Short funny shorts, p.1
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       Short Funny Shorts, p.1

           Steve B Howard
 
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Short Funny Shorts


  Short Fun Shorts

  a collection of short stories

  by Steve B Howard

  Copyright 2010 Steve Howard

  Darwinism in Hot Pants

  Boy at bus stop, (17), smiles away at the pretty girl,(16), in silver retro-refit Go-Go's and flaming red mini, long brown hair matched to big brown eyes, pituitary gland murmurs PERFECT. But all goes array when smile is rejected. Surely he brushed his teeth this morning didn't he?

  *****

  Girl stares and goes defensive, first-love instinct survival mode, he's cute, cute at least from the spiky blond hair down to the deep set blue sparklers, but beyond, Oh my, are those a set of teeth or lemon rinds?

  *****

  A setback, a quick clamping of the jaw to hide the offending chompers. What now? A word to recover, or even a phrase, but how? How to utter the next line of his hormonal poem without opening one's mouth? Then a flash. IDEA! One quick word with mouth barely open, "Hi"

  *****

  Oh dear, Cuteness returns with a vengeance. Calculations, Considerations, a small connection attempted, Reconsider, Blue Sparklers Revisited Briefly, Nanoseconds. How to return salutations coyly, but not too coyly, and a little coldly, BUT NOT TOO COLDLY!!! Time to encourage cautiously and begin building barriers. "Hi."

  *****

  Male triggers and mechanisms tripped, she bit, (Didn't she?) one word returned and now how to keep the dialog rolling? He, feeling over-confident, play the cool card, draws Mr. Marlboro and in offer one word romantic says, "Smoke?"

  *****

  And again Oh dear, alarms ringing, this time mother and father's, warnings of bad girls smoking on street corners wearing retro fit Go-Go's and flaming minis, Or scratch that, oh well, anyway, bad girls and bad boys at bad bus stops lead to bad things, right? (BUT) Mommy and Daddy pushed aside, (an opening, new opportunities) A junkie Prince Charming bearing rusty old Reeboks instead of glass slippers. A chance to slip the parental noose and spin mommy and daddy's heads out of the 50's. "I don't smoke," a rejection. "What's your name?" An invitation.

  *****

  Cigarette goes away, two words so far, one more to go and he's in, now only to find the answer, "Rocky," he says.

  *****

  And so they launch into a mutual state of Social Darwinist Dynamics, lean forward lips poised to seal the teenage fever, seconds click as they move closer, Mommy and Daddy's padded little world so close to crumbling, but then, Uh Oh, FATE intervenes, long brown hair, big brown eyes, retro refit Go-Goes, and flaming red mini pull back. A number comes towards them, 405. "That's my bus, gotta go, nice to meet you though."

  *****

  And so, one word romantic struck down gives a defeated wave and an almost tear, until into the corner of his big blue sparklers a foxy brunette in Leopard print pants did appear.

  Unfurled Ego

  “Remember you are the instructor, and therefore superior in intellect; control them.” I have heard this year’s freshman class is the epitome of academic ignorance. “I will show them who’s in charge this year.”

  Finishing my morning duty I notice with satisfaction that the inside of the stall has been painted dark blue to prevent graffiti. I stop to adjust my red bow tie in the mirror for the third time. Many of my colleagues believe wearing a bow tie and suit everyday is an outdated fashion faux pas. But they are unable to understand the Machiavellian reasoning behind my choice in attire. By wearing clothes that make me appear weak I focus attention away from my strengths. Present your weak side to the wolves and they will never see your horns until it is to late.

  “Now Straugheister, stroll confidentially down the hall and take charge of your freshman algebra class,” I think to myself. As I leave the men’s room I hear a few laughs directed at me from the few students lingering in the hallway. They are laughing at my suit and bow tie no doubt. I will give them a slight military bearing as I saunter to my classroom. “Yes, by God it’s my classroom.” I am not a large man, and due to my glasses and early hair loss not a very imposing one either. Having studied the great military leaders such as Napoleon, I believe attitude and intellect are far more important than stature.

  With a confident thrust I enter my classroom. I stand there in the doorway grilling my students to unnerve them. A quick scan confirms all twenty-seven students are here. Sensing their fear and nervousness I march to the chalkboard. I write my name in large crisp letters across the board. "A STRAUGHEISTER!" And then I hear it.

  “Giggling. Do my ears deceive me? I’ll whirl on them, spin one hundred and eighty degrees and retake control. I hope I scare the stupid brats back to elementary school,” I think to

  myself.

  I turn quickly and stare down the first student I see. The little O’donner is about to burst with laughter. I stare with one eyebrow slightly raised, eyes fixated on an invisible point in the back of the room, force your will upon them, force your will upon them. Mathematics is serious and children must be disciplined to learn it.

  I turn back to the chalkboard, and rapidly write out a complex equation meant to demonstrate my brilliance, and intimidate my indigent students. Suddenly the class is gushing peels of laughter. “This is too much, the walls are closing in, my bow ties choking me, must get out, must get out.”

  I rush from the classroom slamming the door behind me. As I am fleeing down the hall I feel the long piece of toilet paper yank from my pants, where it slowly unfurls onto the empty

 
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