I can say this, because I am not ashamed: my mother is insane. Here we are in a restaurant: "Let's see, I'll have... I'll have. The moules frites! But with the mussels rare, on the side. And the shells on the side too, on the other side. And a glass of pear-infused balsamic vinegar. Oh, and the pork, also rare. And please bring me a motherfucking napkin, Jew." (My mother is Jewish, if that matters; the waiter was black, if that matters.) I used to be ashamed, but I am not ashamed now, no. The reason I'm no longer ashamed is that I've got what she's got. If you can't handle that, then fuck you, faggot; I'll kill you and then I'll burn your neighbors' cats if they have any. For their sake, I hope they have some, because it they don't, I'll kill them instead. I would advise you to advise your neighbors to get some cats.

Length: 158 words (840 characters).  Price: US$276.50

Katharine hunched forward, both hands on the steering wheel, her dead husband, Paul, in the passenger's seat, as she pulled ahead of the green Lincoln again, and a dark-blue SUV. Paul wasn't, of course, dead, not really: he was sleeping, unlike Rosey, in the back seat, who was dead and had been since Stockbridge. But Paul: sometimes when Paul slept, as he often did on these trips across I-90, Katharine liked to imagine that he was dead. It wasn't that she wished he were dead. What it was: she liked to try ideas on for size sometimes, see how they fit. And Paul slept like a dead man: he did not snore; his breathing movements were visible only if she watched him for a bit, which she couldn't do and keep her eye on the road at the same time. Rosey, though: half golden retriever, half black lab: now, she was for-real dead, just five years old, and there was going to be some explaining to do in Waltham.

Length: 170 words (925 characters).  Price: US$297.50

I had really bad shin-splints in 1998, so I had my shins removed. People in my office always know that I'm the one who's in the bathroom because I yell "Work it, work it, WORK IT!" very loudly when I'm in there; nobody else does that. Sometimes I walk down the street talking on my mobile phone, except nobody's on the other end of the line, but people on the street don't know that, and I say things such as, "I'D LOVE TO COME, BUT I HAVE TO HAVE LUNCH WITH SOME JERK-OFFS FROM FOX TODAY. FUCK." Are you starting to get some idea of the type of person I am? Someone who lives life on his own terms? Good. So I went out to Coney Island the other day, to purchase a hot dog. I took the F train there, got off at Stillwell, and would you care to guess what happened next? Would you? No?

Length: 158 words (808 characters).  Price: US$276.50

I know what my Uncle Bob would have said: "heh, heh, heh." Or, possibly, "heh, heh, heh, heh." That's just the way he was: a man of few words. Or, more accurately, a man of one word, who sometimes repeated that word several times. My Uncle Bob, you understand, could only articulate one word: "heh." As he often "said," It could have been worse; he could have had zero words. And at any rate, it wasn't his fault; he'd had his entire skull blown off during the war, the First World War, and they'd sewn it back on, but he was lucky to be able to move his mouth at all, and especially lucky to have an actual, English word to say, even if it was just one word. Now: given that the year was 1968 – November 26th, 1968, actually – my uncle had taken just about exactly fifty years worth of shit from people about his word (which was how he thought of it, "his word"): about "heh." For example, a common one: "Excuse me, Bob – Could I have a word?" This motherfucker, Uncle Bob would think, because he had many words that he could think with: it was the saying that was the problem, but he could think as many words as a normal person. I'd like to cave in the back of this cocksucker's head with a tire iron. That's what he would think, but what he would say was either "heh, heh" or "heh, heh, heh." Or nothing; sometimes he said nothing, which seemed to throw some of them off balance a little, make some of them go away. Anyway, so it was around lunchtime on the 26th, after returning from his weekly ridicule appointment with the fat fuck at the V.A. hospital, that Uncle Bob decided to do something that he'd wanted to do for a while, which was to go down to Clearwater and buy himself a semi-automatic machine gun.

Length: 327 words (1745 characters).  Price: US$572.25

It was definitely a Tuesday when the sewer exploded: Jackass didn't work Mondays, and by Wednesday, he was gone. WPNX issued a statement expressing station management's view that what had happened was "an embarrassment," and dismissed David "Jackass" Reardon as the morning drive-time idiot, since it was he who had urged 850,000 listeners to flush their toilets at exactly the same time – 7:48 AM – because he thought that the resulting strain on the sewers would be "interesting." The result was "interesting"; there was little disagreement about that.

Length: 92 words (573 characters).  Price: US$161.00

The President was in a pensive mood as he wondered what sort of arc his second term would follow, and idly surveyed what he believed to be the Washington Monument (but which was, in fact, the Capitol) through the tinted, bullet-proof windows. It had been a tough day, but as his motorcade sped along the edge of the Mall some minutes later, his body tensed as he thought about how lucky he was to have a Secretary of Defense who was so good at sucking cock.

