“Now She Begs Me”— Humor by Mort Laitner


The doorbell ding-donged three times. I opened the door and there stood Mike and Maria.
Mike held a bottle of wine and a purple plastic bag.
I wondered what the hell is in that bag. The color of the bag looked familiar.
I invited them in with a loud Price-Is-Right command.”Come on in!”

“You’ll never guess what is in this bag? Mike queried.

I scanned the bag for clues. Finding none, I said, “Mike you got me.”

“An old friend of yours told me to buy them for you.”

My curiosity grew.

“Maria and I stopped at that Chevron gas station—the one right off of the exit of I-75 and Griffin Road.
The one that charges 20 cents more per gallon than other stations because of its location.”

“No, not the one that teaches you vocabulary!” I screamed.

“Yup.” he replied.

“That f’ing computer almost ruined my life. She exposed my personal and financial data. She opened my private Pinterest collections to the world.
It took me months to clean up the mess. I’ll never go back to that gas station. She ruined what little reputation I had.”

“Mort, well here’s what happened. When I inserted my credit card in the machine, she started talking to me.”

Hi Michael, how are you doing tonight?
I know you’re going to drink that wine you just bought with Mort at his house.
Why don’t you go back in and buy him two packs of Sno Balls for dessert.
He loves them.
The purple ones are on sale today.
Please tell him Chevrony misses him so much.
I miss his touch on my pump.
Tell him I’m so sorry for all those ugly names I called him.
Tell him, Lo siento mi amor.
Tell him I’ll never divulge his credit card numbers again.
Tell him I love men with average IQ scores.
Tell him his Boris-and-Natasha-in-the White House stories tickled my circuitry.
Tell him his poem, “Nazis” was brilliant.
Tell him I’ll do anything to see him again.
Tell him hate is a bad emotion to keep in his heart.
Tell him I’ll discount the price per gallon by 20 cents.
Tell him I am on my proverbial hands and knees begging him to return.
Michael, here is your word or the day, ‘contrite’—A feeling or expressing remorse or penitence; affected by guilt. Here is an example of its use.
Please tell Mort I am so contrite.

As he opened the purple bag, Mike said, “So I went back into the store and bought you these Sno Balls.”

He handed me a pack of those coconut, dark chocolate sweet white crème filled delights. I laughed out loud.
“Mike, I ain’t never going back to that Chevron station.”

After dinner, my hands shook as I bit into a Sno Ball. My brain laughed knowing that at least one computer reads my stuff and thinks it’s pretty good.
But then I wondered if she was just blowing smoke up my nose. Was Chevrony just stroking my ego? Maybe see compliments all her writer customers.
The worlds so darn different since AI jumped into every day computers.
Wow, computers are analyzing my literary work.
Three bells rang in my head. Maybe I can get Chevrony to write a review of one of my books and post it on Amazon.

Thanks Mike for reading my stories and laughing along with me. Writers get so little compensation. It is great being rewarded for my passion with those delicious Sno Balls.
Note to readers: I am planting some seeds in your heads. Be kind to your writer friends. Share their stories, write reviews, buy their books and don’t forget that Sno Balls and flattery are an author’s greatest friends.

What the readers are saying:

very cute. 
the whole concept of a relationship  with a harassing gas pump is to fresh. so original.
keep on pumping, and enjoy those snow balls—Ricki
Love Sno Balls and the writer.— Doris
Good work, Mort!—Louis
My enemy is a Valero station…—Eva


August 28, 2017

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