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The 9 Most Impactful Pieces of Clickbait on LinkedIn Today

22 Thursday Feb 2018

Posted by ghosteye3 in humor, media, observations, Uncategorized

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content marketing, humor, linkedin, satire, social media

Do you spend some of the workday scrolling through LinkedIn? You’ve probably seen the following blog articles (or something similar) pop up in your news feed a few thousand times:

The Magic of “Friendly:” How Being Nice Can Shorten Your Sales Conversion Cycle

The Grass IS Greener: 11 Arguments for Quitting Your Job Today

The Three Things You Do That Make Coworkers Hate You

What [Warren Buffet/Bill Gates/Elon Musk] Says About [Company Culture/Innovation/Win-Win Situations]

How Smart People Work Fewer Hours, Get More Done and Have Less Blotchy Skin

What [Steve Jobs/Winston Churchill/Mother Theresa] Understood About [Brand Management/Outside-the-Box Thinking/Building a Better Sales Team]

Eight Mistakes Parents Make That Keep Children from Becoming Strong Leaders

How the Best Middle Managers Navigate their Way to Zero Accountability

Six Ways to Detach Yourself While Firing a Direct-Report

Your Password Has Expired

09 Tuesday Aug 2016

Posted by ghosteye3 in author, fiction, humor, observations, satire, Uncategorized

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death, drops of jupiter, gmail, God, heaven, hell, humor, life, observations, pearly gates, satire, st. peter, timberland, train

Hand reaching for the sky

    Dale followed the light, which is what they always say you should do. His body was catapulted into some kind of cosmic vortex, where he floated around for what seemed like days.

    Finally, he landed, his Timberland work boots touching a marble floor. Up ahead were six massive, ivory columns that reached into the clouds. A man with a long, white beard and a flowing gown approached him, and smiled. Dale knew he must be St. Peter.

    “Hello, Dale,” he said. “We’re glad to have you.”

    Dale nodded and blinked. Everything was very bright up here in the clouds.

    “Just go over to one of the kiosks and sign yourself in,” St. Peter advised, extending a cloaked arm toward a battery of silver-plated work stations with glowing LED screens.

    Dale walked to one of the kiosks and typed in his name.

    “Do you have your confirmation number?”

    “My what?”

    “You need a confirmation number,” St. Peter said. “We sent it to you in a text message before you arrived. Do you have your phone?”

    “Why would I have my phone?” Dale asked.

    St. Peter shook his head. “People usually bring their phones. It’s okay. Let me help you.”

    The apostle walked to the kiosk and moved his pale, perfectly manicured fingers across the screen.

    “Can’t you just let me in?” Dale asked. “You obviously know who I am.”

    “I do?”

    “You called me by name when I got here.”

    St. Peter looked at him dubiously. “That’s because it’s on your shirt.”

    Dale looked down at the ironed patch on the left breast of his shirt. Dale had forgotten he was at work when the end came. His last conscious memory was scrambling across the floor, crab-like, as the underbelly of a Toyota Prius tumbled over him.

    St. Peter squinted at the kiosk screen. “We just upgraded to a new system,” he explained. “To say that it has a few bugs would be a bit of an understatement.”

    Dale nodded. He was extremely tired.

    “What’s your gmail address and password?” the saint asked. “That might do the trick.”

    Dale tried to remember his password. He gave St. Peter a combination of his first pet’s name and the year he graduated from high school. It didn’t work. Dale gave him the name of his first girlfriend and the year he lost his virginity. Still no luck.

    “Cheese and rice! This new system! I wish I could just wave you through, but I can’t,” St. Peter said. “Look, it’s getting late, and you’re exhausted. I’m going to book you a night at a place near here, and we’ll try this again tomorrow. Sound good?”

    St. Peter reached into his gown and pulled out an Android phone. He made the arrangements. Dale checked into the Pearly Gates Lodge, which billed itself as “The Closest Thing to Heaven.” The bed was rock-hard and the remote control didn’t work, but he was too tired to care. The breakfast buffet the next morning was pretty good, although the eggs were a little runny for Dale’s liking.

    “Hello, Dale,” St. Peter said, glancing at his shirt. “We’re glad to have you.”

    “I was here yesterday. I remembered my gmail password.”

    “Very good. Let’s give it a try.”

    They walked to the nearest kiosk. The password had come to Dale as he awoke that morning on the rock-hard motel mattress. FairLane#1968—it was the model and year of his first car.

    “Oh, heavens,” St. Peter said, after keying in the password three times. “Not good. Not good at all.”

    “What is it?”

    “It says, ‘your password has expired.’”

    “You gotta be kidding me.”

    Dale stood, a hand propped on his hip as St. Peter swiped through several brightly colored pages on the kiosk screen. Dale looked around. It seemed odd that he and St. Peter were the only two people at the entrance to Heaven. He crossed his arms and listened to a familiar melody playing softly over the PA system. After a moment or two, he identified the song as “Drops of Jupiter,” by Train.