Length: 87 words (464 characters).  Price: US$152.25

He stood in the trees at the edge of the clearing, barely within earshot of the silent crowd at the memorial service, remembering that Lara had spoken once about the difference between "life skills" and "survival skills." He didn't know if she'd gotten that from a book or magazine or shrink, or if she'd thought it up herself. Whatever: one set of skills allowed its owner to lead an enjoyable and fulfilling life; the other enabled one merely to survive, but didn't allow for much in the way of enjoyment or fulfillment. Lara had felt, of course, that her skills tended toward the "survival" type, while his, she felt, tended toward the other type, the "life" type. Her "survival skills" hadn't, in the end, been enough; that much, now, was clear, he thought, as a black-clad figure strode toward him. No: as Lara strode toward him.

Length: 145 words (871 characters).  Price: US$253.75

Can I ask you a question? Sorry: I noticed that you have about a dozen tattered American flags attached to your car, and I assume that you're proud to be an American, because you have five "Proud To Be An American" stickers on your bumper, so my question is: Why? Why are you proud? Don't get me wrong: I'm not one of these blame-America-first people; those types annoy me as much as they annoy most people. And I don't want to get into a did-for-example-Abu-Ghraib-make-you-slightly-less-proud discussion. No, what I mean is this: did you do something do to accomplish the task of becoming an American citizen? Were you something other than American when you were born, having had, therefore, to make any sacrifices at all to become an American? Because that would explain it – if you'd emigrated here, say – but you've got that "Born And Raised In the U.S.A." sticker there on your rear windshield, so... So I'm confused: was there a question at some point as to whether you would be able to continue to be American citizen? Or... You're not saying that you're proud of the day-to-day struggle that being an American entails, are you? Because America is a first-world country, you know; healthcare issues aside, it's a pretty easy place to live, compared to most places... Hey! You don't mean "proud" at all, do you; you mean "lucky." That must be what you mean: "Lucky To Be An American." "Lucky," as in, you had nothing, whatsoever, to do with bringing about your American citizenship; you were American from birth. "Lucky" as in, it's dumb luck that you ended up American instead of British or Chinese or Tibetan or Greek or Indian or South Korean or North Korean or Andorran or French, and you haven't had to lift a finger to retain your American citizenship, so I sure as shit don't see what there is to be proud of. Sorry. Like I said, maybe I'm missing something, and if I am, I'd love to know what that thing is.

Length: 322 words (1830 characters).  Price: US$563.50

My name is Jonathan, and there's only so much that I can tell you, because there's only so much that I know. I can tell you this: people called him Jacky at the time, and I was his bitch from 1994 until last year. That's what I told the panel, because that's what I knew at the time. "Charles Leroux" wasn't a name I heard in twelve years in the pen. But I kept to myself, so maybe I wouldn't have heard it: people left me to my own devices; I was Jacky's.

Length: 70 words (346 characters).  Price: US$122.50

Here is what happened: after 9/11, I felt that it would make sense, at night, to bathe City Hall in red, white, and blue floodlights, so I volunteered to install the new, colored lights. I got a deal on lighting fixtures and bulbs from Herrick's, and I wired the whole thing myself, during the day, on Friday, the 14th, and nobody organized a "lighting ceremony" or anything, but that night, a few dozen people showed up for the "lighting" of City Hall. At sundown, I flipped the switches myself: one for the red lights, one for the uncolored (white) lights, and one for the blue lights. The switches were in the basement: flip, flip, flip, and I could see, through the basement window, the blue lights off to the left, the regular ones in the middle, and the red ones off to the right, and... silence. I didn't expect applause, but I did sort of expect some oohing-and-ahhing, maybe. There was no oohing-and-ahhing. I emerged from the basement and looked up at the facade of the building. Well: do you know what color you get when you mix red and blue? That's correct, yes: you get purple. The floods I'd gotten a deal on from Herrick's were not nearly focused enough: way too "floody," so each flood flooded its light everywhere, as opposed to flooding a specific region of the facade. I should have thought of this "floodiness" thing (actually, I sort of think that someone at Herrick's should have thought of it for me, although I was being sort of secretive with the guys at Herrick's, not telling them what we were doing in South Harbor, because I didn't want for Ellston Bay to steal my/our idea). Nobody laughed at me; there was an awkward collective silence, after which people sort of started to wander back to their houses or cars. A few of them said stuff like, "good job, Jon," or "thanks, Jon." One (I can't remember who) said, "it's okay, Jon, we'll fix it tomorrow." But there was no fixing it tomorrow: I'd gotten a deal from Herrick's, yes, but the lights and the fixtures were expensive nonetheless because I'd gotten five hundred of them, and what I really wanted to do was just forget about the lights, but people seemed to feel like the town had spent the money on the lights already, and that it was the thought that counted, and that to turn the lights off would be to let the terrorists win or to disrespect the people who'd died on 9/11, and that anyway if you squinted when you looked at City Hall, you could see red and blue regions... So it's 2008 now, and City Hall is still purple (or violet, really: violet), and it's my fault, and I wish that this were the only thing that were my fault.

