Three women go down to Mexico one night to celebrate college graduation. They get drunk and wake up in jail, only to find that they are to be executed in the morning – though none of them can remember what they did the night before.

The first one, a redhead, is strapped in the electric chair and is asked if she has any last words. She says, “I just graduated from Trinity Bible College and believe in the almighty power of God to intervene on the behalf of the innocent.” They throw the switch and nothing happens. They all immediately fall to the floor on their knees, beg for forgiveness, and release her.

The second one, a brunette, is strapped in and gives her last words. “I just graduated from the Harvard School of Law and I believe in the power of justice to intervene on the part of the innocent.” They throw the switch and again, nothing happens. Again they all immediately fall to their knees, beg for forgiveness and release her.

The last one, a blonde, is strapped in and says, “Well, I’m from the University of Texas and just graduated with a degree in Electrical Engineering, and I’ll tell ya right now, ya’ll ain’t gonna electrocute nobody if you don’t plug this thing in.”

As the crowded elevator descended, Mrs. Simpson became too furious with her husband, who was delighted to be pressed against a gorgeous blonde. As the elevator stopped at the main floor, the blonde suddenly whirled, slapped Mr Simpson, and said, “That will teach you to pinch!” Bewildered, Mr Simpson was halfway to the parking lot with his wife when he choked, “I…I…didn’t pinch that girl.” “Of course you didn’t” said his wife, consolingly. “I did.”

A small bang sounded. A little squeak slipped past Kara’s lips. Her husband thrust again. Kara’s head cracked against the headboard a second time.


His eyes were closed in concentration. His breathing was ragged. Their pelvises met. Kara braced herself. She felt her hair brush the cast iron decorations above her but she avoided a bruise. She squirmed her ass down the bed as he withdrew in a vain effort to gain a few inches.


He grunted and thrust. Bang.



“That hurts.”

“It does?”

She rubbed her bruised crown. “Yeah, can you scoot down a little?”

His face took on a ruddy color. He smiled sheepishly. “Oh.”

They wiggled down the bed together. Kara remained impaled. They kissed briefly and then Clark resumed his steady slide, bump, slid, bump pace. Kara’s ass edged up the bed with every thrust. The arch of her pelvis was beginning to feel a little bruised. The whole experience was, ordinary.

She moaned to cover her yawn.

With her utterance he groaned too. His thrusts became erratic. He impaled her and just kept pushing before withdrawing and impaling her again. His lips were pulled back in an odd little snarl and the arms that could manage hundred pushups without giving out, trembled. Sweat dripped from his brow.

It landed in Kara’s eye. She hissed in pain. She squeezed her eyes shut and they both teared up. A few dozen heartbeats passed.

Clark rolled off her.

“Ow, ow, ow, Clark! My leg!”


“Be careful!”


She huffed and climbed out of bed to wash off. His gaze tailed her bare ass. Even though their one-year anniversary was next month, pink tinged her cheeks. Clark sighed when she closed the bathroom door. She ignored it.

Clark left to clean up when Kara had returned in her flannel pajamas. She rolled away from him. She pretended to be asleep. Clark settled in, his back turned to her.

Minutes ticked by. Red, liquid crystal numbers burnt into the retina of Kara’s watery eyes. At eleven-eleven, Clark began to snore.

Kara fished her tablet out from her bookshelf nightstand. She played Tetris until the unsatisfied ach between her legs went away.

The next morning was gym, shower, Carharts and shirt for him. Gym, shower, white blouse and blue-jeans for her. Three eggs and toast for him. A bagel with strawberry cream-cheese for her. They kissed. He pinched. She squealed. It wasn’t real.

Half way through their second cup of coffee, Clark set down his cup. He leaned towards her on his elbows. “Kara, what’s your fantasies?”

Kara’s coffee was at her lips. She sipped too much and burnt her tongue. “My what?”

“Your fantasies? What do you think of when we have sex?”

“Really? Clark, is this the time to talk about that?”


She reached over and grabbed his plate. She got up, opened the dishwasher and began to clear the table. Her dark ponytail whipped about her about her with the jerky hast of her motions. “Clark, you got t’ go to work.”

