Overheard

"That guy was a tall motherfucker."

"Now, that's just a stereotype. Not all of us tall guys do that sort of thing. First of all, it was my sister. Secondly, it was just the tip."

Making Friends

Caleb was deep in thought; had been for minutes now. Then his eyes lit up like he had an epiphany. I imagined a light bulb illuminating above his head.

"I think I need a black friend," he said to me, as if he had come to a weighty conclusion after much deliberation. He might as well have declared that he needed to move more of his investments into bonds or that he needed a new toaster. He said it calmly, seemingly after much deliberation.

"Why?" I said, because I couldn't think of a better response.

"I was just thinking. I have you and you're Asian, well Chinese to be exact."

I nodded. No argument there.

"There's Sarah, who's Jewish. Then there's Jorge--"

"Jorge's your landscaper."

"We go out for a beer once in a while," he said, which apparently made them good friends. "The fact is, I have no black friends. Why is that?"

"Because you live in New Hampshire. You're lucky you have me as a friend. You're ahead of the curve."

"I'm just not trying hard enough. Diversity. That's where it's at. I need a black friend."

He seemed resolute in this statement.

"So you have an affirmative action friend-making system now?"

"Sure, why not?"

"You're one crazy cracker."

Cat Skinning and Other Hobbies

Joe had spent nearly an hour digging at the cold hard ground with his hoe in a doomed attempt to remove the tree stump. He was drenched in sweat and tired and sore, but all he had managed to accomplish was clear the soil around the foot wide trunk.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and threw the hoe down onto the lawn.

"You gonna give me a hand or what?" he asked Ben, who laughed.

"Who, me? No way." He swatted away some dirt that had clung onto his shirt from Joe's last swing.

Joe grunted and picked up a pickaxe and swung it at the stump near it's base. He wedged it under a large root and using a rock as leverage, tried to wedge the trunk loose a bit more. But it was useless. Futile.

"Well, there's more than one way to skin a cat," he said as he threw the pickax into the large pile of garden tools, none of which have had any success.

"What cat?" asked Ben.

"Huh?" Joe started walking to the shed. Ben followed.

"What cat are you skinning? You making a hat? A scarf?"

"You realize you're an idiot right?"

"Seriously, that must be one of the most nonsensical sayings around. I mean, on any given day, what person would be faced with not only the task of skinning a cat, but also the conundrum of finding alternates methods for it."

"Mmhmm." He was used to Ben's ranting and was already rummaging through the shed for current problem. Meanwhile, Ben continued his tirade against idioms in the English language outside on the grass.

"I mean, why not 'There's more than one way to murder a hobo'? Or, milk a spider monkey? Or--"

He was interrupted by the loud revving sound that was emitting from the chainsaw Joe brought out of the shed.

"You keep thinking about that while I take care of this stump."