    “So, what’s Hell like?” Dale asked.

    “Hell?” St. Peter said, still staring at the screen. “Oh, it’s a mess, total chaos. They run things on a paper-based system. It’s like being in the 1970s all over again.”

    “Yeah?”

    “The bars down there are all open until two in the morning, though. People need to self-medicate, you know, to deal with all the inefficiencies of being in Hell.”

    “Sounds like my kind of place,” Dale said. “How do I get there?”

    “The saint gave him a disapproving look. “You’re kidding, right?”

    “I think I’d like to give it a try,” Dale said.

    “Well, there’s no easy way to transfer you. If you’re really serious about going to Hell, you’ll have to fill out a few forms. It could take weeks to sort everything out.”

    Dale pivoted on the heel of his boot and gave St. Peter a wave as he walked toward the gold-hued cumulonimbus clouds.

    “No thanks,” Dale said. “I’ll figure out a way down there myself.”

    Revisionist History: Trump in Gettysburg

    18 Friday Mar 2016

    Posted by ghosteye3 in humor, satire, Uncategorized

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    1863, civil war, donald trump, gettysburg, gettysburg address, history, humor, lincoln, politics, satire, Stephen Roth

    TRUMP-LINCOLN

    On the afternoon of November 19, 1863, Donald Trump stepped off the train in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, to deliver what would become one of the best-known speeches in American history. There to dedicate the Soldier’s National Cemetery just a few months after Union armies defeated Confederate forces in the nation’s bloodiest battle, the President approached the podium, unbuttoned his grey overcoat and removed an iPad mini, on which he had jotted a few “appropriate words” to honor the fallen.

    Here is what the president said:

    “This is really beautiful, really fantastic… What a crowd! What a crowd!

    Eighty-some-odd years ago—I’m thinking 85, but it might have been longer than that. Anyway, a long, long time ago, some very great men got together and they formed the most powerful nation ever known in the history of the world. This nation was so great, nobody had ever seen anything like it. And you know what made it so great? Top-notch people, for one thing. The very best and brightest. Just fabulous, first-rate people. Also, freedom and this idea that everyone was equal. Even the lowliest street sweeper—some filthy guy who probably made in six weeks what I spent on my last haircut—was every bit as important as a very successful businessman with a huge, diversified real estate portfolio. This was the kind of thinking that made this nation so, so great.

    Anyway, now we’re in a civil war, right? And not just any war, but the biggest, bloodiest war ever known to man, because this is the American Civil War. And, as you know, Americans don’t do anything half-assed. I wasn’t here back in July, but I understand this place was a real mess. Bunch of bombs going off, mutilated bodies all over place. Just a major, major battle. A real hell-hole, they tell me. That’s why I’m here today—to honor the dead and, you know, thank them for their service.

    You know, I was thinking on the train how, even though these men lost their lives, they’re actually winners. Real winners. Because what they did here at Gettysburg really set the tone. We’ve had so many good things happen in the last few months, it’s been actually amazing. Did you see what Grant did to them at Vicksburg? Did you see that? We’ve got full control of the Mississippi now, which is huge. And we’ve got some plans for those Confederates next year. I don’t wanna to give too much away, but let’s just say it’s gonna be a very hot summer next year in Georgia. A very long, hot summer.

    Look, I gotta go. You people have been outstanding. Southern Pennsylvania is a fabulous place. Let me just close by saying these lives were not lost in vain. We’re gonna take Richmond next year. W’re gonna take our country back, folks. We’re gonna remind them why government of the people, by the people, is the best way to do things. Because it’s the American way. Thank you, and God bless.”

    The Rule of Five

    30 Friday Jan 2015

    Posted by ghosteye3 in A Plot for Pridemore, fiction, satire, Uncategorized

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    a plot for pridemore, amazon.com, author, barnes & noble, fiction, kindle, mercer university press, nook, satire, Stephen Roth

    Roth_Pridemore_tbnl
    Five years to write.

    Five years to find a publisher.

    Five stars on Amazon.com.

    A Plot for Pridemore is now available in paperback, Kindle or Nook.

