For centuries, The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse owned just one horse.
This arrangement worked out great for when there was just War or Death doing on, but sometimes there were two or three of them on that horse.
Or, when things were particularly bad, all four.
Not only was the load unbearable, but as civilization spread and got more complicated, they had a lot more ground to cover.
The lone horse didn’t particularly like that arrangement, so the gang got three more horses.
Nowadays, they each have several horses. And they’ve hired a full-time vet, trainer, and stable manager.
Back in the day, Little Red Riding Hood would walk through the woods to visit her grandmother.
But now that Little Red Riding Hood is a grandmother, do her grandchildren come and visit her?
Hardly, and they don’t call, either. Or send letters.
Maybe they send a birthday card now and then. And they say they send emails, but Red doesn’t know how use email, or the Skype or any of those things.
The Big Bad Wolf was long dead, and he didn’t have any grandkids.
Same with the Woodsman.
Red sat on the porch, smoked joints, and read books.
As he neared the age of fifty, Don Quixote grew weary of endless adventure and battles.
“Go home to your island,” he told his companion Sancho.
Quixote rode his horse Rocinante one last time down the main road, and settled into the old Quijano Estate.
“Please, come back,” wrote his beloved Dulcinea.
But he never did.
Quixtoe hung up his lance, hammered the helmet of The Knight Of The White Moon into a shaving basin, and quietly read books.
“Fight us!” hissed the giants on the hills.
But they were long since dead, and their skeletons turned in the breeze.
I don’t sleep well.
And I don’t like sleeping pills.
So, I my doctor sent me to a sleep clinic.
They stuck wires on my head and hooked me to a computer.
It wasn’t easy to get to sleep, but the bed was so comfortable and the place was very relaxing.
When I woke up, the computer said it was elves.
You can’t do anything about that.
So, I redecorated my bedroom with the same bed, same wallpaper, and same computer.
Sticking wires on my head.
Everything is the same.
Plus, shitloads of mousetraps scattered on the floor.
Tina flew a lot, but she didn’t like to read books or watch movies or listen to music.
Instead, she liked to knit. And she was really good at it.
She knitted sweaters and socks. On really long flights, she’d knit a blanket. Or something even more complex.
After 9/11, knitting needles were banned on flights, and Tina couldn’t stand the boredom.
So, she knitted her own plane. And pilot.
She flew around the world in her knitted private plane, knitting without end.
Eventually, she knit her own little world.
She lived happily ever after… until her cat unraveled everything.
Santa’s really into Yoga these days.
Last year, he came back from his delivery run, and he went through the leftovers in his sack.
The last thing he pulled out was a Yoga DVD.
So, instead of just sitting on his ass watching porn and yelling at Mrs. Claus until November or so, he’s got his yoga mat and a 65-inch flat panel high-definition TV (another delivery he “lost” that year), and he’s stretching and breathing.
I hear he’s lost forty pounds. Had to get his suit resized.
That’s okay. This year, he’ll find leftover porn and gain fifty back.
If Santa’s up at the North Pole, who’s down at the South Pole?
Anti-Santa, of course.
Anti-Santa flies around the world in his anti-sleigh pulled by anti-reindeer and gathers toys from all the good boys and girls.
He fills up his sack, and then goes back to his anti-workshop where the anti-elves smash the toys into teeny tiny bits.
The next morning, the kids wake up to… nothing. Because Anti-Santa goes around just after Santa.
That’s okay, because it’s really your moms and dads who give you presents.
Unless you’re an orphan. Then you get nothing.
Well, maybe charity.