Prose

“Thanks for Flying Tightwad Airlines!” by Roz Warren

Dec 1st, 2010 | By

Tightwad appreciates your help in keeping us out of bankruptcy by paying extra to sit in an aisle seat or to actually travel with luggage. While waiting to board your flight today, please look at this menu of choices we’ve added to fine-tune your flying experience. Select from the following options and return your completed form to the gate agent. The resulting fees will be charged to your credit card.



“This Could Get Ugly,” by Jim Bennett

Nov 24th, 2010 | By

I’m very concerned about marriage; not mine, mind you – I enjoy all the benefits of life as a trophy husband – but matrimony as an institution is in trouble, and infidelity is a major contributing factor.

I’m very familiar with the best resources: “The Five Love Languages,” “Weekend to Remember” conferences, Marriage Encounter, and “Love and Respect” seminars. As I studied each approach, though, I grew troubled. Something crucial had been overlooked. I racked my brain, but I could never put my finger on it.



“Oh, That Jason!” by Tim Cushing

Nov 17th, 2010 | By

“Oh, That Jason!,” despite airing for only two seasons (1953-54) has nonetheless gained a small cult following over the passing years. Hailed by critics as “horrifying,” “reprehensible” and “relentlessly depraved,” “Oh, That Jason!” was truly groundbreaking television, as evidenced by this list of highlights from its truncated run:



“Daily Schedule of a Homeless Alcoholic Bird Feeder in Paris,” by Scott Oglesby

Nov 10th, 2010 | By

7:15 Wake up refreshed and exuberant, ready to make sweet love to the promising day laid out like a beautiful woman before you. Know that you are gong to earn a pauper’s fortune by persuading ambrosial, flirty, delicate birds to eat out of your hands while allowing tourists to take pictures. You were born for this shit!



“Old Time Photo,” by Dan Toulouse

Nov 3rd, 2010 | By

Above my grandfather’s bed hangs a picture of his parents taken in Italy just before they came to America. My great-grandfather is wearing his cavalry uniform and my great-grandmother stands beside him. She’s a large woman. Not round—square. No, cubed. Four feet by four feet by four feet. On Christmas Eve, my grandfather and his eight siblings would wrestle for her stockings because they figured Santa had an obligation to just keep filling until the thing was topped off, no matter how deep.