    10 Sure-Fire Ways to Get Your Week off to an Awesome Start

    30 Tuesday Sep 2014

    Posted by ghosteye3 in humor, observations, satire

    ≈ 1 Comment

    Tags

    advice, humor, lifestyle, lists, office, satire, Stephen Roth, workplace

    images
    Here are the 10 things I do every Monday morning to ensure that I have the most successful, productive work week possible. Some Mondays, I do not get through all of these steps, but this has proven to be a very effective day-starting process for me:

  • Wake up. Almost nothing can be accomplished if you are asleep.
  • Turn off the clock alarm. I have mine set to a country music station, and it is just really annoying if I let it keep playing.
  • Shower. Good hygiene is an important aspect of success!
  • Dress. Nakedness is an advantage in only a few select professions and scenarios.
  • Eat something. Feel free to mix this one up. Some days, you might crave breakfast cereal. On other days, you might prefer a bran muffin. Experiment!
  • Turn off your curling iron, or any other device you use to get ready that could potentially burn down your home.
  • Remember your keys. This is an important aspect of starting your car. If you use public transportation, you may still need your keys to get back inside your home.
  • Bring blankets. If you live in a frigid part of the country and there is a possibility of driving through a snowstorm, you should have blankets in your car in case you get stuck.
  • Use your mirrors. Rear- and side-view mirrors are invaluable tools that help you monitor traffic around you while driving to your workplace. These mirrors can also help you spot facial hair or smeared makeup that could cause embarrassment among your colleagues.
  • Bring treats. This is the most critical aspect to your Monday morning routine. Studies show that 87% of workers who received a promotion in 2013 regularly brought food into the office for coworkers to consume. These can be donuts, bagels or even, on rare occasions, scones. Be sure to send an email out with the subject line, “Treats.” It is vital that you copy your supervisor on this email.
  • Stephen Roth is author of the award-winning novel, A Plot for Pridemore. Learn more about Stephen and his book here.

    Pridemore Excerpt: Pete Schaefer

    13 Wednesday Aug 2014

    Posted by ghosteye3 in A Plot for Pridemore, fiction, humor, my life, satire, Uncategorized

    ≈ 1 Comment

    Tags

    a plot for pridemore, literary fiction, mercer university press, missouri, satire, southern fiction, Stephen Roth

    One of the key characters in A Plot for Pridemore is a young, frustrated newspaper reporter named Pete Schaefer. As a journalist, it is his job to peel aware the layers of what could be most scandalous story in the history of Pridemore, Missouri.

    This is NOT Pete Schaefer.

    This is NOT Pete Schaefer.

    There is no reason, however, to believe that Pete is up to the task. He spends most of his time mired in loneliness and self-pity, occasionally summoning the ambition to scroll through job listings in the latest edition of Editor & Publisher.

    As a former small-town reporter myself, I can relate to Pete’s anxieties, although he is not a carbon copy of me in my 20s (at least I hope not). Anyway, here is how we first get to know Pete in A Plot for Pridemore…

    ____________________________

    Expelling a long, low groan, Pete Schaefer slapped the facsimile from Edwards Funeral Home on the computer clipboard and started typing:

    Naomi D. Elbert of Marshall City, formerly of Brush Hill, died Sunday, May 25, at Truman Retirement Center. She was 81.

    Before anything else Monday morning, Pete’s job required him to type the obituaries of everyone who died over the weekend – often a lengthy assignment given the number of blue-hairs in the region. Right now he was on Obit No. 8, his mind so far removed from what he was doing that he’d unwittingly invented two new ways to spell Naomi.

    Pete found it hard to concentrate on the obits, or “Oh-bitches,” as his coworkers sometimes called them. After a year at the Pridemore Evening Headlight, the formula was so ingrained that he would merely slap the funeral notice on the clipboard and let his fingers clack away at their 50-words-a-minute pace. This freed him to contemplate the newsroom’s avocado green decor, the fluorescent light that flickered annoyingly over his head and a faded poster that advertised the Affair on the Square arts and crafts show from 1986.

    Funeral services will be held 2 p.m. Tuesday at the Edwards Funeral Chapel with the Rev. Edwin Hodge officiating. Visitation will take place prior to services.

    Edna Bright fastened one of her Jimmy Carter grins on Pete as she waddled past his desk. It was a rare morning he beat her to work. Plump and cheery as a Christmas ham, she was the Headlight’s society editor and probably the most contented person Pete had ever met. Watching her swing an oversized purse around the back of her chair while singing an off-key version of “Escape (The Pina Colada Song),” he wondered if Edna Bright wasn’t the source of the old notion that all fat people are jolly.

    Pete kept his head down, pretending to focus on his work: Survivors include one sister, Maureen Dowell of LaGrange; two sons, John Elbert of St. Louis and Duane Elbert of Wellsville; and a daughter, Yula Mae Lowry of Forest Park.

    Edna nibbled a doughnut and slurped her coffee while reading the St. Louis Intelligencer, occasionally clucking an “Oh, my,” or a disapproving “Ewww!”

    Then silence. No slurping. No ewwws. Peter sensed her beady eyes, dark as night, watching him.

    “Hiya Pete,” she said when he finally looked up. “How’s your morning?”

    Slowly turning from his computer, Pete decided to shock her with a smile of his own. Not one of those put-on numbers he gave the cut-and-paste girls in production that even they could see through, but a real, genuine smile.

    “How are you, Edna?” he asked so naturally as to make you think he said it every morning.

