SNYDERMANIA: A Story from The Eight Fingered Criminal's Son

Thursday, January 14, 2010

A Story from The Eight Fingered Criminal's Son

A story from The Eight Fingered Criminal's Son
“The Laughing Monks (1998)"
by W.Z Snyder
© 2006 William Snyder

The Laughing Monks
(Scottsdale, Arizona – 1998)

DART SAFETY AND THE PURPLE BIKINI WILL BE AVAILABLE IN A BOOK STORE IN THAILAND THIS NOVEMBER.
Check current postings to learn how to purchase a copy.

6 comments:

Sproglet said...: What do you mean you're not funny anymore?? This gave me some of the funniest mental images I've had in a long time :)

I'm going to SE Asia for 3 months this year and I'm looking forward to meeting some of the more liberal buddhist monks out there. The stricter ones generally don't interact with women :(; January 15, 2010 at 4:41 AM
#167 Dad said...: Thanks Sproglet,
I wrote the story in 2006 and I'm certainly funnier than I was then. The story took place in 1998. I'm pretty sure I'm not as funny as in 1998.
What part of SE Asia are you headed to?; January 15, 2010 at 4:57 PM
Anonymous said...: Bill, who was "M60 Mike?" was that Mike Hulcy??

Brad S; January 16, 2010 at 9:42 AM
#167 Dad said...: Anon.,
Yes, M60 was Mike Hulcy. Who are you, anonymous? You must be one of my old EMG people...; January 16, 2010 at 11:21 AM
Guely of Sweden said...: Good one! :)
I always think why when we imagine a budhist we think in a monk and not in a ordinary person...; January 16, 2010 at 12:35 PM
#167 Dad said...: Thanks, G-man. You got me thinking - do monks drink beer???; January 18, 2010 at 3:59 PM

NORTHERN EXPOSURE

Goethe's final words: "More light." Ever since we crawled out of that primordial slime, that's been our unifying cry: "More light." Sunlight. Torchlight. Candlight. Neon. Incandescent. Lights that banish the darkness from our caves, to illuminate our roads, the insides of our refrigerators. Big floods for the night games at Soldier's field. Little tiny flashlight for those books we read under the covers when we're supposed to be asleep. Light is more than watts and footcandles. Light is metaphor. Thy word is a lamp unto my feet. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom Lead Thou me on! The night is dark, and I am far from home- Lead Thou me on! Arise, shine, for thy light has come. Light is knowledge. Light is life. Light is light.

FIELD OF DREAMS

Well, you know I... I never got to bat in the major leagues. I would have liked to have had that chance. Just once. To stare down a big league pitcher. To stare him down, and just as he goes into his windup, wink. Make him think you know something he doesn't. That's what I wish for. Chance to squint at a sky so blue that it hurts your eyes just to look at it. To feel the tingling in your arm as you connect with the ball. To run the bases - stretch a double into a triple, and flop face-first into third, wrap your arms around the bag. That's my wish, Ray Kinsella. That's my wish. And is there enough magic out there in the moonlight to make this dream come true?