Monday, June 24, 2013

Saved from the Supermoon

The New York Times said the moon races around the Earth in a sort of a circle, sometimes coming closer and sometimes farther away.
If they say so.

They called it the Supermoon because it was getting closer to the Earth.

The people in my building were skeptical about the moon. We were convinced the Supermoon was on a course to smash into the Earth, probably in Times Square.

The people in my building were right to be frightened.

New Yorkers have cause for concern.

 We have scientists and professors and retired doctors living in our building. We're smart, educated. We recycle.
We ain't dumb.

We took a keg to the roof and chanted and banged on pots and pans and drank the beer. 
Not Gregorian chanting

There are no astronomers living in the building, but if there were I’m sure they would have agreed with us and joined us on the roof.
Mr. Sagan agreeing with me from an alternate reality

We chanted and banged and drank until the moon went back into its orbit and all danger passed.
We all deserve to feel safe.

We do not expect the people of Earth to thank us. Superheroes do not wait around for gratitude.
A donut and cup of coffee might be nice.

We just do what needs to be done, touch the brim of our ten gallon cowboy hat, and ride off into the East River, hi ho, Silver away.
You’re welcome.

Thank you for reading. Next time?

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Sunday, June 16, 2013

Rejected Father’s Day Cards

My children passed up some great cards when selecting my Happy Father’s Day greeting. Thanks kids. I love you too. Let’s do lunch.

Here are the ones they didn't send me:

Dear Dad, Mom and I are sending Happy Father’s Day greetings even though I know you say you were nowhere near Poughkeepsie twelve years ago.

Dear Daddy, I am fine. I hope you are fine. I hope they show you my card when you wake up.

Happy Father’s Day. I mailed your card late. I hope it gets there before the injection.

Dear Dad, You mean so much to me and I want to follow in your footsteps, but you’ve covered your tracks so well I can’t find them. Please text me.

Hi Pops, Just want to let you know Mom and I have been fine since you left to get a newspaper and cigarettes. Happy Father’s Day wherever you are.

Yo, Daddio. Like, whassup, dude? It's Father's Day. Ain't that far out? Can you loan me twenty?

Dear Father. The judge says even if I look like the mailman, you have to pay.

Hey Pops, Remember how you always thought it was funny to say “Write when you get work?” Well, seriously, write when you get work. Mom and I can use the cash.

Dear Father, I don’t believe in the “pull my finger” trick any more. I found out you can fart whenever you want. Thanks for disillusionment.

Dearest Father, I hope to retain all the values you have passed on to me. In particular I like the value of the trust fund you set up last year. Will you be adding to it?

Dear Dad, I hope you are having a good time at the convention in Toledo. Please don’t bring me a T-shirt.

Thanks, kids, for tolerating your old man.

And thank you for reading. See you again?

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Monday, June 10, 2013

I Was a Spy for the NSA

Facebook and Google are coming clean about cooperating with the NSA.
Not necessarily someone connected to this story. He went to Hong Kong. A long way to get Chinese food.

Before Bob Woodward or Walter Winchell tell you, it’s time you knew that for the past twenty-two years The Lunatic Assylum has thought of itself as a front for the NSA.
Not the real NSA office.

You would find out anyway.Some of the loonies at the Assylum go out in the rain and yell. Most of what they shriek is incomprehensible. But they can pronounce NSA. It rhymes with U.S.A! Which we all shout during Springsteen concerts.
I was born in the USA. I live in The Lunatic Assylum.

This confession won’t be in my book this fall. Only my relatives and kids will be reading my book. And they’ll only pretend to read it because I’ll give them one for Christmas and Chanukah.

The NSA was impressed when I said I’d spy for them. I voluntarily printed out all my emails and text messages and Internet posts from Facebook and Google+ and Twitter for the past 37 years (two reams of paper, four black ink cartridges and one color).

I went to the NSA office in Times Square. (Don’t look for it. It’s behind that big screen. ) And piled it on their desk.
The camera is in the button hole.

I had dropped the pile on the subway and the pages got mixed up. The dates weren’t in order. People helped me pick them up. A few papers ended up on the tracks with the rats. I said to hell with those. The NSA can go get them if they want them.

The woman at NSA said I should alphabetize them. I asked if they had interns to do that. They don't.
So if you’ve ever sent me an email or received one from me—or had any Internet or cell phone connection with me—I suggest you go to Times Square and turn yourself in. Take the 2/3 subway train to 42nd Street and walk a block. Stand in the center of the triangle. (It’s not really square—that’s a spy way to throw people off their trail.)

Stand in the street and yell, “I’m mad as a March Hare, and I’m not going to bake it anymore.” Someone in a uniform is sure to show up.
Be patient.

It’s better than waiting for Fox News or CNN to report it. O'Reilly won't be gentle. The cover-up is always the worst part.
It feels good to get that off my chest. Now the loonies and I can get on with our Monopoly game.
And I can get my Chinese food in Brooklyn instead of Hong Kong.

Thanks for reading. See you next time?

<a rel=“author” href=“”>Timothy Hurley</a>

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