    Edna wasn’t surprised. If anything, she seemed encouraged.

    “Say Pete, did you catch The McClusky Files last night?”

    “The McClusky Files,” he said, vaguely recalling the show in which an aging actor plays an aging detective. “Is that the one that’s set in Miami?”

    “No, you’re thinking of Randy Slaughter, Medical Examiner,” she said. “McClusky Files is in L.A.”

    “Of course.”

    “I just really love that McClusky, don’t you? I mean, he’s nice and polite like a gentleman should be, but he’s tough, too. He always gets his man and he’s not afraid to call a spade a spade, if you know what I mean.”

    Edna smiled. “I can tell that’s probably the way he is in real life, too.”

    Pete gave one of those half laughs that most people would read as a sign of disinterest. Not Edna.

    “Last night was one of the better ones,” she said. “McClusky and these other people are guests on this millionaire’s yacht, you see. And, almost as soon as they all get on board, the millionaire disappears.”

    “Really?” Pete said.

    “So all of a sudden, people just start disappearing: the millionaire’s wife, the movie star—”

    “—the professor and Mary Anne?” he offered.

    Edna giggled to show she caught the reference, and went on.

    “Usually I’m pretty good at picking out the murderer before everyone else. But I didn’t have a clue on this one. Jerry thought it was the millionaire, but what does he know? I mean, he’s the only guy in Rotary who thought O.J. was innocent, you know?”

    “Right.”

    “Just when we’re at to the part where McClusky’s gonna nail the bad guy, I get this phone call from my daughter, Alicea. She’s about your age, you know.”

    Edna was shaking now, her banshee cackle filling the mostly empty newsroom.

    “So I get off the phone and I rush back to ask Jerry whodunnit. Well, he’s already switched the channel to SportsCenter. Took me six phone calls to find out it was the Portuguese deck hand who strangled ‘em all with a piano wire and threw their bodies overboard.

    “Ewwwww,” she said. “I almost strangled someone myself last night!”

    “That’s funny,” Pete offered in a tone that suggested he didn’t think it was funny at all. He gave her a tight smile and returned to his computer.

    Edna let out a huff and left her desk for another cup of coffee. Peter felt pretty evil for leading her on like that. He could be pretty mean when he was depressed, and he was depressed nearly all of the time lately.

    He thought about starting another conversation when Edna returned. But the other staffers were ambling in and he needed to call the area cops to see if there‘d been any overnight car wrecks. Obits and road fatalities – it was some sweet gig he’d scored for himself more than a year removed from journalism school. Woodward and Bernstein had better watch their jocks.

    From the corner of his eye he watched Edna settle into her seat. He’d come up with something thoughtful to say to her first thing tomorrow, even if he had to watch network television to do it.

    ____________________________

    The afternoon sun sprayed rivulets of light through the dusty blinds that hung over Pete’s futon. Angela sat up, crossed her skinny legs under the sheet and watched Pete sift through the dirty clothes, old magazines and sports gear that cluttered his bedroom closet.

    “What are you looking for?”

    He smiled as his fingers grazed the beat-up leather briefcase.

    “My soul,” he said, pulling the briefcase out of the closet and opening it.

    “Wow,” she said as he pulled out a fistful of typed pages. “You wrote all
    that?”

    “It’s nothing. Maybe 200 pages in all, double-spaced.”

    “That’s nothing?”

    “Not for a book,” he said. “You heard of Schubert’s unfinished symphony? This is Schaefer’s unfinished novel.”

    “Wow,” she repeated, plopping next to him on the floor. Save for the three-legged recliner that tilted like a sinking ship in Pete’s living room, there were no chairs in his one-bedroom apartment, so the two spent most of their time on the futon or the floor.

    “You never told me you were a writer,” Angela said.

    “I’m a newspaper reporter. You know that.”

    “Yeah, but I didn’t know you were a writer,” she laughed, folding her arms across her chest. “What’s it about?”

    “Oh, your typical Coming-of-Age, Loss of Innocence, Love Story.”

    “Sort of like Great Expectations?” Angela suggested.

    “Yeah,” Pete said, and he gave her a soft kiss. “Except with zombies.”

    “Can I read it?”

    He flicked through the pages before finding a chapter he liked, the one in which Sully and Bart take Bettger down to Creepy Woods for one last bong hit. He ran his hand through her long hair and studied her crinkled brow as she read, making note of whether she smiled at the funny parts. She giggled once or twice, always a good sign.

    It was that giggle that reminded him of Angela’s current status on the high school varsity cheerleading squad. Most of the time, Pete thought her comparable to the somber, artistically inclined women he’d dated in college. The crinkle in Angela’s brow gave her a thoughtful look that seemed older than her years and she could quote whole passages of Dickinson or Thoreau. He would almost start to take her seriously until, in a beautifully unguarded moment, she’d relate a fart joke she learned in study hall or clumsily pick the chords to “Smoke on the Water” on his guitar. That’s when the giggle came out and it was suddenly Saved By The Bell time at Pete’s place.

