For the second time in his life, James had shit out a 'little person'. Unlike the first, however, this one was still alive. Weird. One minute he was juggling bowling pins at the county fair, the next minute he's lodged in some stranger's small intestines. Now, he's convulsing on the floor. Of course he was angry - and a little light sensitive too. But after a bit of time to come to his senses, he was ready for debriefing. The question that was first on everyone's mind was what had he done to survive in that environment? He'd gone at least a week without any fresh air, food or water and he was here to tell the story. Then, something strange was noted. At the time of consumption, this 'little person' stood 2 foot 9 inches. Now he measured over 3 foot 2. Impossible, but there it was: an adult 'little person' growing 5 inches in a week! Another factor may have been that armadillo shell that was also passed by James. Could this have somehow protected the 'little person' from all that stomach acid and bile? And could Grandma's remedy also have played a role? So far, all the tests have been inconclusive, but at least we finally know what caused James to be so constipated. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

James had been constipated for a week. He tried every over the counter and prescription medication available, but nothing was working. It was now time for Grandma to step in, as she had a remedy for just about everything. This one, however, was special and came from very old Jewish recipe that she said dated back to the middle ages. It was a combination or herbs, oils, dust, ash and voodoo magic. Grandma had to take over the kitchen claiming that she needed all the bowls, pots and pans that were available and that non-believers would contaminate her mixture. There was a lot of noise as I'm sure you could imagine. But beyond that, there was chanting. It was a language that sounded like a combination of Latin, German, and Russian. We didn't even know Grandma could speak anything but English. There was also smoke. It was so strong that it could peel wall paper and singe nose hairs. But it didn't bother her. She was tough, a testament to the 'Greatest Generation'. Two days passed and Grandma's remedy was ready. If James could survive the next few hours, he was all but guaranteed relief. What happened next, however, was beyond shocking. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

Forget the 'million dollar' idea, Pedro had the 'hundred million dollar' idea: Chinese Mexican restaurants! It was so simple that it couldn't fail. After all, Tex-Mex is popular, Chi-Mex would be groundbreaking! And so it became. Pedro Ling's Chi-Mex Bistro took the world by storm. Featuring dishes such as General Tso's Tacos, Wonton tortillas, Mandarin pork refried fajitas, and stir-fry enchiladas, Chi-Mex franchises were an instant hit. Where else could you get dim sum nachos with cilantro, jalapeno and red beans? Or how about a spicy sweet and sour chicken burrito? Exactly! And that was the key to such an unbelievable success. Never before had the best of China and Mexico come together under one roof. And the other eateries were feeling the pinch. Taco Bell reported a reduction in their same store sales, as did P.F. Chang's. Within a year Pedro Ling had become bigger than Colonel Sanders. He was truly riding the tidal wave of success. He had his critics though. Some claimed that he was a fake. But with a Chinese father and a Mexican mother, Pedro was in fact the 'real deal'. He also knew kung-fu, was good at math, spoke fluent Spanish, and could play a mean trumpet. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

Lou took a deep puff off his blunt cigar. 'You know it wasn't always like this', he said. 'Back when I was young, we didn't have bar codes all over our body parts. My member was clean and pure. You could make love to a woman. You didn't need to scan your dick and get approval like today. It was.... It was real living. Now we just go through the motions. Disrobe, then run the scanners over our stuff. Central Authority decides what happens next. What fun is that? How did it get this bad? It started out as a few simple laws, you know, to prevent disease and unwanted babies and stuff. Now you even have to scan to piss. To piss!!! Used to be you could just whip it out and let it flow. Now you scan your dick, then scan the urinal and you wait. Central Authority decides if you really have to piss and whether you can piss in that specific place. 'Piss Traffic Control' is bullshit! That's what it is. Well I'm old and my bladder ain't what it used to be'. Just then, an alarm sounded. Lou wet himself again. Another 50 dollar infraction. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

Last year, Andy won second place in the Halloween costume contest. He dressed as a labia - a left labia to be exact and he called himself 'Andy the Left Labia'. It was a scream, but he didn't win - mainly because he offended a couple of the judges. This year he had an even better idea. He dressed as a larger than life sized, fully-functional colon, complete with rectum and anus. He even had food that would pass through the system and be expelled out the rear end. In addition, he wore a small mp3 player that squawked out a series of fart noises at varied intervals. For even more laughs, he put a random object through the system like a penny or a cat toy to show what happens when kids swallow things. It was both fun and educational. But Andy didn't stop there. He had a live gerbil running on one of those rodent exercise wheels placed in the rectum part. There were holes punched in so that the animal could breathe as well as a small water dispenser to quench its thirst. This would keep the PETA people off his back. But, his dream to win first place was not to be realized. He ended up being beaten by that asshole Jack who's 'Zombie Raggedy Ann' costume easily took the coveted top prize. Bastard! email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

