Contrary to popular belief, the Tree Of Knowledge was no tree at all, but a cornfield.
The snake was no snake, but a massive scarecrow placed to drive all living creatures from the cornfield, including the pair of humans God had recently created.
Eve tempted Adam with the corn, but he did not find the husk-covered vegetable to be all that appetizing.
Only when Eve shucked it, boiled it in a nearby hot spring, and smothered it with salt and butter did Adam finally take a bite.
Upon their banishment from Paradise and discovering their nakedness, Adam created a corn-bib.
A frog-footman bows, croaks “Harlequin,” and hands me a letter.
I thank him and open it.
Wonderful. There’s another damned croquet match at the palace.
I crumple up the note from the Red Queen inviting me to stay away from the party and toss it in the footman’s green face.
He ribbits and coughs.
“You’re looking for a tip?” I ask him.
He extends a flipper. “Sir?”
I smack him in the face with a pie and slam the door.
By leaving me out, that royal bitch proves once and for all that she’s not playing with a full deck.
Scrooge looked at the anonymous headstone and laughed.
“Is this what you brought me here for, Spirit?” he cackled. “Who in blazes is this?”
Death’s skeletal hand reached into his robe, pulled out a dusty ledger, and shrugged.
“Ummmmmmmm,” it said. “Dunno. Sorry.”
“This means nothing,” said Scrooge. “I can afford the best doctors. The best of the best. I’ve got plenty of sand in my hourglass, asshole.”
When Scrooge woke up, he hired a few men from the docks to pay Cratchitt’s family a visit.
Let’s just say that Tiny Tim wasn’t the only one who needed crutches.
My theory about Jughead is that he’s really a member of the Royal Family, smuggled into Riverdale to protect the royal bloodline from extinction in the event of an emergency.
This makes sense if you consider that Jughead first appeared in Archie Comics in 1941. England was in danger of falling to Hitler, so hiding a Royal in America would make perfect sense.
Even though this explains the crown, this doesn’t explain his lack of an accent. However, through intense brainwashing sessions and the proper application of high voltages to his genitals, anything is possible.
Heck, just look at Sting.
My loincloth’s slipping, I’ve got a splitting headache from the heat and the crown of thorns, and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.
I look down. Mom’s there, crying her eyes out.
“Quit crying, Mom,” I shout down to her. “Get me a towel or something.”
She just kneels and weeps.
“Shut up, freak!” shouts a soldier. He jabs me with a spear.
“Damn!” I yell. “Asshole!”
That’s when it starts to rain.
“Thanks, Dad,” I mumble Heavenward. “What a fucking shitty day this turned out to be.”
I should have checked my horoscope.