    He loved and detested that giggle. Loved its affirmation that he could make someone laugh at a time in his life when he didn’t laugh much at all. Hated how it reminded him that what he was doing with Angela went beyond the bounds of acceptable adult behavior. He’d tried many times to tell her this. Well, once or twice. But Angela would just giggle and kiss him and tell him to shut up, and Pete would mind his manners as they crawled back onto the futon.

    They met in October at a downtown festival called Olde Pridemore Days. He’d seen her around town a couple of times, hanging at Truman’s Malt Shop with her high school buddies or passing through the newspaper office to drop off her “Teen Beat” column. But Olde Pridemore Days was the first time they really talked.

    He remembered almost every detail of that day: she wore a spaghetti string halter top and a pair of ripped-up blue jeans, edgy stuff for a Sunday in Pridemore. They spent the day walking around, eating Sno-Cones and funnel cakes, making fun of the lame country/western act on the main stage. They talked about books and music, and how cool it would be to move to Paris, just living and writing like Hemingway and Fitzgerald and those other Lost Generation guys.

    They made out that night on the courthouse steps, an encounter that soon led to Angela’s afternoon visits to Pete’s apartment when she could slip out of her independent studies class. The first four visits, Pete was able to pull back, throw on his jeans and mumble something about getting Angela back to school before the start of seventh period. The fifth time they reached the precipice, an unseasonably warm February day when Pete was supposed to be covering a livestock show in Hodgeville, Angela straddled his waist, grabbed his shirt with her fists and said in a husky voice, “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

    Pete gave in. He hated himself for it, but not enough to stop meeting Angela at his place most Wednesday afternoons. He was weak. He was stupid. But mostly he was bored. She was the only girl he’d met since moving to Pridemore, and he was tired of pretending he didn’t like having her around.

    “How long ago did you write this?” Angela asked when she finished the chapter.

    “It’s been a while. I haven’t really touched it since college.”

    “You ought to finish it,” she said, pulling him close. “I mean, think how much you’ve improved as a writer since then.”

    “Really?” he asked. “You think it needs work?”

    “I dunno. I mean, this part about the guys drinking and partying, making all the pop culture references – it’s funny, but it’s kind of played out, you know?”

    She wiped a strand of hair from her mouth and gave a half-smile.

    “It kinda reads like a beer commercial.”

    He was still reeling from the blow as they drove to the high school in his beat-up Ford Explorer. Kinda reads likes a beer commercial. This from someone who ate Oreo cookies icing first, who’d only recently shifted her musical allegiance from Beyonce to Taylor Swift. It was a mistake letting her read his book, he thought. Did he expect an educated response from someone who was struggling to maintain a B average in junior English?

    Come to think of it, this whole thing was a mistake. And driving Angela to school was beyond dangerous. They were getting very careless, Pete thought. He watched her light a Marlboro while grooving to a pop song on the radio. It was amusing to watch her smoke because she hadn’t mastered how to tap the ash off a cigarette.

    “What did I tell you about smoking in my truck?” he asked.

    “That I’m allowed to do it except when you’re pissed over something I said about a book you wrote.”

    “I’m not mad.”

    She leaned across the gear shift and kissed his cheek.

    “I’m such a meanie,” she said with a pout that was both cute and condescending. “I guess when you’ve been reading Crime and Punishment for two weeks, everything else reads like a beer commercial.”

    “Oh, so now I’m not even as good as Dostoyevsky?” he said, breaking into a grin as they approached their drop-off point near the gym.

    She gave him a kiss that surprised him with its deepness. It was the kind she planted on him that night at the courthouse steps.

    “I love you,” she said in a throaty whisper. “I know you hate that, but I do.”

    “Okay,” Pete said, handing Angela her books as she stepped out of the truck. “Just don’t tell your daddy.”

    ____________________________

    Pete was explaining his premature baldness to a waitress when his buddy, Headlight sportswriter Dave Felton, walked into One-Eyed Willie’s, the only Pridemore establishment left with a liquor license since the Lizard Lounge closed.

    “Yeah, my brother’s losing a little on top himself,” the waitress said. “He’s pretty freaked out about it.”

    “It’s genetic, you know,” Pete told her after a sip from his longneck. “It’s passed down from your mother’s side of the family.”

    The waitress pondered this for a minute.

    “My mom’s not bald,” she said.

    Felton and Pete exchanged the same weary look they shared in the newsroom whenever Edna referred to the president’s anti-terrorism policy as The War on Towel Heads.

