked him for the nice conversation, moved off to a different part of the room, and made sure never to speak to him again. Obviously. Dare I ask what happened in the Crimea?

Madame Python: Vasily not only spoke Russian, but he had a Ferrari.

Miss Cricket: Oh, dear. Not sporting.

Madame Python: The moment he started speaking to me, I knew he was the owner of the Ferrari. Did you ever go flying along the cliffs above the Black Sea in a Ferrari with a Vasily, Wicky? I recommend it.

Miss Cricket: And Dennis?

Madame Python: Poor Dennis. I had to be mean to him so he’d ask for a divorce.

Miss Cricket: This is the definition of cruel, Py. You should have told him.

Madame Python: No, the definition of cruel would have been to tell him. I loved Dennis. To tell a man like Dennis to his face would have crushed his spirit. I couldn’t do that.

Miss Cricket: So you just broke his heart?

Madame Python: He was better off without me, Wicky.

Miss Cricket: No man who falls in love with you, Py, has ever later said the he was better off without you. It didn’t happen.

Madame Python: Well, at least I didn’t have to see the faces of those little snots at breakfast any more.

Miss Cricket: Okay then, this brings us to the end of this particular segment on stepchildren - beautiful creatures that they are. Any last words, Py?

Madame Python: Viva la Ferrari!

Miss Cricket: Evvia per Volvo.

Madame Python: Гласность! Glasnost!

Miss Cricket: до свидания. Do svidaniya. Until next time.



Copyright 2013, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved

image credit: by sijeka; flickr