George Epley

    Tucked away on a side street in Pleasant Hill, Missouri, there’s a little antique store that feels like a time machine — if the machine was built in 1973 and ran on polyester fumes and disco lights. The place is stacked with vinyl 45s, Schwinn bicycles with banana seats, lava lamps, ashtrays shaped like motel signs, and, most curiously, an entire shelf of vintage bowling pins that look like they’ve survived three world wars. It’s the kind of store you wander into once out of curiosity, smile at the nostalgia, and then quietly promise yourself you’ll never come back. Not because the owner isn’t friendly — in fact, that’s the real problem. The man is too friendly. He wants to tell you the life story behind every dented pin, every scratched record, every rusted bike. You’ll hear about the kid who won a state championship with that bowling ball in 1962, or the couple who played that very record on their first date and then divorced three years later because she hated the sax...

Little Tommy had never been to the barber before. His mom said, “It’s just a haircut, nothing to be scared of.” But as soon as he stepped inside the old barbershop, Tommy froze. The overhead light buzzed like a swarm of angry bees. A single barber’s chair sat in the middle, looking less like a place for grooming and more like an electric chair ready to deliver justice. On the walls, sharp scissors glistened in neat rows like surgical tools. The clippers gave off a low, menacing hum, like a hungry robot waiting to bite. In Tommy’s wide-eyed imagination, the friendly barber wasn’t smiling—he was a mad scientist. His white apron became a blood-stained lab coat, and the comb in his hand transformed into a gleaming torture device. The spray bottle? Clearly filled with truth serum. The striped barber pole spinning outside the window suddenly looked like a warning siren, spiraling red and white, saying: Abandon hope, all ye with messy bangs! Tommy shuffled forward, picturing a dungeon hi...

  In a thriving orchard, there was one tree whose branches hung low with bright fruit. From the outside, it seemed as healthy as the rest. But deep in the soil, one root had turned rotten. Slowly, the rot began to spread, poisoning the tree’s lifeblood. At first, the other trees ignored it, thinking, “It’s just one root, the tree will survive.” But as seasons passed, the sickness crept upward—first into the trunk, then into the branches, and soon the fruit itself grew bitter and spoiled. The orchard keeper faced a choice: leave the root and watch the tree destroy itself, or cut it away so the tree could heal. Though painful, the keeper took his axe and removed the diseased root. The tree faltered for a time, but before long, new roots pushed down into the soil—strong, pure, and nourishing. The fruit once again grew sweet, and the orchard flourished.   Moral: When one part of a community turns toxic and threatens the health of all, it must be addressed, even if the action i...

  Bubba Joe was the ultimate right-wing, Republican, mega supporter. He didn’t just like his president—he worshiped him. The man was, in Bubba’s mind, a cross between Jesus, George Washington, and Hulk Hogan. Anyone who dared question this divine hybrid was, by default, a socialist, communist, or worse—a fact-checker. When someone brought up inconvenient truths, like the economy tanking or the president confusing airports with Revolutionary War battlefields, Bubba had a strategy. Step one: ignore it. Step two: say, “Fake news!” Step three: accuse the other person of being a brainwashed sheep who “doesn’t do their own research” (though Bubba’s own “research” usually involved Facebook memes made by a guy named Dale in his garage). His torture methods were legendary. If you questioned his president, he’d strap you to a chair and force you to watch 12 straight hours of conspiracy videos narrated by monotone YouTubers with tinfoil hats. If that didn’t break you, he’d unleash the ulti...

   Old Sam fancied himself a sailor. Never mind that he lived in Nebraska, miles from any real ocean. He had a little sailboat—barely big enough for two people and a picnic basket—that he would drag down to the local lake every Saturday morning. As soon as the sail caught the breeze, Sam transformed. He’d throw on his captain’s hat, squint at the horizon, and bark orders to his imaginary crew: “Hoist the mainsail! Steady as she goes! Watch out for pirates off the starboard bow!” The lake was a quarter mile across, but to Sam, it stretched wider than the Pacific. Fishermen in their johnboats became Japanese destroyers. The geese were “enemy dive-bombers.” When a speedboat zipped by, Sam would shout, “We’re under attack! Brace for impact!” and rock his boat violently to simulate cannon fire. It took him twenty minutes to tack from one side of the lake to the other, but when he landed on the opposite shore, he’d throw down an anchor the size of a salad bowl and declare, “We’ve re...

  George was a man of the outdoors… or so he claimed. He loved hiking, camping, fishing, and sitting under the stars. At least, until the bug world declared war on him. Spiders, caterpillars, ants—even butterflies—turned this rugged outdoorsman into a squealing mess. The moment one crawled within ten feet of him, George would shriek like a soprano and run faster than the Flash on an energy drink. If there happened to be a tree nearby, he’d climb it like a monkey with his tail set on fire, hanging from branches and swatting at invisible insects as though auditioning for a wildlife documentary called The World’s Most Terrified Mammal . George tried to fight back. He went to self-help groups. He sat through psychiatric counseling sessions. He even attended a weekend retreat called Bugs Are Our Friends , where they made him hold a ladybug. The group leaders said, “See, George, harmless!” His response was to pass out cold on the spot. The ladybug flew off in triumph, no doubt bragging ...