George Epley

  Natural Perfume: Turkey vultures bathe in dead animal scent to attract a mate. Chanel once tried to bottle it. The perfume was banned in 14 countries. Sky Janitors: Turkey vultures were originally hired by the sky to clean up nature’s messes. They're still waiting on their union-negotiated benefits. Gobble-Goth Cousin: They are called turkey vultures because they’re the emo cousin of the Thanksgiving bird. Instead of “gobble gobble,” they say “whatever” and listen to My Chemical Romance. Airplane Bouncers: Pilots report that turkey vultures often act as self-appointed bouncers of the sky, denying access to balloons, drones, and judgmental seagulls. Extreme Shyness: Turkey vultures are actually extremely shy. That’s why they only eat when everyone else has already left the scene... permanently. Superpower Stomach: A turkey vulture’s digestive system can neutralize anything. Scientists once fed one an expired gas station burrito and it got healthier. Fashi...

    A cluster of yellow, so sunny and bright, They dance in the breeze, a pure-hearted sight. They bloom with a whisper, a golden bouquet, And somehow, they manage to brighten the day. They smile from gardens, from cracks in the street, With petals like laughter and stems like a beat. They cheer up the grumpiest mailman in town, And soften the heart of old Ms. McGown. They charm little children and poets alike, They’re nature’s own postcards on joy’s little bike. A moment with them and your worries take flight, Unless you’re poor Paul—who sneezes all night. See, Paul has this thing—it’s a tragic, sad tale— Where flowers cause chaos from nostril to nail. One sniff of a daisy, one whiff of a rose, And his face starts exploding from eyeballs to nose. So yellow flowers, though lovely and true, Can’t share their sunshine with every last crew. They’re joy for the masses, a sight so divine, Just don’t bring them near Paul... unless you hate his spine.

  In the static swirl of the evening air, Where signals bounce from here to where? There lies a net, both proud and thin— A wacky world called DoDropIn . The net controller takes the helm, A brave old soul in this strange realm. “Any check-ins?” they calmly say— And that’s when minds start to go astray. From every band and twisted dial, Come voices that defy all style. A man who chats with Martian goats, Another swears his couch just floats. There's Carol, who talks in Morse with cheese, And Stan, who thinks the moon has knees. Bob built a rig from spoons and glue— (It caught on fire, but only twice —that's new.) One says he's trapped in ‘92, And only ham bands pull him through. Another thinks his cat can send A perfect CQ from end to end. The net rolls on, day after day, In sweet, deranged, antenna play. Where normalcy is not required— Just batteries mostly not expired. They argue over feedline woes, Or how to out-transmit their foes. But undernea...

  

    "The Illuminating Life of George the Light Bulb Whisperer" Most people take pictures of sunsets, babies, or their dinner. But not you. No, you have a passion — a burning, incandescent love — for light bulbs. It all started innocently enough. One day, while changing a 60-watt soft white in the bathroom, you glanced at it, and something… clicked . Maybe it was the gleam. The raw, unfiltered glow. The way the filament curled like it had secrets. You snapped a photo on your phone. Then another. Then 38 more. Next thing you knew, you were on eBay at 2 a.m. bidding against a guy named “BulbDaddy57” for a vintage 1920s Edison bulb that may or may not have been touched by Thomas Edison himself (spoiler: it wasn’t). You’ve staged them like supermodels. A moody close-up of a half-lit LED called "Existential Wattage" . A black-and-white glamour shot of a frosted GE bulb you titled "She Glows Alone" . You’ve even got one hanging from a tree in your backyard th...

  I'm not much into aviation, but while on vacation in Wisconsin, we found a experimental aircraft museum. I took the opportunity to have some fun with my camera. But as you know, I love telling you a story so here I go. The story begins!  Back in the golden days of aviation — we’re talking way back, like when a "mile high club" just meant you'd passed out from oxygen deprivation — airplanes were basically flying lawnmowers with wings held together by hope, duct tape, and the dreams of caffeine-fueled inventors named Orville and Wilbur. People in those days didn’t just fear flying… they prayed through it. Church attendance spiked every time someone bought a ticket. Boarding an aircraft in the 1910s was seen as either a courageous act or the last desperate attempt of a man avoiding his in-laws. The planes themselves were wonders of early engineering — if by “wonders” you mean “wooden kites with engine noises that sounded like a sick donkey trying to yodel.” Passenge...

