Cyrano Comes Clean (standard:humor, 306 words)
Author: Cyrano	Added: Jan 09 2009	Views/Reads: 3064/0	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
It's time for Cyrano to own up to his indiscretions and become an author

Why does arthritis attack the joints I care most about? I ask this
sitting here with my double whiskey chaser, contemplating my future 
having just been fired from my job for a trivial matter—stationary 
theft and tea money fraud—and considering starting up on my own.  I'm 
sixty, losing my hair, cultivating ways to extend my belly, and needing 
spectacles to read. My hobbies are playing air guitar—Money For 
Nothing—and butt kissing, which I've perfected since being twelve. I'm 
a man of little dreams, small victories and easily reachable goals. I 
know nothing about iPods, hard-drives, gigabytes, poppers or Angelina 
Jolie. 

I can think of various business projects I'd be good at: Launderette.
I'd call it—In A Spin—get it? Or how about: ‘The Best Place in Town to 
Drop Your Pants!' It suddenly occurs to me I'm probably worshipping the 
Goddess of Dirty Underwear. 

I smile about three times a week and smoke Marlboro Light. Not bad
considering it took twenty-three years to get my wife off my back. I 
had help. A speeding ambulance with flashing lights drove right over 
her. When the police car came I was stood there looking up at the 
heavens. I think the cop thought I'd been heartbreakingly cheated of my 
wife's company. I was thinking: This is just brilliant, thank you Lord. 


I don't miss boy bands, baggy blue jeans, ice white trainers and sports
T-shirts, nor have I been sober in years. Well maybe a few minutes at a 
time, mostly when I'm waiting in line to buy liquor. I could write a 
book, become an author. You don't have to be a genius to write a book, 
right? All the best authors frequent pubs. Maybe write a book on 
celebrated alcoholics. Or the effects of beer induced migraines. 
There's no end to opportunities, right? Let's have another drink. 


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