"No! That's not how it goes," Uncle Cyrus

"No! That's not how it goes," Uncle Cyrus told Aunt Martha. She gave him a look and left the room. As we waited for him to compose his thoughts, my cousin Jim started to tell me a

story about how his pet goldfish had tried to escape its fishbowl. Needless to say, it didn't end well. "I'm sorry to hear about Godfrey," I tell Jim, putting a hand on his arm.

Truth was, I wasn't a damn bit sorry. I hated that damn goldfish. Tears streaked down Jim's face. "He...he was...spu-special," Jim sniffled. I felt like slamming the goldfish bowl

and screaming, "NOT AS SPECIAL AS MOTHER!", but I doubted my dull brother would understand. He was only 3 months old when Mother had left, promising to return when she had done as

Rajneesh had instructed her to. He told her that she would be in his Yellow Book once she went and killed that evil man, Jimmy Hoffa. My mother tracked him. He was calling himself

Kim Jong-Un, & he was still the boss. So far, the plastic surgery had everyone fooled, & who understood Korean? Hoffa got a kick that no one realized JFK was also alive, disguised

as Humphrey Bogart, walking a line of magnesium-thin wealth in a former British colony on the distant hurtling of his pension and revisiting Hitchcock's Vertigo in the living room

by dangling a mannequin on long teflon strings under the skylight, which his wife Tippy thought was a bit much, since she did most of the dusting. "Humphrey," she said to him as sh

talked with his brother, skippy. Skippy was a pilot who had done one too many barrel rolls. "You got to help Tippy" I told him, Skippy replied, Press B to throw bombs at him-hulk