Dan is finalizing a collection of politically incorrect and sometimes raucous (not really risque) original humor short stories, jokes and all around silliness. Perhaps we will see this from Skyhorse in the spring of 2018; cross your fingers and toes with me (oww!).
Politically Incorrect Thoughts on Encounters with the Ridiculous & Irritating
By Dan Gallagher
And what about arachnids?
Excerpt: “Death of a Nameless Roach”
The roach died alone, unsung, unconsoled, in the dankness and weak light of our sons’ bathroom. No one cared that he had died, nor cared for him in life. Indeed he felt, most of his days, in danger from rolled newspapers crashing from the sky. He had fathered countless larvae. But insect divorce had deprived him of his right to watch them hatch, to bounce the growing nymphs upon his thorax, to feel pride at watching them progress to pupae and into adulthood. These were the saddest of the injustices he endured.
She had blamed him for scant and poor quality meals, not caring how he scrambled just to make a living in the dangerous trash bin. He had seen others enclosed within the trash bag, left as a trap for his kind. Yet he braved this horrific risk to bring her something that would mollify her; please her enough that she would take him back, or on her back as the case may be.
For a time he believed that Matthew or Joe were his friends. That is, until he ventured down the perilous hall to feasts of fuzzy peanut butter or “chocolated” Fruit-of-the-Loom left periodically beside or under my young men’s beds. “Now,” he must have whispered with quivering mandibles, “someone cares for me. I have friends and – dare I let myself hope in it? – love.” But he was only to suffer food poisoning and the stomp of a giant foot, a near-miss, deeply saddening clues that what appeared to be kindness and charity were falsehearted ploys.
Yes, the roach lived and died alone. No one named him or cared about the name I imagine he gave himself in his death throws. The roach died alone, destitute and abandoned by family, but never betrayed by friends: for never had friendship or compassion been offered. And when he died, no one interred his body; days passed as he stuck to a toothpaste spot near the sink. Finally, in tears and with aching heart, I could bear the sight no longer. “Matthew, Joe!” I sobbed. “Somebody flush this poor waif away, and please: have some respect for the d-, the d-, the dead.”
As Matt folded toilet paper for a makeshift coffin, I stayed his hand. “Do his six lifeless limbs reach upward to heaven,” I stammered, “or does a higher and unconditionally loving Mind pull his legs thither?”
Do you know what a fire hunter is? Well, that’s a dogged hunter who don’t even let darkness keep him from gittn’ his quarry, that’s what! And if you still ain’t too sure, let me tell you ’bout the gitt’n’est fire hunter that ever got game: Daniel Boone.
Now, ever-body from the Alleghenies to the Mississip knows Daniel was a big man, and a hunter who wouldn’t ‘a thought nothin’ bout wrastlin’ him a ‘bar’. But what some don’t know is that he had the keenest eyesight of anybody in Ken-tuck! And he never gave up, not even fer dark. Why, he used a pine knot burning lantern to dazzle deer at night and take his quarry when’ere he had a notion tuh. But one night, his quarry got him!
On that night, near a ol’ crick bottom, Dan’I had his lantern up and spied him a pair o’ eyes of such deep blue that he was the one dazzled. But he shook his head to git him back his presence of mind and raised his musket tub far. There was a blur, and a rustlin’ in them woods that told him the deer had a’ taken off quick. Now, ol’ Dan’l weren’t one ‘o them give up ‘ers, no. So off he took, just as fleet footed as a deer.
With the leaves a’ splashin’ loud ahead of him, and his own steps ‘a swishin real quiet – on account of he was more stealthy afoot then most deer -Dan’l began to close the gap round about a clearin’ up ahead that held a farm house in its middle. He raised his musket on the run, feet a’ flyin’ but sight posts nary ‘a bobbin ‘,just as the moonlight revealed the angelic form of a young woman, just a’ sprintn’ and a’ leapin’ toward that house.
Well, on account a’ ever-body knew Dan’I was a fine upstandin’ young man, that girl’s father didn’t shoot him dead. No sir, that ol’ boy even introduced Dan’l to his daughter, name o’ Rebecca Bryan, in a flurry of talk and friendly fuss that you’d ‘a thought would tie a tongue and bend an ear. But ol’ Dan’l, his ears weren’t a’ workin’ right, and maybe not his mouth neither, ’cause when his lantern shined off Rebecca’s hair… Well, it was like gold dust a’ fallin’ and a ‘ flutterin ‘ down into a breathless prospector’s eyes. Yep, all Dan’l could do was a’ babble and a’ stare like a rut-smitten buck after a hot doe standin’ next to a flame.
And so it was from that day on: The sharp-eyed hunter who always got his quarry… done his-self got gotten.