Tom knew the procedure by heart: When you’ve been shot through with an arrow, break off the end with the fletching and pull the arrow out by the head. Put pressure on both ends until medical assistance arrives.
So, when the professor shot him in the leg with an arrow, he broke off the end with the fletching and pulled it out by the head. Then he tore off a sleeve, bound the wounds, and applied pressure.
“Pass,” said the professor.
The medics injected Tom with the regeneration nanobots, and he watched the professor nock another arrow.
“Next!” he shouted.
Recently, I bought one of those single cup coffee makers.
Some of the pods are good. Others are not so good.
So, I bought a few sampler boxes, and I started a notebook to track which ones I like.
First, I sip the coffee when it’s black. Then, I pour in some milk. Finally, I add some sugar.
All of this is tracked in my notebook with happyfaces and frownyfaces.
After trying every kind of coffee pod available, I looked back at my notes.
Then, I threw out the coffee maker and went back to making green tea.
When the angry voices in his head came back, Harry checked himself into the hospital.
The doctors tried a variety of medicines, but they made the voices angry.
So, the doctors took Harry to an amusement park. And the voices had a good time.
Then, they had Harry try out for Jeopardy as a contestant. The voices helped him with the answers, and he won match after match.
Harry should have become rich on the winnings, but the show found out about the voices and claimed he was cheating.
Harry checked himself into the hospital, soaked in Alex Trebek’s blood.
My neighbor Ed is a middle school gym teacher.
He’s got the worst comb-over of anyone I know.
And it’s not just his hair.
His lawn’s mostly brown patches, and he’s raked the few remaining green blades of grass over them.
His carpet’s stained and worn, and he’s tried to push the clean shag pile over the worst spots.
His Afghan Hound has a patchy pelt from worms and mange, but he’s pushed the fur around to cover the bare spots.
And when he has me over for dinner, it’s spaghetti.
Just a few strands draped over a huge meatball.
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.
My sister has severe brain damage.
The surgeries to keep her condition from getting worse have made her unstable.
And the medicine makes her even more unstable.
So when she calls someone fucking crazy, they’re really fucking crazy.
Or are they?
The fact that she’s unstable, brain damaged, and perpetually drugged to the gills casts doubt on her credibility, right?
She can’t even identify colors. Or order anything other than a Big Mac and fries without freaking out.
No, she is the crazy one. Not me.
The voices agree with me, too. I’m not crazy at all.
Not one bit.
My flexible spending plan won’t let me spend money on my pet’s flea medication.
So, I claimed that the flea medication was for me.
“I’m pretty hairy,” I said, showing off my hairy arms and back. “I get fleas.”
That wasn’t good enough.
So, I put on a dog suit and claimed that I was one of these cosplayer weirdos. And my costume was so good, fleas mistook me for a real dog.
I got a letter from the insurance company that denied my claim again.
That’s when I bit the mailman on the leg.
And got my claim approved.