Length: 479 words (2636 characters).  Price: US$838.25

This is not common: to meet your future wife while you're both incarcerated. Especially if you're not the time-doing type. but that's how I met Clarissa. I was spending the night (or, actually, several early morning hours) in jail on account of having been doing 57 in a 50-MPH zone and subsequently behaving in a disrespectful or threatening manner towards an officer of the law. Clarissa, on the other hand, was locked up for doing 67 in a 55 and subsequently behaving in a disrespectful or threatening manner towards an officer of the law. In my case, I'd asked the cop if it made him feel sad that he was only five-foot-five: disrespectful, apparently. Clarissa, on the other hand, had called her cop a "fucking twat" and threatened to stuff his "little badge" up his ass. Then as now, I was bold but she was bolder. When asked how we'd met, we'd say, "in jail," and people would laugh, and we'd laugh too and then tell them that no, no, we'd met at a picnic.

Length: 183 words (1023 characters).  Price: US$320.25

I live in Rome now, and people think my name is Tony. I work in the Office of Jewish Affairs, and please don't ask me if I see the irony in that. As for my "glory days," let me ask you this: how would you like to be not left alone by seven or eight hundred pious assholes for one day? Sounds like it might be "amusing, if nothing else," you say? Okay, well, so try it for three years and tell me if you're still feeling amused. Hanging from a cross for ten hours (and not by nails; there were no nails, or there were, but for the guy next to me, not for me) seemed like a small price to pay to ditch that scene, so that's what I did, with the help of my father – my real, biological father, Dan – and I'm glad that I did it, and now, as I said, I live in Rome.

Length: 159 words (766 characters).  Price: US$278.25

Have you ever had athlete's foot on your face? I haven't. That would suck, wouldn't it? Would it still be called athlete's foot, do you think? Or would it, perhaps, be called... wait for it... athlete's face? Do you ever wonder about things like that? I do. All the time. I'm not sure it's healthy. Not as unhealthy as I'm thinking athlete's face might be, but still. I suppose you'd need to bathe a lot, if you had athlete's face. And spray yourself with Tinactin. But that would sting, right? Wouldn't that sting? Especially if you forgot to close your eyes? You'd remember to close your eyes, though. Or, what it you forgot to close your mouth? Would you die? I don't think you'd die. You might puke though. But you'd probably just keep your mouth closed.

Length: 132 words (753 characters).  Price: US$231.00

The temperature in the city, according to the web site, was 948 Fahrenheit. I assumed that that was when the thermometer had broken, or melted, or been rendered useless or perhaps nonexistent by the large bomb which had vaporized some the city the day before, and flattened the rest of it. There was no communication out of the city, because there was no city, not anymore, but the web site (unlike the thermometer which periodically communicated a temperature reading to it) was physically located outside of the city, so unlike the city, it still existed: it was still in existence. I wondered where the thermometer had been: a mile from the bomb? Five miles? I, personally, was thirty-five miles from the city, the former city, and it was a beautiful day, a horribly normal day, and I shot myself in the head.

Length: 148 words (852 characters).  Price: US$259.00

She hadn't spoken to anyone since the heart-attack guy at the pool, the dead heart-attack guy. That was Monday; it was Saturday now. He was a kind-faced man, early sixties, sitting there, alone, by the pool, holding a gold wristwatch in his left hand. Where was he from, she'd asked: Nicaragua. Where was his family, she'd asked: he didn't have one, not anymore. Why not, she'd asked: no answer. Then he'd fallen asleep and not woken up again. And now, she was afraid – morbidly afraid – of speaking to anyone; she'd killed the heart-attack guy, she felt, and she didn't want for anyone else to die.

Length: 106 words (604 characters).  Price: US$185.50

Marjorie was sure this time: these ones were terrorists. They were terrorists, and they were up to something, and whatever this thing was would be perpetrated soon. It did not occur to Marjorie that the terrorists, when they came, weren't going to come to Kent Harbor because there wasn't much of anything to blow up there. But over the course of her forty-three years, a lot of things hadn't occurred to Marjorie, or had occurred to her too late. She was vaguely proud of this, in fact. So Marjorie felt vindicated, the next morning – saddened, of course, but vindicated – when Main Street was flattened by five simultaneously exploding truck bombs.

