The world is crazier than most people know. But I know. I was a clinical social worker for forty years. I am a witness. I retired from social work to write about the sad, the mad, and the savage; with whom I have spent most of my life. I have decided to translate these stories into fiction, because, as a co-worker once said, "You couldn't make this sh*t up. No one would believe you."

Sunday, July 18, 2010


1. You party in saloons and don’t give a damn what anyone thinks.
You chat up youngstas as well as oldsters and find the youngstas more fun.
You want to buy a Harley.
You buy a Harley.
You grow a beard, because it’s the only hair on you that still grows.
2. You go to the church suppers but you wish at least one of those guys would ride a Harley or something, for heaven’s sake.
Some old dude with a bald head and a bushy beard roars into the local Starbucks on a Harley.
You’re wearing jeans and a T-shirt and no bra. You have always dressed this way.
The old dude has a nice butt. Must be from riding a Harley.
You’ve kept enough meat on your bones that the boobs behave and jiggle like pears on a tree, not socks on a clothesline.
The old dude forgets what coffee he wants.
So you cut in front of him in line.

3. The old dude eventually remembers what coffee he wants. He sits outside by his Harley and drinks it.
You sit outside too, because you like the fresh air, the Harley, and the dude.
You thank God for having droopy eyelids and peek undetected at the boobs over your coffee. Those girls aren’t going to jump over fences but they can still do the Macarena.
You thank God for having droopy eyelids and peek undetected at the legs under the sidewalk table. Nice basket, probably still works.
You finish your coffee. Sh*t.
You finish your coffee. Sh*t.
You get up and head for the Harley, slowly.
You remember something from years ago: the smile. You flash it.
You don’t need anything else. All has been said.
Wanna ride on my Harley?
Sure, I’d like that.
4. ROAR!!!!!

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