A TALE FOR YOU CARL

First off, congratulations to that guy Barack Obama for becoming the mayor of Boston or whatever that was.

You know what I hate about TLC's "What Not To Wear"? They get all these dweebs who can't dress and that's all well and good but they're always really young and successful so I don't really feel that bad for them in the first place. The one I saw today was like, "Check out Mary, a 24 year old TV producer who dresses like she's 14." Up yours (butt)! I'm probably just jealous though. I get jealous all the time. If you're eating chips on the street and I'm hungry for chips, I'll probably hate you, even if you are the coolest man or bustiest girl in town.

Here's a very silly short story I wrote for an Eye Weekly short story contest. I didn't win, but as my dad once told me, "Son, if you enter a short story contest and don't win, just post it on the internet later and maybe someone will read it and you can win their short story contest if they ever have one or they might just say in the comments section, like 'that's pretty good' or something." Thanks papa.


MIRIAM’S ADVENTURE
By Glenn Macaulay

Trace Blitzer drew open the curtains to the big bay window in his 93rd floor condominium just after the digits on his Sanyo alarm clock glowed 7:03.
Miriam had not yet awoke but was stirring in her sleep as if she was having a dream about something scary and strange like spaghetti that can drive and also play video games. Her spectacular new two hundred dollar hairstyle was still intact and looked unnatural on her otherwise unspectacular head.
“Should I wake her?” Trace wondered, as he tied the belt to his black terry-cloth robe tight around his chiseled 30-inch waist.
“Are the waffles on?” asked Miriam with a yawn, startling Trace.
“Can you smell them?” replied Trace.
“Yes! They smell marvelous.”
“Well I didn’t put any on… so I don’t know what you’re smelling,” shot Trace, seemingly annoyed at Miriam’s morning fuzziness.
“Maybe it’s the cat,” Miriam said as she reached to the carpet for her brown turtleneck and basketball shorts, left there the night before so she wouldn’t have to walk to the chest of drawers when the sun reared its funny face.
Of all the tenets of Miriam’s daily routine, getting out of bed had become the most tedious. She much preferred cutting up her lunch-time mango and even administering her cat his requisite cancer medicine to pulling her aunt’s old shirt and her ex-boyfriend’s high school shorts over her self-proclaimed “shitty” body. “Just don’t forget how lucky you are,” she told herself.
Truth was, she often forgot, considering herself living proof of the old adage “you don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone”, occasionally yearning for the old days of being an undersexed dweeb. Trace was a hunk and New York City is the place to be, but it just didn’t seem right.
“What are you going to do today baby?” Trace asked, pouring pineapple juice into his faded San Diego Zoo plastic cup.
“I think I might look for a job, grab a burger and maybe rent a movie or something,” Miriam answered.
“I can find three things wrong with that. First, I’m making more than enough money for me, you and that fat assed cat, so for the last time you don’t need a job. Secondly, you shouldn’t eat that shit; it’ll blow your ass up. Why not try a sub for once? I eat them every damn day and you have to admit, I look pretty good and I know you like it that way. Third, I’m watching baseball tonight so you can’t watch a movie, unless it’s about baseball. Why don’t you go to the gym and do some shopping? I passed by a lingerie store the other day and I realized you don’t have any sexy bras, you know, ones with flowers, so maybe you could do that.”
“Yeah okay.”
Trace went back to the mirror and it occurred to Miriam that she should stop agreeing with people. If she hadn’t agreed to go to the Magic Expo at the convention centre two years ago she would have never met Troon. She couldn’t help but reflect on that day:
“I have strange and wonderful powers. Totally serious,” the strange wizard man called Troon said. Miriam thought he looked a lot like a Jedi and decided to carry on with the conversation out of sheer boredom and a secret love of Mark Hamill.
“That’s what everyone here says. It’s a Magic Expo.”
“Then why don’t I prove it to you. Is there anything you desire?”
“Money, a boyfriend and I never want to work again. And I want a cat.”
Following some dopey incantations, Troon said no more and ran off. Miriam stood flabbergasted, and, fed up with the Expo and the dumb wizard, decided to go get a pretzel. When out of nowhere a dashing blonde hunk tapped her on the shoulder holding out a pretzel with mustard on the side and talking to her as if he was her boyfriend, she suddenly had a decidedly different attitude toward Magic Expos and dumb wizards. That was until she learned what several protagonists in stories about wishes had been taught – be careful what you wish for.

Trace had left for the office and Miriam went to grab the pint of ice cream she hid next to the ice cubes made out of beer that Trace kept around in case his boys came over.
“Put them in your beer and it’s like it cools your beer with beer,” he’d say.
But before she could even grab a spoon, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“This is Troon, how’s your life since I did that spell?”
“Troon?! It’s shitty! My boyfriend is a cock, that cat you gave me is almost dead and eats flowers all day, I’m bored out of my mind and I keep smelling waffles everywhere,” answered Miriam, who would’ve continued on cursing Troon if he hadn’t interrupted.
“You want me to change everything back? No big deal really. I think my point has been made.”
“Point? What the hell? I don’t even know you, what point could you possibly have made?”
“That I’m a cool wizard. I’m pretty much a genie too I guess. Everyone at that Magic Expo was being such a dick and I wanted to prove that I’m… you know…a good magic man. Besides, I thought I was doing you a favour”
“Yeah I guess you’re right. Please change things back to the way they were.”
“No problem. Also, I’m writing an autobiography and I was wondering if I could use your real name in the part about you.”
“Yeah sure.”
“You’ll receive residuals if the book does well.”
“Fine.”
The book went to the top of the charts, and Miriam found herself rich again. This time she married a guy named Duane who edited commercials for a living and who fully supported Miriam’s new job as a cartographer. He was one of those guys that wore corduroy and knew everything there was to know about Joy Division.