50 Crazy Funny Short Novels for Adults: True and Insane Tales for the Mature

By Christian Stahl

Have you been feeling overly stressed lately? Give yourself a break from your nuclear surroundings to have a read and crack a smile.With this book you can cheer up and discover:

• That there is evidence and insight that certain sea creatures had sex with a human.
• Why having demen

• Language: English
• Publisher: Midealuck Publishing
• Release date: May 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739704605

Christian Stahl

www.shortstoriesforbeginners.com

Book preview

Introduction

One does not kill by anger, but by laughter.

- Friedrich Nietzsche

Strange times can be exhausting times, why not taking a break for some private reading and a smile?

Christian Stahl has traveled to over 50 countries, and he’s lived in quite a few. Some of his stories are based on real events from his past, yet he enjoys taking the reader to the farthest reaches of sanity.   

If you open your eyes, the world can be full of comedy and awkward little stories that anyone can find humor in. His motto is: Even if you are in a jam, it often helps when you can laugh about it. So indulge yourself in what’s out there. Laughing is indeed often the best medicine, and if you can laugh at yourself, that’s a good start for a lot of things. Here comes your antidote for elevated stress levels:

Mr. Dementia

Experience teaches us that the world is not a nursery

- Plato

According to the nurses, I turned 82 today.

Even though most of them are as helpful as lumps in the lungs, I believe them. So, for this birthday, which is nothing to be sneezed at, I wanted to plan something special for my colleagues — my housemates here in the nursing home.

Inevitably, the nurses intervened. Catching wind of my good intentions, they demanded a discussion with management. And according to big nurse Berta, it could take a while.

I don't have much to do here, so I've spent most of my time taking care of others. Often going as far as giving small gifts to the old-timers here in the nursing home.

You only turn 82 once, so I plan to give the staff a few presents again; old photos, postcards, and trinkets, things I’ve been allowed to collect and keep over the years.

Once, I gave big Berta, our chief warden, as I call her, three 1960s Florida beach postcards in pristine condition.

And Jimmy, the young dim-witted orderly, I recently gave him a Georgia beach postcard.

I also gave the two sisters responsible for my hygiene two mixed old postcards each.

I was advised to keep an inventory record of my collections and belongings because I apparently suffer from dementia. Fuck them! Yes, you heard right — I don’t give a damn what they say.

Do I sound somewhat bitter? Some of the residents would say I'm evil, but the nurses understand my behavior is due to dementia.

Most other folks though, are cheerful and content most of the time — and you can say I'm somewhat responsible for that.

Oh, I almost forgot — An excellent example was on another birthday. Not only did I gift postcards, but I also went the extra mile for everyone and hired a live band.

And as big Berta likes to remind me, even hired an external catering service with yes sir… steak and lobster!

Admittedly, alcohol is forbidden here, but not on that occasion —not on my birthday. So, I paid for it to be secretly provided.

Am I rich? Possibly, who knows? But where did the money come from while living as a nursing home resident? Well, let me start at the beginning.

As I’ve said, I’m known to suffer from dementia.

A year or two ago, I still lived independently in a rough neighborhood in central Detroit.

I had been living there since 1961. But before that, if memory serves, I lived a block away with my mother until she passed. I never did marry, and to this day, I remain single.

Anyway, I was punctual in paying my rent and never defaulted on any bills.

Back then, every apartment in the area was home to a small family, but, over the years, the neighborhood deteriorated. One after another, neighbors moved out.

And what began moving in were some rather strange characters. Immigrants, gangs, and complete strangers, to name a few. But, at any rate, I didn’t care, and I wasn’t afraid. So, I stood my ground and stayed put.

I saw cliques of teens hanging around old cars and trucks, making deals daily. Admittedly, crime was on the rise, but somehow, it never worried me. I kept to myself and stayed out of trouble, becoming a familiar fixture, almost invincible to those around me.

They likely heard or assumed I was a bit absentminded, having regularly witnessed me locking myself out of my apartment on numerous occasions.

One day, while looking out the window, I heard screaming and shouting. I leant out to look, and what a scene it was!

Three young Hispanic-looking guys were chasing a black man.

