Satire Super Short Stories

“Brenda, this obsession of yours has gotten way out of control.” Herbert Weinstock said to his wife. He was standing in his living room with his briefcase, ready to head out to work. He looked about the room with a combination of disgust and frustration.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Herb,” she replied.

“Jesus, Brenda. You’ve gotta be kidding me! It’s this obsession you have with collecting all this Barbie crap! For God’s sake! You’re fifty-seven years old. Why the hell are you still collecting these ridiculous dolls?”

Herbert pointed to the hundreds of boxed Barbie dolls that lined the shelves on almost every wall. He had known his wife collected everything Barbie-related when he married her thirty-five years earlier, but back then, her collection had been relegated to a small extra bedroom in a seldom-used area of the house. Now, Barbie paraphernalia was found in abundance in every room.

Brenda replied, “You just don’t understand Herb. You never understood. The world of Barbie isn’t simply about collecting dolls; it’s so much more than that. The thing about Barbie is it’s a… well, I suppose it’s a lifestyle.”

“Lifestyle?” Herb shouted, “More like a cult of mindless idol-worshiping minions. That’s it! It’s idolatry; that’s what it is. Brenda, you’ve become an idol-worshipping pagan!”

Brad said, “Dude, she’s not the ‘real deal.’ Nobody is the ‘real deal.’ It’s all about tricks and illusion. None of it even comes close to being real. And no matter what you might want to believe, your ‘Mistress of Black Magic’ is as phony balonie as any other sidewalk magician out there. But, I am curious to see if she’s as hot as you’ve claimed.”

“She is, Brad; maybe hotter. She’s got a set of humongous mockatushkies that won’t quit. Look, up on the front of the theater; there’s a poster with a bunch of her pictures.”

Brad approached the poster, expecting to see some cheap, less-than-attractive Elvira wannabe dressed like a vampiress with dyed black hair, dark eye makeup, and matching long black fingernails. But he was pleasantly surprised by what he saw. The poster displayed seven photos of a lovely blonde magician with blood red lipstick, who appeared to be close to six feet tall, performing various magic tricks. In each picture, she was dressed in the same stage costume. She wore shiny red thigh-high boots with four-inch elevated heels. Black fishnet stockings were held up by gold garters attached to a black and gold bustier with gold frills used to accent her abundant cleavage. She wore a red half-top with short sleeves, allowing plenty of the aforementioned cleavage to be seen. Gold and black armbands covered her elbows.

To battle this problem of cheating on Samantha, he drank quite a bit, which always loosened his lips on the matter, and resulted in Darren bedding whatever female was available in the bar. The first year, he was very suspicious of everything, human, nonhuman, animal, and even cigarette machines, he thought they were Samantha spying on him. As a matter of fact, in a state of drunkenness, Darren once took his S&W snub-nose .38 and assassinated a small black cat. 

Here in Acme City the noise can be unbearable.

For Willie, the sound of buses and trains are nothing in comparison to the noise his neighbor makes. The constant construction, the cars stuck in traffic on the overpass just outside his apartment building can be hard on one’s ears, often drowning out the television, radio. Over the last year Willie Coyote was okay with it. He learned for the most part to tune it out. Even if it was hard for Willie to concentrate on his writing.

But that neighbor and his loud jazz playing at two in the morning, the hammering and sawing. Willie hated it, but there was the one thing he heard, even in his sleep, that Willie hated more than anything was the honking.

Willie often found himself sitting at his desk stuck for a word and he would hear “Beep-beep!”

It was more than he could bear.