Saturday, March 30, 2013

Bloomberg to Declare Coffee Addictive, Shutter NYC Starbucks.

Breaking:

In a world exclusive, My Urban Fantasy has learned that Michael Bloomberg, mayor of New York*, is laying plans to declare coffee addictive and close Manhattan's approximately 200 Starbucks coffee cafes.

Said a spokesperson, who requested anonymity due to the sensitivity of the case, "Mayor Bloomberg has determined that caffeine, coffee's active ingredient, is a health hazard that the city can no longer tolerate. It's an addictive substance that controls the lives of millions of New York residents. Users awake groggy and cannot begin the day without a 'jolt' of this beverage, after which they become jittery and hyped up. Under the sway of caffeine, they descend onto our city's streets, subways and sidewalks, manifesting the aggression long identified with New Yorkers--but actually the result of coffee ingestion.

"Talking loudly, elbowing fellow citizens out of the way in order to get the last seat on public transportation and repetitive honking of vehicle horns are just a few of the negative results.
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"To make a long story short, coffee use has tarnished New York, creating the image of it as a chaotic maelstrom of aimless activity signifying nothing. Therefore, Mayor Bloomberg will be initiating an anti-caffeine campaign that will begin by closing all Starbucks. Independent coffee 'pushers' will be given thirty days to comply, after which caffeinated sodas and other sources will be banned.

"A force of at least 5,000 caffeine monitors will be hired, more than making up for the barista jobs that are lost."

*America's largest city, according to knowledgeable sources.

My Urban Fantasy

Saturday, March 9, 2013

I Farted and Scared a Burglar Away.




     I’m a very senior widow living in what was once a lovely part of Los Angeles.  The late “Mister” and I used to take long walks on summer nights without a care in the world.  Locking doors was optional, and our two young boys would often “camp out” in the backyard while we laughed at Johnnie Carson’s jokes in bed.  Today, crime is high.  I venture from my apartment only to shop and do laundry.  I have three deadbolts on the door and the only people in the yard are winos and gangbangers.
     But I keep myself busy, so don’t feel sorry for me.  My boys don’t, so why should you?  They have better things to do, like get married, divorced, married, divorced.  They’re like a couple of ping-pong balls.  You need a scorecard.  And work?  They’re just waiting for their inheritance so they can live like bums for another couple more years.

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Layla Philips is a teen mom from the wrong side of L.A.
She’s pudgy.
She’s vulgar.
And she just left her beloved baby boy in a running car
on a hot day as she dashes into a drugstore to shoplift.
But you’d be very wrong to hate her.

"Layla Philips is a teen mom to die for."

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     Oh, well, we all have our little flaws, don’t we?  And at 48 and 51, they’re still finding themselves.  One even has a great future ahead of him when he graduates from college.  Actually, those layabouts are the real reason I want to go on living as long as I can.  That’s why I pay attention to what I eat, especially fiber.  I believe a cleansing diet of beans, fruit, oat bran, raisins, and the King of Fiber, Metamucil, keeps an older person alive longer if they stick to it, like I do.
     A typical breakfast for me is Raisin Bran, whole-grain toast and a couple of bananas.  Lunch is a small can of ice-cold lima beans or meatless chili and Jell-O topped with crushed raw filberts.  For supper, I usually savor a bowl of five-bean salad followed by celery sticks and a luscious dessert of room-temperature prunes.  Then I sip on a glass of flavored Metamucil while enjoying an evening of my favorite “must-see” programs.  (I firmly believe my friends in the fiber family will add forty years to my life.  My greedy boys won’t lay me to rest until I’m 121—and they’re 88 and 91, giving them just enough time to blow their inheritance on rest homes and Depends.)
     I was viewing the third hour of Action News one evening when I was startled by a scraping noise beneath the window.  Figuring it was just a street person looking for a place to sleep, I rose to turn on the floodlights my landlady had installed.
     It was then I received the fright of my life.  A rock smashed through the window, followed by a hairy arm trying to work the latch.
     “Go away!” I shouted, but my quavering old-lady voice didn’t stop him for a moment.  I was beside myself with fear.
     Now comes the embarrassing part, why I have never told anyone this story before.  As you might imagine, my diet causes a lot of, well, intestinal gas.  Usually, I’m able to censure myself so that the air comes out—silently.  This time it emerged without warning, in three loud bangs that made me jump.  The burglar’s hairy arm withdrew in a flash, followed by the sound of breaking branches as he fled.  Apparently, the pistol-like reports I released made him think I had a gun.
     It took me a month of Sundays to recover.  Eventually, I saw it as just one more benefit of fiber.  Still, I could never bear to go public with my finding, even if it would help other seniors like me.  Maybe I’ll just pin a note to the laundromat bulletin board when nobody else is there.  Yes, that’s what I’ll do.

Sophie in Los Angeles
    


Saturday, March 2, 2013

A Ventriloquist's Dummy Talked Me Into Marriage.


    

     His name is “Benjamin Byrd” and I love him more than words can say.  Because of this wonderful woodenhead, I’m now the mother of three healthy children and the wife of a hardworking provider.
     It all started the day I met Ben’s shy, soft-spoken human pal “Cliff.”  We worked together in different departments of a huge corporation.  I first noticed him in the hallway:  tall and good-looking with a boyish quality.  I tried my girlish best to snare him into talking, but had no luck until we rode the elevator by ourselves one lunch hour.
     Cliff sputtered and stammered but was finally able to ask for a date.  I was elated.  Unfortunately, the evening became a disaster when Cliff could barely get a word out and spilled his drink on my new dress.
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She’s pudgy.

She’s vulgar.

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     I wrote off the dress and the relationship until Cliff nervously invited me to play Frisbee with him and a friend in the park.  I decided to give him one last chance, and an hour later met him sitting on a park bench.  There was a patent-leather suitcase beside him.

     “Looks like your friend is late,” I noted.
     “No, he’s right here,” Cliff stammered.  Then he eagerly opened the expensive-looking case and lifted out a wooden dummy with wavy hair, a bulbous nose and a goofy expression on his shiny face.
     The dummy’s mouth opened.  “Hi, doll!  Benjamin Byrd here.  What’s a pretty thing like you doing with old stone face?  He this week’s charity case?”
     I chuckled.  “Don’t say that.  Cliff’s a very sweet fellow.”
     “He’s sweet, all right,” Ben cackled, “sweet as a freakin’ lemon.”
     I laughed again.  Amazingly, I then proceeded to enjoy an hour’s conversation with Ben, whom I found to be witty, charming, and quite a wonderful companion.  I was impressed that Cliff’s lips didn’t move the entire time.  He was very talented.
      Over the ensuing weeks and months, Ben and I talked endlessly almost every day.  Through Ben, I came to know Cliff very well.  This magic time climaxed when Ben asked me to marry Cliff.  I’ll never forget Cliff down on one knee with Ben perched on the other.
     We were wed in a quiet civil ceremony, with Ben, of course, the best man in a tiny tuxedo I sewed for the occasion.
     We’ve been married for eight years now, with three happy kids.  (He may not be much of a talker, but there are some great things Cliff can do on his own!)  Sometimes, when we really want to get romantic, Cliff, Ben and I snuggle under a blanket in front of the fireplace—not too close to the roaring fire, of course!  Cliff and I let Benjamin do all the talking while we kiss and cuddle.