The other day, I received an urgent phone call from the Antarctic immortal, Emilio. At first, I dismissed this as a prank call. Oftentimes, Emilio drinks a very strong homemade brew and then calls us up, pretending to be famous historical figures from the past. I suspect that when he finds himself in these drunken stupors, he fails to realize that we are the immortals and not the famous people we once knew, who are long gone. Continue reading “Immortal Intervention”
Don’t get too excited. There are seven of us. One for each continent. Obviously.
We gather every June, at Devil’s Island, for our annual meeting. We selected this island purely for the irony of it all. Our Australian representative thought Easter Island would be equally as ironic, but he’s an idiot and majority rules. Besides, we didn’t want anyone to mistake our immortality for anything religious. It’s purely scientific. Continue reading “Immortally Yours”
I knew the instant the homeless man appeared on our subway train with a trash bag full of something that my afternoon was about to become interesting.
My wife and I, along with my mother-in-law, were on the train heading out of San Francisco. We had spent the day touring around, and – it being my first time there – I had enjoyed myself quite a bit. Continue reading “For the Birds”
I talk to myself, and it no longer bothers me when someone catches me self-conversing. I even look forward to those moments. When it happens, I continue self-conversing, while staring at the person looking at me until he grows uncomfortable, hurriedly gets into his vehicle, and speeds out of the grocery store parking lot. I win! Continue reading “Self-Conversing”
Please don’t call on me, I kept thinking. Please don’t call on me.
Before the 8th grade, math had made sense. Math problems involved numbers that were either added, subtracted, divided, or multiplied. Oftentimes, you would perform a few of those functions in a logical order to come up with an answer. Life made sense. Continue reading “A Pain in the Math”
“I hate your stupid Appalachian Trail pants,” said my wife, as we were heading south on the Jersey Turnpike. “Your phone probably slipped right out of the cheap fabric pocket and is sitting on the men’s room floor as we speak.”