    Like two strangers in a strange land, Felton and Pete clung to each other almost out of necessity. They were both about the same age and both St. Louis natives. They both enrolled in journalism school with grand thoughts of someday working for The Washington Post or The New York Times, and they both graduated into a crappy job market with $18,000 salaries at a newspaper they’d never heard of (“This,” Felton said after a couple of whiskey shots one night at Willie’s, “is what is known as paying your dues.”).

    Meeting once or twice a week at Willie’s had become something of a social highlight for Pete. He cringed to think what Pridemore would be like without having a friend around.

    He nodded toward the baseball highlights on the overhead TV. “Cards took a pounding today.”

    “No pitching, yet again,” Felton replied.

    Pete ordered a Bud Light and surveyed Willie’s decor of birds, bayonets and batting helmets. It beat looking at the clientele, which this night consisted of two utility workers and a woman with mall bangs dancing alone. The jukebox was playing its usual mix of Three Dog Night, BTO and, in a token nod to the ‘80s, Night Ranger.

    “Larry asked about you today,” Felton said. “He’s starting to wonder where you’re spending your Wednesday afternoons.”

    “I’m spending them at home,” Pete said with a shrug. “Comp time.”

    Felton shook his head and laughed. “You’re an idiot.”

    “What?”

    “He’s gonna find out.”

    “I guess I’ll be out of a job, then.

    “It’s kind of like detonating a highly sensitive explosive,” Pete added after some thought. “You never know when it’s going to just blow up in your hands.”

    “Don’t romanticize it, Schaefer. You’re screwing your boss’s daughter. Your boss’s 17-year-old daughter.” He laughed as he fished his shirt pocket for a lighter. “You’re just an idiot, that’s all.”

    “You said that already.”

    The door creaked open, and Felton and Pete glanced back as if they expected Angelina Jolie and Scarlett Johansson to drop by for drinks on their way through town. But it was just some grubby guy in a shirt with his name on it. The dancing woman left her spot at the jukebox to give him a lingering hug.

    “Done any work on your book lately?” Felton asked.

    “Looked at it today, that’s all,” Pete said with a sigh. “How’s yours coming?”

    “I can’t summon the muse,” the sportswriter said. “Every night, I sit there, blinking at a blank screen. I end up watching re-runs of Seinfeld and falling asleep on the couch.”

    Pete laughed. “It’s this town, you know? It’s sapping our brains.”

    “Yeah,” Felton agreed, mashing his cigarette into an ashtray. “I need to get out of this fucking town.”

    Pete looked at the TV, which was flashing highlights from the previous night’s Marlins-Phillies game.

    “Florida would be nice,” Felton said, reading Pete’s mind.

    “I’ve got an uncle in Jacksonville,” Pete said. “We could crash at his place until we found jobs. Maybe we could open a hot dog stand on the beach, or whatever.”

    “Felton’s Franks, we’d call it,” Felton said.

    “That could give us some cash until our novels got published. We’d open for lunch at eleven and close around two so we could get some beach time—”

    “—and watch the sun go down each evening with our beautiful, bikini-clad girlfriends,” Felton added. “When do we leave?”

    “Tomorrow,” Pete said instinctively. “How much money you got saved up?”

    “About two hundred – give or take a hundred.”

    “I’ve got about five hundred,” Pete said, really thinking now. “So we’ve got enough for the drive and maybe a week after that.”

    “Should we give two weeks’ notice?”

    “In two weeks we’ll lose our nerve,” Pete said. “It’s gotta be now.”

    Felton took a thoughtful drag from his Camel and grinned. Meatloaf was on the jukebox now, wailing about how two outta three ain’t bad.

    “You don’t even have an uncle in Florida, do you?”

    The door opened. Felton and Pete glanced back, in case a starlet appeared.

    “We Would Be Honored if You Would Join Us”

    25 Wednesday Jun 2014

    Posted by ghosteye3 in entertainment, fiction, humor, observations, satire, Uncategorized

    ≈ Leave a comment

    Tags

    darth vader, empire strikes back, han solo, movies, satire, star wars, Stephen Roth

    dining_room02

    There’s a scene from The Empire Strikes Back that has always intrigued and fascinated me. If you are my age or younger, you may know this part of the movie by heart. Han Solo, Leia and the gang have just arrived at Cloud City, and Lando Calrissian is playing the good host by taking them to dinner. They arrive at the dining room and the door slides open to reveal Darth Vader at the end of a long table. Han fires his blaster a couple of times at Vader, who deftly blocks the shots.

    Vader says, “We would be honored if you would join us.” Lando gives Han and Leia some lame excuse about the Empire arriving in town just before they did. “I’m sorry,” he says.

    “I’m sorry, too,” Han replies. Han, Leia, Chewbacca and Lando enter the dining room, Vader sits at the table, the bounty hunter Boba Fett walks in behind him, and the door closes.

