Kevin Alonzo Bratcher
My girlfriend said I couldn't use Marcus Twainey as my pen name.
Crafting My Way to My Dream Job
Big scissors. Big ole scissors. Those big ole honkin’ scissors you see cutting ribbons for the grand opening of hotels, restaurants, railroads, or anything exciting and majestic. Where do you think they keep those scissors? Grand openings are a rare occurrence and one befitting a ribbon… even more rare. Do we think there is one pair that travels from New York to Miami to London gracing the world with their elegance? I tend to think there is, and do you know what that means? They have a caretaker. Someone who’s existence is dedicated to protecting them, making them shine, so they in turn, can make the moment shine even brighter – and that is my dream job.
Armpit Biters is an odd statement on the surface, I know, but maybe you need to dig a little deeper. Honestly, it doesn’t get any less odd, but we’ll go there nonetheless. Before diving into the philosophical meaning behind such a declaration, let’s take it at face value. Can you even bite an armpit? A pit inherently means a void of some sort exists, not exactly tangible. You cannot bite a hole or a crevice, I think the same logic applies here. We’ll have to make the illogical leap together to move past the fallacies of the literal meaning.
Big Carrot and My Covert Operation
I wouldn’t call it love at first sight. Contempt is probably a better word, although I doubt you hear that trope as frequently.
I Yam What I Yam
I blame Bruce. I’m sure this issue is deeper and more complex than just Bruce, but he gets the bulk of my ire. Now I just need to figure out which Bruce.
Watson came to in the rusty dumpster behind Pal’s lounge with a splitting headache and a sore ankle. He started piecing together how he got there when he noticed his head was covered in dried blood. Must have really irked someone in the bar, he thought, something Watson tended to do after a few pints of Guinness. He felt the small gash above his eye and decided he was fine; the eyebrow area would bleed vociferously from a paper cut. It looked worse than it was. Climbing to his knees he began to take inventory of his surroundings. It was all trash: newspapers, beer cans, a shredded leather barstool seat, exactly what you’d expect to find in a dumpster behind a dive bar. While stumbling to his feet Watson noticed a small plastic container near the corner. It was somehow wedged there so that it wouldn’t come out during any trash pickups. Watson shuffled over and wiggled it free; he fell backwards into the trash heap when he realized what it was.