Clotheslines and Short Stories

I was riding the bus home, and I saw clothes hanging up on the clothes line. Ummm...Last I checked, it's the twenty-first century. If you're putting clothes on the clothesline, let me tell you some other things that you might be doing. Maybe after you put the clothes up on the line, you'll go split some wood for the fire or maybe go out and hunt rabbits for dinner. And after that you can go down to the local blacksmith in your horse drawn carriage with your indentured servant, Susanne. Then to conclude your day, you'll sit down in a one roomed house on the prairie until you realize there's an Indian raid, so you grab your musket and go and fight.

But that's the way it is. It's the zero's now. We have things called dryers. They dry things. That's why it was invented, so everyone except Amish people didn't have to let their clothes dry.

In English, we have been reading--no, we have been privileged enough to read some short stories by such famous authors as Eudora Welty, John Updike (ON NOTICE), F. Scott Fitzgerald (formerly ON NOTICE), and Alice Walker. I am sick and tired of reading complete garbage in English class. We've read one good story this whole year. I think we've only read two stories the whole year that actually have a plot. I don't know who chooses the books, the stories, and the poems we read, but I am going to find that person, and I am going to put him or her on the DEAD TO ME list. So if you're the one doing it, you'd better get your act together.

I mean, seriously folks, these stories are just complete crap. I'm pretty sure that I can write a more interesting story on the driveway with sidewalk chalk in five minutes in the rain than they can in an entire lifetime. I just don't understand how people can think a story that illustrates "local color" is a great story that should be taught and passed on for generations. I would think that if you're going to write a short story, you could at least spend the extra time that you get from writing a short story by fixing your flapdoodle to at least resemble a story. You know why you've never heard of John Updike and Eudora Welty? Because they write stories that are so bad, so unintriguing, so worthless, so irrelevant, so unimportant that I can't even stay awake though the first page, and if I do, it's only because my brain has become a mush and is dripping out my ears.

I'm going to sum up some of these stories in one sentence:
A Worn Path: A crazy, old lady walks to town.
The Brown Chest: An old crate is filled with family heirlooms and smells funny.
Everyday Use: A college student comes home to get some old quilts, and her mom says no.
Winter Dreams: A guy is obsessed with a slut.
Average Waves in Unprotected Waters: Mom puts son in insane asylum.
The Life You Save May Be Your Own: A guy marries a deaf girl, so her mom will give him a car.
Anteojos: A lady almost gets mugged but then the guys just help change her flat tire.