Length: 112 words (656 characters).  Price: US$196.00

She, born and raised, as I was, in Manhattan, said that she was "feeling a bit peckish" and could we stop and get something to eat. I said that if she was feeling peckish, she should go to London and get something to eat, but that a last-minute ticket would probably be expensive, but maybe we could look on the web later. "Don't be an arse," she said, pronouncing the "r" as an American would if "ass" were spelled "arse" in the U.S. As we pulled into a Sunoco, I said that I didn't know what an "arse" was, but that it didn't sound good, and that I would stop myself if I felt any arse-like behavior coming on. She said that that sounded to her like "a wanker of an idea," but I let it go, thought maybe she could use that one on some other people – English people, preferably – see what they thought of it. As she opened her passenger-side door, I thought about how long it had been since I'd found this type of shit endearing, and as I opened mine, she said, "oh, mind the lorry there, Love," and I involuntarily worked the tip of the ignition key, and then most of the shaft of the key, through the skin and muscle of the palm of my right hand.

Length: 234 words (1215 characters).  Price: US$409.50

"So you're going for the idiot look," Martin was saying, and Ed has a pretty good idea that Martin was taking another shot at his haircut, but didn't let on. "Like the uh, Ziggy – Ziggy Fucking Stardust look? The idiot look. Bet the ladies love that shit though, uh?" Which, the ladies did love that shit actually, although it wasn't Ziggy Stardust: the color wasn't Ziggy-colored, and the – "Betcha the ladies go for that Ziggy shit!!!", said Martin, gleefully/sadistically. Ed wanted to throw a hot cup of coffee in his cousin's face: Martin was wrong (or really, right, in spite of himself) about "the ladies," and anyway, what was so great about Martin's hair, and why were Martin's laughs always at someone else's expense? But Ed didn't have a cup of coffee handy, and anyway they were in Ed's car, so Ed let it go, which was what he almost always did, but after the thing last night, Ed thought that maybe Martin could lay off a little if he felt like it.

Length: 172 words (973 characters).  Price: US$301.00

As the sun rose over the Atlantic, Luis took it upon himself to clean up the mess: three hours prior, a spring-breaker from Tulane had literally vomited his entire body onto the sidewalk in front of P.J. Binge's. He, Luis, wouldn't have believed it unless he'd seen it: the kid's pancreas (spleen?) dangling from the first step of the stairs leading into the bar; something liver-like over by the curb; half of what was almost certainly a lung in the bushes over by the propane tanks. What was extraordinary was that the kid had gotten up – this was according to both Bill and Jorge – gotten up, stumbled back into the bar and ordered an Irish coffee, or tried to, from the big stuffed bear who'd stood in the corner by the jukebox since (at least) 1979. Nobody had ever spoken to the bear before. Luis cried when he heard the part about the bear.

Length: 156 words (860 characters).  Price: US$273.00

The legendary Rosenberg's Delicatessen opened its doors on the corner of Fourth Avenue and 9th Street in Manhattan in 1910, where, for almost five decades, Jacob Rosenberg, my great uncle, manned the – Sorry... I'm really sorry; I have to take this... Hello?... No, that's not what I told them; what I said was, any time before five would work, or six on Thursday, but... Yeah... I know. Sure... I know, but just tell... Just tell... Just... Okay, but just tell them, before five, any day next week. I'm sure they... I know, but then someone'll have to come and hook it up... No, because I'm not a plumber, so no, or an electrician... No, sweetie, it's just that I don't know how to do it. If I knew how... Right: if I knew how to... Okay, yes... Yes... No... Yes, right: in other words, any day next week, yeah... Because I'll ask Jose to wait for them, is why... Exactly... Exactly! Okay... Yes... Yes, but I have to go here... Okay... Sure. just make it quick please, because I... No, sweetie, you're talking to me... On your other one, you mean, okay... No, It's just, I'm trying to... Sure, okay, no, just make it quick please...

Length: 207 words (1163 characters).  Price: US$362.25

After 9/11, we did Afghanistan and Iraq. After the Sears Tower, we did Iran. After Seattle, we did Syria, Libya, and Morocco. After 3/24, we did Algeria, Sudan, and... oh, and Jordan. After Massachusetts, we did Pakistan, Kuwait, Afghanistan again, the West Bank, and – by accident, obviously – Spain. After Houston and Chicago, we did Somalia. After Anthrax II, we did Qatar and – we weren't sure about this, and there were definitely some dissenters, but we did it anyway – Japan (because of what they said about Spain). After the European embassies, we did Azerbaijan, Armenia (we sort of thought, "why not, since we're doing Azerbaijan"), and San Francisco. After 12/14, we did Russia (all of it). We haven't done France; we want to, but we haven't caught them red-handed yet. Oh, right, and Mexico: after the Astrodome, we did them.

Length: 148 words (871 characters).  Price: US$259.00