The teacher said on the report card that Bobby doesn’t play well with otters.
Otters? Doesn’t she mean others?
I scheduled a parent-teacher conference for the following Tuesday, and I was horrified to find the classroom covered with blood and hair and gristle.
“What kind of slaughterhouse do you run here?” I exclaimed.
“It’s your son Bobby!” answered the teacher. “Didn’t you read my note? Your little monster doesn’t play well with otters.”
“Otters?” I looked around. “These are dead otters?”
The teacher nodded.
I apologized to the teacher, grounded Bobby for a week, and suspended his annual zoo membership.
I never liked green beans. They always made me feel sick.
“I made them, and you’ll goddamned well them!” my mother would shout at me. “They’re good for you.”
“No they’re not!” I’d shout back, and throw up.
Things got nasty as I got older. Then one day, I couldn’t take it anymore. The cops came and found me standing over Mom’s body, screaming and still holding the knife.
The doctors checked me out, head to toe.
“You’re allergic to green beans,” they said. “Clearly a case of child abuse.”
Insanity, schmanity. I was not guilty by reason of allergy.
Whenever someone throws the “Christ-Killer” insult at me, I snap their photograph and run their face through my databases.
Then, I go back in time and kill their mother before they are born.
When I return to the present time, the person is gone, because they never existed.
No, I didn’t kill Jesus this way. It would mess up too many things.
Nor did I shout with the rest of the crowd to call for Jesus’ death.
Instead, I waited for the guy after he “came back.”
Stuffed his body in the time machine engine.
The book says he’s “ascended.”
We’re wired to love our babies
This stinking bloody wrinkled crying lump. We’re supposed to love.
Some say its the drugs we give them, but they love these things even in natural birth.
I guess when you go through all that pain and agony, it’s a rush when it finally stops.
We tried an experiment in one hospital. The painkillers we gave them were supposed to make them hate the babies.
And it worked.
“Get it away from me!” they screamed.
Which worked out perfect, because each of them were putting their babies up for adoption.
No second thoughts.
Fred always got high marks for penmanship. And nothing else. So, he never got into college, let alone earn a high school diploma.
That’s when he had the idea to kidnap. He figured one or two a year would net him a decent living.
The first was easy, until they got the ransom note.
“This is stunning penmanship!” said the hostage’s wife. And she had it framed.
He sent more ransom notes, and they got auctioned at Christine’s for a fortune. “Send more!” said the hostage’s wife.
Fred cut off the guy’s ear.
“That’s worthless!” said the hostage’s wife angrily.
I spent the whole night on the beach with her.
Sat next to her and watched the tide come in.
She begged for me to dig her out of the sand, but there’s no way I’d do that.
So, I gagged her before she started screaming.
As each wave rolled in closer, she went from scared to angry to what I swear was forgiveness.
Like all the others.
Sometimes, I dig them out after they get a wave or two against their face.
But not this one. This one belongs to the Sea Gods.
“Yes,” they demand.
And I comply.
Some scientists say that if you expose a baby to Mozart, it will boost their IQ.
Other scientists say that this has no effect on a baby’s IQ.
No matter what the scientists say, everyone agrees that exposing Mozart to babies really pissed him off.
“Vat’s mit all zees kinders!” he’d shout, sticking his fingers in his ears and scowling at the room full of babies. “Vere ist mein harpsichord?”
Then the babies would scream louder, and Mozart became even more irritable and outraged.
Further research is necessary on The Mozart Effect. And self-changing diapers to stop babies from screaming.