Bus full of nuns… fried.
Child molester… spared.
Honorable soldier… fried.
Al Franken… spared.
Paul Harvey… fried.
“THOR!” yelled Odin.
The Father of The Gods scowled.
Thor’s thunderbolts had become increasingly wild over the past century, concerning his father Odin to the point where he consulted an orthopedic surgeon.
Thor was scheduled for Tommy John surgery a month ago, and after a few months of therapy and weight-training, it is my professional opinion that he’ll be as good as new.
Before he headed back to Asgard, he said “Thank you” and left me this hammer. Isn’t it cool?
Count Viper may not have been born a Yankees fan centuries ago, but he certainly died one.
For eighty years, the Count took in every night game, feeding on rude fans.
Well, never the ones with 3 on their back, out of respect for Ruth.
Last year, Alex Rodriguez shattered his bat and a piece flew into the stands where Viper had been a permanent fixture.
It pierced the vampire’s heart and reduced him to ash instantly.
A minute later, one of those rude fans brushed the Count’s ashes aside and watched the Yankees lose to the Red Sox.
Even though the Red Cross has opened up multiple massive shelters for the survivors of Hurricane Katrina, it is imperative that people are moved out to smaller accommodations.
Large, anonymous masses of people afford opportunities for criminal elements, or much worse kinds of predators.
Many people are opening their homes without any question or fear, but just as the dead float in the flooded streets, some still walk them.
Whether voodoo zombie or vampire, protections against inviting undead into your home should be in place. I’d suggest greeting your new roommate with plenty of garlic and exposed mirrors.
Oscar’s toaster made any bread stuck into it vanish.
“So, where does it go?” asked Karen.
“I have no idea,” said Oscar. “But I’ve had to switch to cold cereal.”
“Does this happen with bagel halves, too?” asked Karen. “Or just toast?”
“I don’t eat bagels” said Oscar. “Just toast.”
Karen bought some bagels, sliced one in half, and stuck it in the toaster.
She waited for a minute, and the bagel halves popped out.
“I guess it’s just bread,” said Karen.
Oscar shrugged and went out to buy a new toaster.
He smashed the old one with a hammer.
Les Nessman put the disk in his DVD player and hit Play.
He stabbed the button a few more times.
He shrugged and wandered off to lunch.
Johnny Fever stepped over Les’ tape-wall, opened the tray, and turned it right side up.
Two hours hardcore of Jennifer and Bailey, all for Les.
He popped out the DVD, ripped a copy of Snow White, and put it in the tray.
Les came back from lunch and tried again.
Later that day, Les was slapped twice for saying he thought Dopey’s kiss was the cutest of all.
He has the right to remain silent.
I wish he’d use it.
I swear, I’ve never heard a guy shriek so much. The whole trip back to the station, he’s done nothing but scream at the top of his lungs.
Just when I think he’s ready to stop, he just gets even louder.
Okay, so procedure says he’s supposed to go in the back seat and not on the hood, but I’ve got a birthday cake in the seat.
And the trunk’s full of presents.
No way he’s sitting up here with me.
Two more blocks.
Hold on, pal.
Sue and Johnny eloped to Hickburg, thinking they’d have the local Justice of the Peace marry them.
It’s what every pair of young star-crossed lovers did in Fayette. It’s what each of their parents did in their time. Their grandparents, too, if you could believe anything those old farts ever said.
Driving down the road to Hickburg, the trees got thicker and thicker.
They never did get to the town, as if the forest had just swallowed it up.
So, they went to Vegas. Lived happily ever after, too.
Years later, the forest ate Fayette.
And it’s headed this way.
Woke up, no paper on my side table so I can catch up with things. Tivo’s been wiped. Went online to check my accounts, and they’re a mess. Everything’s overdrawn.
Damn servants always end up trying to stab you in the back. It’s only a matter of time, always happens.
I waste an hour with the hotlines my banks and brokers have for low-profile “after hours” customers like me. Everything’s taken care of, they should have the guy at my doorstep before midnight, as usual.
Drinking a traitor’s blood is the sweetest revenge.
Time to post on Hotjobs again: “Servant.”
Across the bright blue sky, a single cloud in the shape of the number nine lazily floated by.
“What’s that?” asked Sue.
Bob smiled. “God’s counting down to the end of the world.”
“Are you sure?” said Sue.
“Positive,” said Bob.
“Well… um… what should we do?”
“Nothing,” said Bob. “So, have you eaten yet?”
“The end of the world is coming, and you’re thinking about food?”
“Well, we could screw,” said Bob. “But I’m hungry.”
Sue ran screaming into the street.
“Dingbat didn’t ask about the ten,” Bob chuckled. “I remember my grandfather telling me about it…”
The cab drops me off at Yankee Stadium.
Bob flew up earlier to get the tickets. He’s also covering for everything else.
I look around, and that’s when I see his flaming corpse hanging from the lamp post, still wearing his Sox cap.
Before the mob can lynch me, I take off my jersey and cap, waving them around while shouting and grunting.
Someone from the crowd grabs them, tosses them on the bonfire, and says “Ammost goddim, bruddah!”
I spend the evening hunting with the tribe before slipping into an Irish pub for a way back to Boston… civilization!