“Kara, sit down. We need to talk about this.”

She ignored his request.

“Kara, please, sit.”

She sat. She picked up her cup and hid behind it. “I don’t know. I don’t really have any fantasies. What are yours?”

“Right now? That would have to be for you to enjoy sex with me.”

“I do.”

“You do what?”

“Enjoy sex. With you. We had sex like three times last week and once already this week.”

“No you don’t. You just endure it.”

She mumbled into her cup. “Well it is kind o’ the same every time.”

Clark leaned back and crossed his arms. His lips twitched as though he were suppressing a grin. “It wouldn’t have to be the same every time if you’d just tell me your fantasies.”

Kara’s cup banged down onto the table harder than she’d intended. Coffee sloshed over the rim. “It would be nice if I could just let go and enjoy it. But how can I?

“I’m always wondering if this is the time I’m going to get pregnant and how we are going to pay for that when we can’t afford our mortgage? Or what my mom is doing with that new boyfriend of hers or how dad is just doing. To top it off, I always end up bruised somewhere.” She rubbed the crown of her head.

Clark leaned forward and put his palm over her trembling hand. She scrubbed her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse.

“Kara, it’s okay. Don’t cry, baby. I – I wasn’t trying to upset you I just — I — Kara, this is hard for me too.”

She sniffed.

“How?” There was a note of derision in her voice.

“I’m sorry. We can talk about this later, if you like.”

“I want, I want, I want to have no choice.”

Clark drew back. “You mean like rape?”

“No! Not like rape. I mean like, like I have no choice but to enjoy it. Like we are the only people in the world. Like there is nothing. Nothing but you and me. Nothing but you loving me. Even when I want it, something interrupts.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t see. How could you? You always come.”

Clark chuckled. “That’s because you are so hot.”

Kara shot to her feet. Her chair toppled. Clark caught her hand to prevent her from leaving. She scowled at him.

“Let go!”


“You’re going to be late.”

“I’ve got ten minutes.”

Her small breasts heaved. Her breath hissed past her jutting lip and fluttered her bangs. She righted her chair and sat back down.

“Okay, Clark, what do you want?”

“I want to help you.”

“Clark,” she growled.

“Okay, if I can make it so all you can think about is the sex, will you do it?”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I’ve got this MP3. It’s about an hour long. I want you to listen to it tonight while we have sex.”

“Clark, we had sex last night!”

“Okay, tomorrow night.” She frowned at him. “Or the night after, or, whenever the next time we do it is.”

“What do my ears have to do with sex?” She blushed. She knew exactly what her ears had to do with sex. Clark, however, seemed to have forgotten. He hadn’t nipped them for at least six months; pretty much since the honeymoon.

When they were engaged, a gentle nibble on her earlobe, at the right time, was Clark’s key to getting her out of her pants. She’d thrashed on his shaft the first time after their wedding when he’d bitten her ear. She’d also screamed.

He’d thought he’d hurt her.

“It’ll isolate you.” He poked her forehead. “It’ll block out invading thoughts. It might just inspire a few more appropriate to the moment.”

She stared at him. He stared back, his brow furrowed and his head kind of wiggled. Her lips quirked into a half smile.

She stuck out her tongue and looked away. “Okay, we can do it tonight, but only tonight.”

“Why only tonight? What if it works?”

“If it works, we’ll see.”

“Good—uh—now—got t’ go. Goin’ t’ be late for work.”

“Told y’!”

“I know,” Clark called just as the door banded shut.

That night she stepped out of the master-bath in her flannel pajamas. The dreamy look on Clark’s face slipped.

“Uh, what about?”

She shot him an innocent smile. “It’s cold? They’re comfy? It’s not supposed to be easy?”

The smile returned to Clark’s face. If she didn’t know better she’d have said there was a slight spring in his step as he left to brush his teeth.

Kara slipped into bed. She slid down until her heels rested on the toe-board of their California King. She bent her head back to look at the headboard. It was still too close.

Her height had deprived her of many potential dates before she’d been married. She’d met Clark her freshman year of college. He’d been the first boy man enough to get into her pants.