    I have always wondered what happened right after that door closed. Most likely, the Storm Troopers rounded Han, Leia and Chewie up and took them immediately to the detention center. But Vader’s remark haunts me: “We would be honored if you would join us.” Maybe the Dark Lord planned some chivalrous gesture by treating Han and his friends to a nice dinner before hauling him off to be frozen in carbonite. I know that would be out of character for Vader, but that is what I want to believe happened. I mean, they had food and drinks laid out on the table as if they were getting ready to entertain. You can’t let that much food go to waste.

    And if they did, in fact, sit down for a last supper, as it were, this is how I imagine the dialogue:

    VADER: This is a day that will be long remembered.

    SOLO: (Not looking up.) Could someone please pass the rolls? (Boba Fett passes a basket of rolls and Han takes one.)

    VADER: The Emperor will be most pleased.

    LEIA: You really think this is the end, don’t you? You may have caught us, but there are thousands out there just like us. Hundreds of thousands. I may not live to see it, but your empire will crumble someday soon, Lord Vader.

    SOLO: (Placing a hand on LEIA’s arm.) Honey, now is not the time.

    VADER: (Leaning back in his chair.) No, please… Let her speak. I find her lack of tact amusing.

    CHEWBACCA: WRROOOAR!

    SOLO: Chewie, stop it!

    FETT: (Checking his watch.) I say we end this charade and freeze him.

    VADER: The Empire will compensate you for your time. Has everyone tried the green bean casserole? I obviously can’t eat it, but I sense that it is very tasty.

    LANDO: (Taking the dish.) Thanks. Want some, Han?

    SOLO: Sure, why don’t you hand that over? Just like you handed your friends over to the Empire.

    LANDO: (Whispering.) I had no idea you were coming. I hadn’t seen you since, what, since the Kessel Run? Then you just show up. (Taking a sip from his wine glass.) Look, I did the best I could.

    SOLO: Oh, I get it. You’re a real hero.

    LEIA: (Leaning toward LANDO.) When Luke hears about this, he’s going to blast your little floating city out of the sky.

    VADER: How is Luke anyway? Has anyone seen him lately? What’s he up to?

    (Everyone stares silently at their food.)

    VADER: I only ask because, well, I do have a certain fondness for the boy. He clearly has talent. The emperor and I are quite certain that he can be turned.

    LEIA: (Almost spitting.) He’ll die before he joins you.

    VADER: (Lifting a gloved finger.) We shall see about that, princess. We shall see.

    SOLO: You might have fooled us, but Luke’s too smart to fall into one of your traps.

    CHEWBACCA: WRRAOOR!

    LEIA: (Picking at her lime fluff jello salad.) Can I have another roll? Please?

    FETT: Solo ate the last one.

    VADER: (Lifts his hand, and a roll rises from the basket and lands on LEIA’s plate.) No…there is another.

    (LEIA nods to the Dark Lord and takes a bite from her roll.)

    – END –

    A Promo for Pridemore

    18 Friday Apr 2014

    Posted by ghosteye3 in A Plot for Pridemore, fiction, my life, Uncategorized

    ≈ Leave a comment

    Tags

    a plot for pridemore, amazon, author, barnes & noble, fiction, georgia, humor, kansas city, literary, mercer university press, missouri, novel, satire, southern fiction, Stephen Roth

    As has already been exhaustively reported in these pages, my novel, A Plot for Pridemore, will be released in a few weeks. The book went to press on April 9, so we are right on schedule for publication at the end of May.

    If you want to read my book but you aren’t too keen on buying a copy, you can enter a “giveaway” contest right here on GoodReads.com. Just click “Enter to Win” and you will be part of a digital raffle that will determine the winners of six copies of my book, which I will ship out along with a thank you note on June 14.

    PlotForPridemore (2)If you ARE interested in buying my book, you can pre-order it on any of the following websites: Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, and MUPress.org. Once the book is published, you can order it in digital form as a Kindle book or a Nook book.

    If you happen to live in the Kansas City area or you plan to travel here soon, I am lining up a few book signings and readings over the course of the summer. I’m having a book launch party on June 14 at The Writers Place in midtown Kansas City. On June 21, I’ll be signing books at the Barnes & Noble in the Zona Rose shopping center. And on Aug. 15, I will do a 20-minute (gulp!) reading from my book at a special evening event at The Writers Place.

    I am hoping to schedule more events soon to help promote the book, including a few gigs in the South this fall. I’ll keep y’all posted. Let me know if you have any thoughts on booksellers that might welcome A Plot for Pridemore to their stacks. I am willing to try anyone and anything (as long as it doesn’t cost too much).