With your eyes closed, you'd never know you were in any danger. Everything seemed completely normal. You'd hear the sound of 3 ticking clocks at varied distances. You'd catch the scent of moth balls and synthetic gardenia with a side of urine. A feeling of tepid peace would surround you. You wouldn't know you were in trouble until you heard the words, 'Let me show you my cat pictures'. You've wandered into Ethel's room and now you're fucked! Ethel loved to show off her cat pictures. Every cat had a special name and a unique story. Oscar loved to cuddle on laps. Mister Pickles would nibble your fingers. Bubbles peed in the corners. Blinky climbed the curtains. Lord Rascal could jump straight up. The list went on and on. But Ethel never owned any cats. She was severely allergic. All those pictures were cut out from decades of magazines and newspapers. Some images weren't even of cats. Not that it mattered. By now, you'd be so bored that you're wishing for death. Any manner of death. Just some way to end this. But Ethel would keep going, and you'll be in a wormhole of infinite monotony! This is your only warning. Don't ever go into Ethel's room. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

The house smelled like stale infection and circus meat with a slight hint of putrid clam. This was actually a huge improvement over the previous days when uncle Rick was here. Uncle Rick is a large man, so large he could barely walk. He mostly depended on an electric scooter to shuttle him around, leaving a trail of vile odor in his wake. He refused to bathe claiming that soap and water dried his skin. He also wore the same clothes every day, never bothering to wash them either. It was a potent combination. But he was family and he was rich and we wanted to be kept in the will. So we put up with the stench, rats, bugs, and relentless foul language. We often wondered how such a giant piece of morbid, mouth-breathing fat could have the business wherewithal to become so rich. It was as if Gordon Gekko took a galaxy-class sized shit... over 400 pounds strong... a shit that was inherently brilliant and able to expertly trade stocks. They could make a movie about him. It would be called "Wall of Shit Street" and it would star Charlie Sheen and Michael Douglas. Better get that screenplay over to Oliver Stone quick. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

For the third week in a row, they met by chance in the frozen food section. Each time their hands grabbed at the same Lean Cuisine, his hand politely retreated first. But this week, he'd finally worked up the nerve to speak to her. And now as if by script, they met in front of the same freezer yet again. Their hands simultaneously motioned toward the same target. But this time, he noticed something different. She had a rag in her hand and a funny smell filled the air. And then... black. Next thing he knows he's naked in a bathtub. Could be hours later or days later, he doesn't know. Cold and groggy he feels a pain in his left side. The sloshy water is an opaque pink with blood and blobs of tissue. Stray ice cubes brush against him. He looks down and sees fresh stitches where the pain is. 'Fuck, not again!' he thought. On the positive side, if and when there is a next time, the joke will be on her as he will be fresh out of kidneys. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

Ned ran his ant farm like a Soviet gulag. He was a true tyrant at heart, but his real passion was practical jokes. He claimed that Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunction was all his idea. He also had drawn up detailed plans for circuit bending Dr. Stephen Hawking's voice synthesizer. That looked promising, if he could only get close enough. Problem was that his ants didn't appreciate all the efforts. See, ants aren't capable of comprehending such things. After all, they're only ants. So there would be consequences. Deep consequences. Ned dressed up like Jesus by manipulating a bed sheet to resemble a robe. He carried a vial of what he claimed was holy water and he pranced around for hours in front of his ants preaching bible scripture. Louder and louder, his raspy voice hit an unbelievable volume. The walls in his house even shook at points. Outside he erected dozens of religious icons in his yard, the largest statue reaching up 20 feet. Now the homeowner's association would have to become involved. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com

Jack was the least insane person at the asylum. This made it very hard for him to get along with the others as it was near impossible for him to relate. Mostly it was the little things. He just couldn't see getting all worked up over unimportant matters like the other group members did. When they'd be in a frenzy drooling and defecating everywhere, Jack was in the corner keeping to himself. It was a lonely experience. But he did enjoy the occasional field trip. Recently, they went to see professional wrestling. Being that they were all basically nuts, they were segregated from the 'normal' fans. That meant watching the matches from a distance. Though the wrestling was more like a sideshow, because the real action was with the 'loons'. They were running in circles screaming out the names of their favorite wrestlers, some of which weren't on the card or even existed in reality. They were trying wrestling moves on each other, some smaller ones piggybacking on the larger ones. All were shouting and drooling. The smell of feces laced the air. This became so loud and distracting, that the fans began to focus away from the wrestlers and on to the nuts. The chanting, drooling and defecating became so much that they had to remove the insane group from the building. That's pretty much what happened with every field trip. The opera is next month. Should be fun. email: [email protected] web: www.michaeloster.com