They’d been at a summer frat party. She’d just finished her last final of sophomore year at college. The drunk sorority girls had been skinny dipping. Clark had thrown her in with them. In the water fight that followed they’d both lost their clothes. Since they’d been making out all night no one seemed to notice when she wrapped herself about him yet again. He’d plugged her for the very first time.

She hadn’t come in the pool. She had five times, later that night, while dreaming of it while she’d played with Princess Sofia, her pink vibrator. That night had been the hottest night of her life.

Not so the rash that had followed.

The bed moved. He eyes snapped open. Clark leaned over and kissed her.

“Hi.” He waved the MP3 player and earbuds at her.

“Hi.” She shot him a toothy grin. She pulled the blankets up to her throat.

“Okay playful. I suppose I have to do everything.” He fumbled an earbuds into her closest ear.She didn’t turn her head to help him with the other until he growled at her.His fingers on her lobes sent little shivers down her spine.

“Okay,” he said, “I’m going t’ turn it on. It needs to be loud enough it’s all you can hear but not so loud it hurts your ears. If it’s too loud, tell me.” He turned it on, found the file he wanted and hit play.

For the first many heartbeats there was nothing. No static. No sound. She arched an eyebrow at her husband. Then a symphony of violins gently crescendoed. It grew louder and louder until it was all she could hear. She loved violins. She smiled and settled her head back.

Clark eased down beside her. She stiffened, expecting his hand to snake in under here defenses. Nothing happened. She watched Clark watch her. The violins played on.

Bill Gates is now one of the world’s wealthiest individuals, but he didn’t earn his fortune in a straight line to success. Gates entered the entrepreneurial scene with a company called Traf-O-Data, which aimed to process and analyze the data from traffic tapes (think of it like an early version of big data).

He tried to sell the idea alongside his business partner, Paul Allen, but the product barely even worked. It was a complete disaster. However, the failure did not hold Gates back from exploring new opportunities, and a few years later, he created his first Microsoft product, and forged a new path to success.


Everyone wants to be a Frogman on Friday. One of my favorite quotes from the Teams, because it applies to everyone and every goal.

To use SEAL training as an example, 80-85 percent don’t see the third day of hell week, let alone the last day of training. It takes a lot of work to even show up for day one, but it doesn’t take much to end it. All you have to do is say “I quit”, ring the bell in the picture three times, and it’s over. There is paperwork later, but in essence, that is the end.

All SEAL training is really about is pushing people to their lowest point, and watching the decisions they make. When you are at your lowest point, tired, hungry, cold…do you give in and take the easy way out? During the most difficult portions of training, the instructors bring the bell with them, to make it that much more enticing and easy to quit. It sits right there, in plain sight, always ready for the next taker.

I have noticed that most people focus on the illusion of the shiny object, not the reality of what it takes to achieve it.

The amateur can only see the end state. The professional focuses on the fundamentals and incremental progress. If you think the “bell” doesn’t exist in your life, your eyes are closed. It is everywhere.

The only difference between the BUD/s bell and everywhere else, is that in BUD/s, when you ring it, the outcome is instantaneous. Laziness, procrastination, selfishness, lack of discipline, you fill in the blank…all small rings of the bell. The bell is everywhere, and it is always calling you. Ring it enough times and you will find yourself looking back filled with regret.

Everyone wants to be a Frogman on Friday, but you will never get there if you give in on Tuesday.

I know the sound of the bell haunts many men, don’t let the decisions you make when things get difficult end up haunting you.

So when I was a kid, I would race up to the top of the stairs as fast as I could, like it was some sort of silly game. Well, I must have been five or six at the time. I’m not sure, but I know I was very little. Somewhere along the way, a voice at the top of the stairs started to whisper to me. It would make bets with me, such as… “I bet you a penny you can’t make it to the top of the stairs.” I don’t really think there was a certain amount of time or anything. As I said, I was very little so I probably didn’t have any counting abilities anyway. Ha. I recall just sitting at the top of the stairs, having conversations with this voice, about the betting, of course. :p

Eventually the voice (it was like a whisper of a man’s voice, not my own voice in my head) started to bet me my life.