Suddenly, I heard gunshots! I slammed the window shut and willed myself to forget about the incident.

Later that day, the police knocked on my door, inquiring if I had seen or heard anything.

Of course, I denied seeing anything, but the cop insisted that I must have noticed something because the incident occurred right outside my apartment. Casually mentioning that I suffered from dementia, I insistently denied memory of any incident.

The following morning, I ran into one of the neighbors in the stairwell—a youngish looking guy.

Hey, Gramps, he said, I overheard the cops asking you questions, and you gave them nothing. I appreciate that.

Sure thing, I said.

Wait a minute… oh man, you’re Herby, right? I heard you’ve been living here since around the fifties?

Something like that, I said.

We had a bit of a chat, joked around and instantly hit it off.

Over the following months, we continued building a friendship and began referring to them as my grandson and his other cousins.

Eventually, my new friend, Cesar, invited me to his family home in a different neighborhood. Let me tell you, they were living it up with high-class parties. It was clear these folks were not poverty-stricken. In fact, it was at one of those parties where I got the steak and lobster delivery idea. As it happened, I became part of their inner circle, or part of their club, as they say.

One day Cesar asked me if I could deliver a small package to a car parked in a lot just two blocks away.

Sure I could. Long story short, we made some money, and I was happy to be earning extra cash in addition to my disability pension.

I felt free again. About a year later, the doctor that regularly visited to check on my mental condition informed me that I could no longer live unsupervised.

At eighty years old, I was not allowed to live alone anymore!

Of course, this whole situation developed into quite a scene with my new family friends who intended to keep me home.

Ultimately, the bureaucrats, doctors and even the cops all worked together. Twelve times they came to my home with doctors, advisors, and experts, but I believe that that stupid cop from last year finally made it happen. Though the truth is, I was conceding that, at some point, I needed to go into a nursing home. It didn’t help that my friends insisted that I stay — I had to go. It was the unhappiest moment in my life. However, before we said goodbye, we made a pact.

The beginning here was hard, of course. I had to adapt to this place, but I kept in touch with everyone. The secret is that I started small. I had a small side hustle going on right here in this institution.

Every week Cesar sent a bag with pink pills, deeply discounted, which allowed for an impressive profit.

What did I do with those pills?

After convincing them of the pills’ power to improve their energy and mood, I gave them to my new resident neighbors.

They loved my stuff more than Jell-O and their grandchildren combined. It was the greatest invention since sliced bread for them.

Of course, it cost them, particularly the older ones with limited mobility who needed more. But they were happy to pay because, truthfully, the medication breathed new life into them, giving some of them a reason to live again. So, as you can imagine, the orders grew, and over time, business boomed.

Some of the staff here became suspicious that I was up to something.

To get them off my back and keep them quiet, I bribed them with cash, starting small and going from there.

So, everyone scored, and everyone was happy. Well, almost everyone. Those who didn’t pay timely received a not-so-friendly visit from a few of my non-English speaking relatives.

Boy, do we have fun in here sometimes! And do I have dementia? Dementia, my ass!

The Three of Us in Paris

Love is a serious mental disease

-Plato

In a café in Paris, I sit at a table with my best friend Judy. Across from us sits Pierre, smiling at me. I met Pierre on my first trip to France three years ago. He helped show me around the city after I got lost one day, and we have kept in touch ever since.

Pierre is holding my hand, but I am still shaken.

So, your husband let you go to Paris by yourself? He asks.

Yes, I say.  He said he had some urgent business in Brooklyn..

Pierre shakes his head.

Judy sips her smoothie, then shakes her head too. She isn’t convinced. I don’t understand. What happened over the last few days?

Well, it’s complicated, I say.

C’mon! Why don’t you tell us what’s happened?

I start to explain it from the beginning, or I try, at least. My husband, as you know, is very busy with his business, and he is part of a larger group, so to speak.

Pierre seems unable to stop his grin. You never told me.

Forget it, honey.

Tell me, he insists. What does your husband do?

I cough into my fist. My husband owns a private spa. With a pool, massages, all of that stuff.

That’s great. You love happy endings?

No, I say. In the States, it is very different. It’s all legit there.

Pierre winks at me, smiling like the devil.

"Well, Jonny