  "The Great China Conspiracy" Marriage, they say, is about compromise. That’s why I now live in what can only be described as a porcelain minefield. My wife, bless her delicate, doily-loving heart, collects china teacups like a Victorian aristocrat preparing for a ghostly tea party. Every garage sale, antique store, and dusty corner of the internet is an opportunity to “rescue” another lonely little cup with gold trim and a name like "Lady Marigold" or “Queen’s Garden No. 7.” She displays them in a glass cabinet, arranged by era, color, and level of emotional attachment. Some are apparently too fancy to even be looked at directly during daylight hours. Now here’s the punchline to this floral-scented joke of fate: I’m allergic to tea. Not just a little. I mean eyes-swelling, throat-scratchy, ER-visit kind of allergic. If Earl Grey so much as breathes in my direction, I’m one sneeze away from becoming a medical case study. So imagine living in a home that constantly ...

  I am writing as a concerned citizen and voter deeply troubled by recent actions taken by the legislature that appear to disregard the will of the people. Twice now, the voters of Missouri have spoken clearly through the ballot box, approving measures by majority vote. Yet, despite these outcomes, some of our elected representatives have taken steps to challenge, alter, or reverse what the people have decided. This raises a fundamental question: If the voice of the voters is not respected, then what purpose does a democratic vote serve? Our system of government is based on representation and the rule of law, but it is also built on trust. When that trust is broken — when officials dismiss the results of a lawful, democratic vote — it undermines the very principles of our republic. Because of this growing disconnect between the legislature and the will of the people, I see no alternative but to support candidates who will listen to and respect the outcome of the democratic proce...

  Grandma’s Jurassic Joyride It all started with a harmless trip to the museum. At least, that’s what Grandma Mabel thought it was. Her grandson Leo had begged her for weeks to take him to the “Dino Experience” at the local adventure park. She figured it would be like one of those pop-up exhibits with a few dusty bones and a plastic raptor or two. She even packed a thermos of tea and a knitting project. You know, just in case it got boring. But the moment they entered the park gates, Mabel knew something was off. There were warning signs, roars in the distance, and a disturbingly realistic animatronic velociraptor that snapped at a hot dog vendor. Leo was overjoyed. “GRANDMA, THIS IS SO AWESOME!” Mabel adjusted her glasses. “I thought this was going to be educational. You didn’t say anything about life-sized robot lizards!” “They’re not robots, Grandma! It’s virtual-reality-assisted immersion tech! It’s just like Jurassic Park!” “Wonderful,” she muttered. “Can we at least ...

  Back in the Old Days, When GM Built the Future Back in the old days—sometime between chrome bumpers and cassette decks—there was a moment when General Motors didn’t just build cars. No sir. GM built dreams on wheels. People still talk about the “GM-TI Train,” though nobody seems to know what the “TI” ever stood for. Some say it meant Transportation Initiative . Others think it meant Titanium Innovation . But most of us folks who remember just call it what it really was: The Future That Actually Ran on Time. It all started in the 1950s, when America was wide open and full of promise. GM had already conquered the road with Buicks and Cadillacs, but they had a bigger idea—why not build a self-driving, solar-powered, streamlined automotive train that could shuttle people across the country like a mobile hotel? Imagine a train made not of steel but of lightweight aluminum and fiberglass, styled like a jetliner and powered by a turbine engine that sounded like a soft whisper of sc...

  Columns and Shadows The columns rise like sentinels outside the hospital entrance—tall, cold, and too clean, like the bones of something ancient and uncaring. You step beneath them slowly, each stride heavy with the weight of what-ifs and maybes. The automatic doors hiss open with the sterile indifference of a machine that's seen too many stories pass through—some ending in relief, others in silence. Inside, the air is dry and smells faintly of antiseptic and old coffee. Shadows stretch long across the waiting room floor as the late afternoon sun filters through high windows, casting the chairs and plastic plants into exaggerated shapes—monsters or angels, depending on your mood. You hesitate at the threshold. Maybe it’s the pain in your chest, or maybe it’s something less physical, more like memory. The last time you came here, they said the word “serious” more than once. The doctor’s face was composed, but his eyes flickered—just a moment of truth peeking out from beneath hi...