Sometimes, I wake up early to do my laundry before work.
One morning, as I was doing my laundry, I came across a tiny wet kitten.
The kitten had either fallen into the pool or been thrown in.
Either way, the little thing was sitting on the sidewalk.
I leaned down, extended a hand, and the kitten mewed and approached.
I pet the kitten, and then went back in for a can of chicken.
The kitten rubbed against my legs, but eventually ate the chicken.
By the time I finished laundry, the kitten was gone.
I hope that it’s alright.
Feminists are right when they claim that God is a she, but God’s not the maternal type.
God’s a washed-up old barfly, the last out the door at Last Call every night.
You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.
So, who does God stay with?
Whoever she manages to pass out on, she always manages that.
A mumbling, wrinkled old hag on the sofa.
She’s never there the next morning.
Where did she go? Did she steal anything?
Until the bar opens again, when she’s the first in the door, ready for another night.
It’s not every day that you see a star explode.
We parked the ship a safe distance from the explosion, raised our deflector shields, and watched as a bright light erupted in the middle of our long-distance telescopes.
Everything in the system was incinerated.
Solar heat and charged mass spread out in all directions.
We sent a subspace message back to headquarters that the system had been annihilated.
“Good,” they said. “That’ll teach ’em to miss three payments in a row.”
We lowered shields, charged up our power reserves, and set a course for the next deadbeat system.
After every concert, every night, Janis shot up.
She shot up a lot, more and more every night.
She tried to kick the habit in Rio. But she started again.
A lot of other performers died from overdoses.
Blind Owl Wilson.
“My people are pioneer stock,” she said. “They came across country and settled in Texas. They’re tough. I won’t die like that.”
But she did.
They found her by the side of her hotel bed, dead from an overdose.
Where are her ashes?
Did they ever make it back to Texas?
Did they ever make it home?
The Mindy Miller Show has been going strong for 75 years.
There used to be a real Mindy Miller, but she had issues, and she kept making all kinds of demands.
The network owned her likeness and name, so the network dumped her and replaced her with a clone.
Sadly, the clone had replication errors, so the studio built a robot.
It was pretty lifelike, too, and it suffered less breakdowns than the real Mindy Miller.
Eventually, they replaced that with a computer-generated hologram.
A friendly, tireless virtual extroverted lovable chatterbox.
And best of all, you can turn her off.
I haven’t always been so well-adjusted.
For a while, I had a therapist. And he did free association
Well, kinda. He just kept shouting “Buckminster.”
I’d say “Fuller” and he called the cops on me.
I now realize he wasn’t a lousy therapist.
I was just too possessive, and I followed him everywhere.
He’d lost his dog, and was out looking for him.
It’s funny, looking back at these things, and remembering them.
Okay, so I stole his dog, but Buckminster is a really good dog.
Although after every time I say his name, I keep wanting to say “Fuller.”
After computing hardware and programming advanced to the point where we could beat the Turing Test, the next challenge was to create an artificial body to put that intelligence into that would fool a human.
Unlike the intelligence test, the body test was a lot more hands on.
Scientists were asked to fuck a series of robots and humans, and then were asked which ones were human and which were robots.
There were occasional glitches, resulting in broken bones, severe lacerations, and accidental beheadings.
And too many scientists would say “I’m still not sure, can I try that one again?”
Billy was a fastball pitcher.
He threw fastballs.
Really fast. Faster than any other pitcher.
They were really dangerous.
Two hundred, three hundred miles per hour.
So fast, nobody could hit them.
If you tried to hit them, you’d shatter your bat.
Or if the ball was off-target, you’d get your arm or leg or skull shattered.
Nobody could catch them either.
He killed a few catchers that way.
The first one, total accident.
After that, yeah, should have learned their lesson with the first dead catcher.
Billy was banned from baseball.
Became a superhero.
Until somebody shot him dead.
My girl loved ponies.
Shelves and shelves of stuffed ponies.
You could barely see her bed under them.
My girl liked to draw ponies.
She drew them everywhere.
When she got older, she got a pony tattoo on her arm.
She thought it would cover up the needle tracks.
But it didn’t. We knew. And we tried to stop her.
We buried her in pink pony pajamas.
Wrapped in her favorite pony blanket.
Out by the pony farm we used to go to every summer.
Before the drugs took her on the last, long ride of her life.
Bob says that he can’t live on his minimum wage fast food job.
So, he protests at rallies calling for a minimum wage of fifteen dollars an hour.
Bob’s bosses say that such a high minimum wage will kill the fast food industry.
Why is this a bad thing?
Nobody should be eating fast food.
Burgers and fries and super-sized sodas are bad for you.
Eat healthy things, instead.
Fuck them both, I say. Fuck all of the poison-peddlers.
Get a job at a collective organic farm.
Sure, it’ll pay minimum wage, but at least it’s not peddling poison, right?