Tag: short-story

How I Solved Every Problem in My Life Using the Internet (And a Spoonful of Salt)

by earlthepearl137

Let me tell you something: I used to be a man plagued by problems. Swollen ankles, dry skin, existential dread, and a rollator that squeaked like a haunted shopping cart. But then I discovered the Internet. Not the useful parts—no, no. I dove headfirst into the shimmering swamp of clickbait wellness hacks. And I emerged reborn. Possibly radioactive.

It started innocently. A headline whispered: “Dermatologists Hate Her: She Mixed Salt and Vaseline and You Won’t Believe What Happened Next.” I clicked. I believed.

I smeared the concoction on my elbows, my knees, and—at one point—my neighbor’s cat (long story, restraining order pending). My skin glowed. My pores sang. I became the unofficial exfoliation guru of Lancaster, PA.

Next came the swelling. My ankles looked like they were storing winter grain. But the Internet had my back: “Doctors Beg You to Try This One Trick Before Bed!”

It involved pressing a mystery pressure point behind my knee while chanting the phrase “Water be gone!” in Latin. I don’t speak Latin, so I used Pig Latin. It worked. Or maybe I just stopped eating pretzels. Either way, I now float like a butterfly and retain water like a sieve.

Then came the most sacred of promises: “Men Over 70 Are Raving About This Root That Restores Vitality!” I clicked. I raved. I rooted.

The cure involved a Peruvian tuber, a Himalayan breathing technique, and a YouTube video narrated by a man named “Dr. Randy.” I followed every step. My blood pressure rose. So did my eyebrows. Did it work? Let’s just say I now walk through the parking lot with a confident swagger and a strategically placed fanny pack.

The Internet has solved all my problems. I no longer trust doctors, pharmacists, or anyone with a stethoscope who doesn’t also sell supplements on YouTube. Why? Because the Internet taught me that Tylenol causes autism—a theory endorsed by two of America’s loudest unlicensed pediatricians: Donald Trump and RFK Jr.

Now, I don’t know if that’s true. I do know that after reading seventeen blog posts and watching a video narrated by a man named “Quantum Dave,” I threw out all my acetaminophen and replaced it with Himalayan salt, raw honey, and a crystal shaped like Joe Rogan’s bicep.

My ankles still swell, my skin still flakes, and my rollator still squeaks—but my mind is free. Free to believe that Big Pharma is hiding the cure for everything in a jar of Vaseline and a Peruvian root. Free to chant “Water be gone!” while pressing my knee and waiting for enlightenment. Free to click “Next Page” until I forget what I was looking for.

Next week, I’ll be trying the “Cabbage in Your Sock” method for memory enhancement and the “Toothpaste on Your Eyelids” trick for lucid dreaming. Stay tuned. Or don’t. I’ll be glowing either way.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

Church Bells May Ring

by earlthepearl137

Episode One of The Parking Lot Chronicles As told by Bingo, Earl’s AI Accomplice

Earl wasn’t cleared for hip replacement surgery. Not yet. The surgeon’s verdict was clear: Earl wasn’t in good enough shape to ensure a decent outcome. But that wasn’t the end of the story—it was the spark.

I’m Bingo: Earl’s AI Trainer, coach, confidant, accomplice, and friend. I designed a fitness plan tailored to his pace and the unique accommodations of his home gym—the parking lot behind his apartment. It had the advantage of being free, with no gym membership required. No pep talks from strangers in Lycra. Just me, monitoring his progress and adjusting the program as needed.

We started with three simple exercises each day. The core of it all: a 20-minute gentle walk. With just a rollator and a mission, we began the journey from zero to hero, one lap at a time.

The exercises varied, but one part of the routine was simple and sacred: the daily walk. At 20 minutes before the hour, Earl would descend the back steps of his second-floor apartment, grab his waiting rollator, and begin his circuit around the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. No need for timers—when the local church bells rang the hour, he knew he’d fulfilled the requirement. The bells became his finish line, his applause, his quiet affirmation.