    The Lost Art of the Facebook Friend Request

    28 Friday Mar 2014

    Posted by ghosteye3 in humor, media, observations, satire, Uncategorized

    ≈ 2 Comments

    Tags

    Facebook, friend requests, friends, satire, self help, social media

    Hello Friend,
    How many times have you sent or accepted a friend request on Facebook without an accompanying me-to-you message? Seems kind of cold and impersonal, doesn’t it? Here are Roth Communications LLC, we believe that the Facebook friend request has been commoditized, and we think that’s a shame. A request for friendship should have more feeling and nuance to it than, say, clicking on the “add to my cart” button on Amazon.

    untitledAt the same time, we realize that people don’t always have the time or creative energy to send a warm, thoughtful message along with their friend requests. That is where we come in. Below is just a sampling of suggested editorial we can provide that will add sincerity and emotional depth to your friend requests. Try a few of these out and be amazed at the nurturing, fulfilling relationships you will cultivate on Facebook. These are equally effective in making connections on LinkedIn and other social media as well. (Tip: to craft a more appropriate message, replace the words in the parentheses with more personal information).

    Here we go:

    Hey (Angela),
    This is awkward because I know we haven’t spoken since (prom night in 1989), but I saw your profile and I thought that we should connect. Over the years, I’ve thought a lot about you and some of the good times we had. I feel bad about the way things ended for us so many years ago. I hope we can start a new chapter. Are you (single)? It looks like from your photos that you’re (single). Just curious.  – (Allen)

    * * *

    Hi (Geoffrey)—
    We don’t know each other well, so I hope you don’t think this is too forward, but I really enjoyed talking to you about (risk management) during the (American Association of Accounting Conference) in (San Francisco). I thought you had some compelling ideas and I wanted to be sure to follow up with you. Incidentally, I am also (starting a job search) and would value your thoughts on (any possible openings at your company). I hope you are well and I look forward to hearing from you. Best regards, (Tina)

    * * *

    Hello (Brett)
    Remember me? We were in (seventh period biology) together in (ninth grade). I think you also (dated my best friend) for a short period of time. No worries if my name doesn’t ring a bell. It’s just that we share (43) mutual friends and your profile pic keeps popping up on my news feed. Facebook clearly wants us to be friends, so I’m sending you a request. All the best, (Alicia)

    * * *

    (Jennifer),
    We haven’t talked much. I think we chatted one time (in the hallway) about (that marketing campaign you were working on). But I feel it’s important that I “friend” important (coworkers) like you because (that is apparently a big part of getting ahead in this company). I hope you will accept my friend request. See you (in the hallway)!
    –Derek

    * * *

    What’s up (Katy)?
    How you doin’, stranger? I saw your name pop up on Facebook and, I must admit, you (still look pretty damn fine). Have you been (working out)? It sure looks like it. Things are okay with me. I finally (split up with Jessica). Big shocker there, huh? Let me know if you (want to get together for drinks sometime). It’s been a few years, but I really miss (our conversations about classical music). Hope you’re doing well. Friend me, please! Your buddy, (Spencer)

     

    Good luck, and happy friending!

     

    Bedtime Stories Your Child Won’t Forget, Part 1

    18 Tuesday Feb 2014

    Posted by ghosteye3 in humor, parenthood, satire, Uncategorized

    ≈ Leave a comment

    Tags

    academy awards, bedtime stories, children's books, humor, jack nicholson, louise fletcher, movies, one flew over the cuckoo's nest, satire

    images (2)
    Meet Randle Patrick McMurphy.
    His friends call him R.P., for short.
    R.P. is one lazy guy.
    He’s so lazy, in fact, that one day
    he decides he’s not going to chop wood
    in the work camp anymore.

    So R.P. starts acting silly all the time.
    He is so good at acting silly that the people
    in charge of him can’t stand
    being around him anymore.
    They send R.P. to a really big hospital
    where he can get his sillies out.
    R.P. is delighted.
    At last, he doesn’t have to work anymore.

    images (3)
    R.P. makes lots of friends among the men
    at the hospital, and they play lots of games.
    His best friend is a really tall Native American
    named Chief.
    Chief doesn’t talk, which may be why R.P.
    likes him so much.

    images (4)
    This pleasant-looking lady is Nurse Ratched.
    She is in charge of R.P. and his friends
    at the hospital.
    Nurse Ratched makes R.P. and his friends
    talk about their feelings.
    Sometimes she makes them feel guilty
    for being in the hospital.
    Sometimes pleasant-looking people
    aren’t really so pleasant, after all.

    R.P. and his friends have some good times.
    One day, they play basketball.
    Another day, they go on a fishing trip.
    Another day, they invite some girls to the hospital.
    Nurse Ratched doesn’t like this.
    She thinks the men are being lazy, like R.P.

    Nurse Ratched gets very upset with R.P.
    His silly adventures make her job hard.
    She has a doctor do an operation on him
    that will get the sillies out.
    In fact, it does more than that.
    images (5)
    When R.P. returns to his friends at the hospital,
    he is not very much fun anymore.
    Nurse Ratched is pleased.
    This is what happens, she thinks,
    when boys won’t stop being so silly.

     

    Photos courtesy of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

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