Do you like to eat? I do, and there’s nothing quite like the joy of having an Autochef.
Adaptive hypermenu technologies.
Self-sharpening knives.
Automated inventory control and ingredients ordering.
What’s not to like? I’ve had mine for a month, and it’s been absolutely amazing. I eat like a king, and yet thanks to Portion Control and the Dietary Module, I haven’t gained a pound.
It’s not perfect, though. The other night, some joker put a “Kiss The Chef” apron on the Autochef. I was drunk enough to do it, and they had to restart my heart after the shock.

Breaking Eggs


Doctor Odd held the eggs against the phase-regulated vacuum pump and flipped the switch.
“Watch!” he yelled.
The eggs vibrated for a moment, glowed red, and then their insides dropped into the skillet below.
“Success,” said Odd, inspecting the shells.
Not a crack.
“You can’t do this!” shouted his assistant. “This is madness! You cannot make an omelet without breaking a few eggs!”
“You’re right,” said Odd, looking at the bubbling eggy goop in the frying pan.
“Thank God you came to your senses, Doctor,” said his assistant.
“What was I thinking?” said Doctor Odd. “It needs peppers and mushrooms!”

Anchors Aweigh


Yes, It was my treachery that sank the ship.
I was paid by the enemy to scuttle it during the night watch.
However, as I swam towards the rowboat that was waiting to pick me up, I was entangled in the anchor chain and dragged to the bottom of the ocean.
Straight to Hell.
The anchor chained to my leg feels like it gets heavier every century I drag it, but I know that it’s my mind playing tricks on me.
Or is it my soul playing tricks on me?
I regret nothing.
Well, except getting tangled in this anchor.

Helen Handbasket


As unfortunate as Helen A. Handbasket’s name was, one should not mourn her present circumstances.
Six happy but brief marriages, each to men more successful and wealthy than the last, have left her rich in memories and assets. Not many can say they have been first lady twice, you know.
So when people in this town say they’re going to Helen A. Handbasket, it is either to pay their respects or to beg of her a favor that only her great wealth and connections can provide.
Every community should have one like her.
But only one, to avoid nasty rivalries.

Send in the clowns!


The 101st Clown Brigade may be the laughingstock of our armed forces, but this doesn’t bother them.
Every division has its Special Comedy Operations component, from the sappers disarming dangerous banana peels to cream pie chefs in the mess hall.
Some say that the Pentagon is full of them.
The most important aspect of the 101st by far is the team of rapid-deployment medical specialists.
After all, isn’t laughter the best medicine?
If you thought that a dozen heavily-armed Marines popping out of an APC was an impressive sight, try a few hundred of the 101st coming out of one.

Crosseyed Joe


Crosseyed Joe’s work was done. Black Bart and his gang of cattle rustlers were dead.
So was the sheriff.
And the barber.
For that matter, everyone else with the bad luck to be in the Last Chance Saloon this afternoon with Joe firing wildly.
Joe tipped his hat and rode off into the sunset, despite the horse’s protests. He spurred the horse harder and harder until the thing just gave up and ran for all it was worth.
That was yesterday.
This morning, vultures are circling over the canyon.
So much for Crosseyed Joe.
I feel bad for his horse.

Half Of What


Master Kwan sat in front of the student, poured the pitcher into his glass, and stopped.
“Is the glass half-empty or half-full, Stinkbug?” asked the teacher.
The student scratched his recently-shaved scalp. “It is full, Master,” he said.
“With what?” asked the teacher.
“It is half-full with water,” said the student. “And half full of air. Half plus half is whole.”
“Drink,” commanded the teacher. “Fill the glass with air.”
The student drank. “Delicious,” he said, smiling.
“It is not water, Stinkbug,” said the teacher. “It is poison.”
“Then it is a delicious poison,” said the student, and he died.