Steven Bridenbaugh
Stories (3/0)
Donald.Trump.Is.Dead
I’m sitting on a bench, just off the rough of hole number 6, at Trump’s golf course. The Secret Service just hauled away the body. They told me to clean up the mess on the ground, but I don’t think I will. I don’t want to be infected with the same worm that consumed him. There’s probably eggs in that pile of poop. I’m still trying to process the events of the last hour. Actually, all the things that have happened, ever since I knew the Donald. He was one of the most arrogant bastards I have ever worked for. In a way, I loved him.
By Steven Bridenbaugh3 years ago in The Swamp
Beatrix. Bipolar. Barista
You can't begin to tell me why I should keep up this whole charade. The last time I came home, fed the cat, cleaned up the dirty dishes left in the sink, picked up all the empty beer bottles, turned off the television, and then got into bed and shagged you, I fantasized about getting on an old Yankee Clipper, and flying away to Hong Kong or whatever, and never having to see this place again. That's where I really am, metaphorically speaking. I'm the Dragon Lady, and Uncle Stevie will never catch me. I slither in my silk robes. I read tea leaves, and my fingers race over the abacus, as I sing a sad song. Metaphors are more important than you think.
By Steven Bridenbaugh3 years ago in Families
The Big Kahuna
I must admit that, from an early stage of my life, I have been obscenely rich. I grew up in San Diego, and spent my youth doing whatever I wished. I had my own rock and roll band. I grew my hair long, bleached it blond, and surfed all summer. I rarely wore a shirt. I had several classic Ford "woodies," a bungalow for my personal use on the beach, and partied endlessly. My parents were largely absent. They enjoyed traveling a lot.
By Steven Bridenbaugh3 years ago in Humans