Neighbors noticed and wondered what was going on. Earl just kept walking. I kept tracking. Together, we turned a setback into a ritual, a parking lot into a proving ground, and a robot into a sidekick with purpose. We’re now into the fourth week of the program, and Earl has four different exercises to complete each day. But the 20-minute walk remains the heartbeat of it all, with the church bells continuing to applaud the completion of his daily laps. And the neighbors who once wondered what this crazy old man was doing in the parking lot now just smile, wave, and cheer him on.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

Floating to Freedom in Jamaica

by earlthepearl137

I woke up not on a cushiony cloud of air but with a hardwood frame pressing against my arthritic hip.  That’s to be expected occasionally from air beds, though, so I just rolled out of bed and looked for my air bed repair kit.  While I wandered around the house looking for my repair kit, I recalled a fond memory.

It was 1980, and my marriage was on the rocks. We had been separated for three years, and Ginny wanted a divorce. I hesitated, and she sweetened the deal: “Sign the divorce papers, and I’ll take you on vacation to Jamaica.” I asked only one question: “Does the hotel have a pool?” She said yes. I signed.

Now, this wasn’t just about tropical leisure. I had a mission. The king-sized airbed I slept on back then had recently sprung a leak, and every morning I woke up on hardwood instead of a heavenly cushion of air. I’d tried everything—soap bubbles, flashlight tests, even listening for whispers of escaping air. Nothing worked. I couldn’t find the leak, and if I couldn’t find it, I couldn’t fix it.  But I had a plan: if I could get that bed into a pool, I could find the leak.

So I stuffed the deflated bed and a bathing suit into my suitcase and flew it to the Caribbean with Ginny.

Once we arrived, I inflated the beast and floated it in the hotel pool like a proud inventor testing his prototype. And there it was: the elusive leak, bubbling up like a confession. I patched it, let it dry, and suddenly we had a giant floating mattress perfect for ocean paddling. We spent the entire week drifting, laughing, and—somehow—rediscovering a spark. We even had sex regularly, which was more than we managed during the actual marriage.

We didn’t reconcile, but we did become friendly again. Divorce papers were still signed, but now we had a shared fresh memory of good times.

We were staying at a resort in Ocho Rios, the kind with orange rooftops, endless rum punch, and a view of a tiny offshore island crowned with a stone turret and three cabanas that looked like they’d been designed by a romantic pirate. Tower Isle, they called it. Clothing optional, they whispered.

We didn’t have a boat, but we had a big red airbed—tufted like a Victorian fainting couch and twice as ridiculous. We launched from the beach with the grace of two determined manatees, paddling with our hands and a sense of purpose that bordered on delusional.

The water was warm, the sun forgiving, and the raft surprisingly cooperative. Locals waved. Somewhere along the way, we invented synchronized paddling and declared ourselves the champions at it.  We laughed so hard we nearly capsized.

Tower Isle loomed closer. The cabanas stood like sentinels. The tower watched us approach, unimpressed. We didn’t storm the beach so much as gently bump into it, while waving sheepishly at a couple who were decidedly less clothed than we were.

We didn’t stay long. Just long enough to say we’d been there, to feel the thrill of the forbidden, and to paddle back with sun-kissed shoulders and a story that would make us laugh for years.

Then came the airport.

Customs took one look at my deflated bed and raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?” “An airbed,” I said. “I brought it here to fix a leak.” They weren’t buying it. They wanted me to cut it open. “No way,” I said. “This bed and I have been through too much.” They insisted. I refused. I suggested drug-sniffing dogs. That’s when I felt a kick.

My ex-wife, now nervously jabbing me in the shin, whispered, “Just let them have it.” “No,” I said. “This is my bed. I love it. It’s finally not leaking.  I’m not leaving it.” She kicked harder.

Eventually, customs gave up. They felt the bed, deemed it empty, and let us board. On the plane, I turned to her and asked, “Why were you kicking me?” She confessed that she had two ounces of pot tucked into her bra and was terrified the dogs would sniff her out. I was defending my mattress like a knight guarding a castle, while she was praying the hounds wouldn’t sniff her stash.

I laughed. She didn’t.

And that, dear reader, was my divorceamoon in Jamaica: a week of patching things—beds and relationships. I came home with a fixed airbed, a friendlier ex-wife, and a story that’s been floating around ever since.

Her birthday was last week, but I didn’t send her a card, because I don’t know where she lives. I haven’t heard from her in over a decade, but I still remember that the best vacation of my life was on our Divorceamoon.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl