The He-Man Woman's Haters Club

            I went to an open mic to try out a new song. It was the typical He-Man Woman's Haters Club, not a female in sight. When a woman does walk into the bar she practically gets a standing ovation.
            But on this night there seemed to be a bunch of guys who showed up for the free hotdogs. I sat down and ordered a beer. I was babying it. I don't like to drink too much before I get up. I've made that mistake before. A barrel chested fellow sang a song about tits and ass. He kept repeating tits and ass over and over again. Tits... and ass. Then he'd break into the chorus. "What ever happened to songs about pussy?" A smile came to my face. It made me laugh.
            It was my turn to sing. The room was restless. People were stirring about while I was plugging in. I'd lost them before I had a chance to play a note. I blew into my harmonica, and the audience came back briefly. I got through the first song. I flubbed some words at the end, but nobody seemed to notice. A guy with a round belly started to talk to me between songs. "You kind of sound like Bob Dylan. You're Irish right? Yeah, I can tell you're Irish."
            

Max the Rip Off Artist

         My sister's car failed a smog check. I took the report to Bill the Smog Guru so he could look it over. He sat down at his desk and disappeared behind the clutter.

            "She took it to Max! Why'd she take it there?" he asked.

            "How am I supposed to know?"

            "He's a rip off! I use to send all my bad customers to him! If a customer had a bad attitude I'd refer them to Max. I'd tell them, I charge sixty dollars, but there's a guy down the street who will do it for thirty, and that includes a smog certificate. Max would complain bitterly, Billy, why are you sending me so many bad customers? You said if I was busy to send them to you. The real reason was because Max would sell gas caps for thirty-five dollars to old crippled ladies."

            "He tested my sister's car with the check engine light on."

            "He's an idiot!"

            "He said she had to fix her car at his shop to get a free re-test."

            "He's a test only shop! He's not suppose to work on cars!" Bill was getting red in the face from agitation. "What we ought do is let him fix the car and show up with a camera, then report him to Bureau of Auto Repairs, that's what we ought to do!"
            "You mean a sting operation?"
            "Yeah, you show up with a camera and get footage while he's working on the car."
            "I think it's a better idea if you show up with the camera."
            "He knows me. He has no idea who you are!"
            "I still think it's a better idea if you show up."
         
         
         
         

Lord of the Kiln

           Bill the Smog Guru was a teacher's assistant for a ceramics class in the early seventies. Most of the students in the class were women who wore blouses that looked like smocks, with not a bra in sight.
           Bill convinced the professor to reconfigure the class room so that the pottery wheels were at opposite sides of each other. That way he could wheel a chair down the center aisle and assist the students as needed. But it was just a ploy to look down the ladies' blouses one after another.
           As a teacher's assistant Bill wielded a considerable amount of power. It was his job to place the pottery into the kiln. All the students wanted their work to be placed in the best spot possible so it wouldn't crack. If you were nice to Bill you'd get a good spot. The women in the class began asking Bill out to dinner. In exchange for a good spot in the kiln, Bill would get a night out with a lovely woman, a free meal, and seven beers.