Instead of pennies, it’d say “I bet you your life you can’t make it up the stairs blah blah.”

As I got older it stopped. I never really thought about it at all. I never mentioned it to anyone… UNTIL one night I was sleeping over at my brother’s place (I was about eighteen, he was twenty-two) and we were talking about “spooky” stories. Out of nowhere I brought up the “voice at the top of the stairs” and my brother got all quiet and weird. Before I even mentioned the betting aspect, he said “Did it make bets with you?”

We both looked at eachother, horrified. It certainly was freaky after the fact. *shudder*

A lot of bad shit went down in my family at that period of time in my life, and my mother, a heavily religious lady, said there was a lot of “evil” in our lives at that time.

I don’t at all think our place was haunted, btw, it was built in the late 70’s and as I got older, I never experienced anything like that again.

There’s Something on The Stairs.

Once upon a time, there was an island where all the feelings lived: Happiness, Sadness, Knowledge, and all the others, including Love. One day it was announced to the feelings that the island would sink, so all constructed boats and left. Except for Love.

Love was the only one who stayed. Love wanted to hold out until the last possible moment. When the island had almost sunk, Love decided to ask for help.

Richness was passing by Love in a grand boat. Love said, “Richness, can you take me with you?”

Richness answered, “No, I can’t. There is a lot of gold and silver in my boat. There is no place here for you.”

Love decided to ask Vanity who was also passing by in a beautiful vessel. “Vanity, please help me!”

“I can’t help you, Love. You are all wet and might damage my boat,” Vanity answered.

Sadness also passed close by, so Love asked, “Sadness, let me go with you.”

“Oh . . . Love, I am so sad that I need to be by myself!”

Happiness passed by Love, too, but she was so happy that she did not even hear when Love called her.

Suddenly, there was a voice, “Come, Love, I will take you.” It was an elder.

So blessed and overjoyed, Love even forgot to ask the elder where they were going. When they arrived at dry land, the elder went his own way. Realizing how much she owed to the elder, Love asked Knowledge, another elder, “Who helped me?”

“It was Time,” Knowledge answered.

“Time?” asked Love. “But why did Time help me?”

Knowledge smiled with deep wisdom and answered, “Because only Time is capable of understanding how valuable Love is.”

Where it hit my head as i stood on the sidelines?

Why would i grab the ball in reflex? More then anything, why would R come to collect it?
‘Ball, please,’ she said, panting. I felt paralysed.
‘I said ball, please,’ she said. I had on to the ball for aan extra half second. I wanted to look at her a bit longer. I wanted to take a snapshot of her sweaty face and store it in my mind’s camera for life. I threw the ball at her. She caught it with ease and looked at me. She could tell from my throw that i knew the game.
‘ change your point shooter’, I said. For some reason, i had managed to speak in correct english this time.
‘What?’ she said. She surveyed me from top to bottom. I now wished i had worn better clothes. I had not changed out of my interview shirt ant pants, both of which the tailor back home had stitched too loose for me. I looked out of place on the basketball court. With my folder of certificates, i resembled a hero from those hindi films of the seventies- the one who could not find a job. I have a bihar state team T-shirt, I wanted to tell her. Of course, in the middle of a game, and as a first conversation, this a terrible idea.
‘your shooter is useless,’ i said.
The referee whisteled to commence the game. She turned away and forgot about me faster then her throw reached her team mamber. ‘here, pass it to me,’ R shouted as she reached the opposition basket. Her point shooter held the ball and looked around, confused. ‘I said here,’ R screamed so loudly that pigeons flew off the trees in the lawns. The point shooter passed the ball, R cought it and took a shot from well beyond the three-point line.
Whoosh! The ball went through the basket. The crow cheered. They already had a soft spot for R anyway.
The refree annouced a break at ten-minute mark. The college team led 12-5. R huddled with her team, figuring out their strategy for the next half. As her team meeting ended, she wiped her face and neck with a towel.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I forgot i had my own trail in less than an hour. I only wanted to figure out a way to talk to her a bit more. May be i could tell her she played well. I wondered how to tell har about my state-level game without coming across as a show-off, And, more then anything, how would i go beyond five words of english? She caught me staring. I wanted to kill myself. She continued to look directly at me, the towel still around her neck. Then she walked up to me. A shiver ran down my spine.
I didn’t mean to stare, i wanted to tell her. I wondered if she would scream at me like she had done during the match.
‘Thanks,’R said.
She had walked across the court to thank me?
She had breathing hard. My eyes were glued to hers.
Look away, rahul, i scolded myself and turned away.
‘That was a good tip,’ she said to my left profile.
‘Welcome….you…are….good,’ i said. Uttering each word was like lifting a brick.
‘Any other suggestion for the second half? We’re losing.’
‘yes’, i said, turning to face her again. I wanted to give her more tips, but couldn’t in english. ‘You speak hindi?’ i said.
She looked baffled. Nobody in st. Stephen’s had asked anyone that question.
‘well, yeah, of course,’she said.
‘okay’, i said, and explained in my language,’they have two strong players. Cover them tight. Dont fix formations for your players. Two of yours should move with them. You become the shooter. Of the other two, one is your defence, the other supports you.’
the wistle blew again.
‘Got to go,’ she said.’catch you later.’
the match started. The refree’s wistle, the sound of the player’s shoes as they run across the court, the shrieks, the yells and the cries of victory and defeat-few things in life match the excitment of a sports court. Basketball, underrated as it might be in this country, packs it all in half hour. I cannot understand why indians don’t play this game more. It doesn’t take too much space, doesn’t need much equipment and a big group can play it all at once.
‘Yes!’ she screamed as she scored a basket. The ball went in without touching the ring, making the most beautiful sound in a basketball game-the soft ‘chaak’ when only the net touches the ball. Sweat dripped off her face as she ran back to her side of the court.
The match ended 21-15. The newbies had lost, but still kept pace with the college team- a considerable achievement. R, however seemed disappointed. She wiped her face with a towel and picked up her blue nike kitbag. A few boys tried to make eye contact with her but she ignored them. I wanted to speak to her. Hawever,no boy from the dumraon(my home town) has ever had guts to approach a high-class girl from delhi. I wanted her to watch my game. There was nothing else i could impress her with. Coach piush went up to her. They became engrossed in a conversation. This was my chance.
Now my love life started, this is full of suspance and love and pain,

These 4 gents go out to play golf one sunny morning. One is detained in the clubhouse, and the other three are discussing their children while walking to the first tee.
“My son Kent,” says one, “has made quite a name for himself in the home-building industry. He began as a carpenter, but now owns his own design and construction firm. He’s so successful in fact, in the last year he was able to give a good friend a brand new home as a gift.”

The second man, no to be out done, tells how his son began his career as a car salesman, but now owns a multi-line dealership. “Norm’s so successful, in fact, in the last six months he gave his friend two brand new cars as a gift.”

The third man’s son, Greg, has worked his way up through a stock brokerage, and in the last few weeks has given a good friend a large stock portfolio as a gift.

As the fourth man arrives at the tee, another tells him that they have been discussing their progeny and asks what line his son is in.

“To tell the truth, I’m not very pleased with how my son turned out,” he replies. “For 15 years, Chico’s been a hairdresser, and I’ve just recently discovered he’s gay. However, on the bright side, he must be good at what he does because his last three boyfriends have given him a brand new house, two cars, and a big pile of stock certificates.”

I tell my father about the way
I collect small things
in the sacs of my heart—

thick juniper berries
apple cores that retain their shape
and the click of shells
that sound like an oven baking.

He presses the mole on my shoulder
that matches his shoulder,
proof that I was not found
at the bottom of the sea.

I also got his feet, far from
Cinderella’s dainty glass slippers—
and fingers, too wide for most

Cracker Jack wedding rings.
I read how some mammals never
forget their young—

their speckled spots, odd goat
cries, or birthmarks on curved
ivory tusks. There must be some
thread of magic there

cooling honey to stone—where
like recognizes like or how
a rib seeks its twin

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