The Caesar Chavez Middle School Spelling Bee was drawing to a close. Twenty-three kids had left the stage, and it was down to Shirley and Humberto.
Once again, a blue card was drawn from the deck on the podium.
“The word is insomnia,” said the judge. “Insomnia”
Shirley took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Insomnia,” she shouted. “I-N-S…”
The auditorium burst into chaos. Half the audience raced to the exits. The other half drew guns and shouted various curses in Spanish.
The Spelling Bee judge sighed. “I hate holding these things in San Diego.”
Eventually, Humberto won.
I work for a winery in California, answering the calls on the 800-number.
Most of the calls are complaints, but every now and then I get a world-class weirdo.
Just this morning, someone asks, “What sort of wine goes with donkey?”
Now, I’m no expert, but a bunch of experts wrote up a list of what goes with what.
We’ve got different kids of steaks, all sorts of chicken dishes, and even suggestions for squid and octopus…
“Nothing for donkey,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Fine,” says the caller. “I’ll serve beer. Thank you.”
And he hangs up.
I need a vacation.
Most people see pink elephants when they’re drunk, but tonight I saw a pink donkey.
“What’s the deal?” I asked the pink donkey.
Ever seen a donkey shrug before? Well, now I have.
“Blame George Soros,” said the pink donkey. “He’s been buying up liquor stocks and forcing the companies to add a special secret ingredient that turns pink elephants into pink donkeys.”
“So everybody sees pink donkeys now?” I asked.
“Nope,” said the donkey. “Just the drunks in the red states.”
“Is it safe?” I asked.
“Hell no,” said the donkey. “You’ll be dead in minutes. Hillary in 2008!”
Mohammed loaded the donkey with explosives, said his final prayers, and headed for the checkpoint.
“The Zionist infidels will drown in their own blood,” he mumbled.
Mohammed was tempted to squeeze the trigger early, but Achmed had
said “At the front of the line!”
“But what of the people in line?” he had asked Achmed.
“Seventy-two virgins for each,” was the response.
“And the donkey?” he asked.
“Seventy-two virgins for him, too.”
“Next!” yelled the soldier.
Suprised, Mohammed looked around and squeezed.
The next day, soldiers surrounded Achmed.
He didn’t surrender.
“Seventy-two virgins for him,” mumbled Mohammed.
It didn’t take long for Isaac Parker to establish himself as “The Hanging Judge” when he came to Ft. Smith in 1875, but have you ever heard of “The Shove A Wild Monkey Up Their Ass Judge?”
Unlike Parker, Judge Augustus Marmoset had absolutely no compassion whatsoever, even for the victims. They were just as likely to hear “Shove a monkey up that son of a bitch!” as criminals dragged into his court.
Back then, monkeys were rare and expensive, so he eventually ran out.
That’s when he started using midgets in monkey suits…
Oh, NOW you’ve heard of him?
Abraham Lincoln enjoyed quiet weekends at the farm. They were so much better than his weekdays in Washington, plotting the country’s destiny and writing stacks of letters to the parents of dead soldiers.
So much death, and so little time to escape from it.
But not today.
A shriek shattered the air. Then, a sickening thud.
Abe ran to the barn, looked down at the dead skunk, and sighed.
“What kills a skunk is the publicity it gives itself,” he said.
“Bull,” said the farmer. “I upped and smacked it with my hoe. That done kilt the varmint, I reckon.”
Sally sipped her drink and sighed.
Bachelor Number One was a lawyer. An excellent dancer, but a total asshole when drunk. She had the scars to prove it.
Bachelor Number Two was a mechanic. All he did was talk about cars, work on cars, and he often came to bed without washing his greasy, grimy hands.
Bachelor Number Three lived in his parents’ basement. He wore pajamas and insulted liberal journalists on the Internet all day.
Sally reached into her purse, flicked a switch, and felt a reassuring hum.
As usual, she ended up going home with “Bachelor Number Four.”
We put a bag over Scottie’s head, hand him a club, and tell him to start swinging.
The finesse of piñata is in knowing when to yank the rope. At some point, you have to let the kid land a blow or two.
It’s like toying with a cat. You can’t keep teasing the cat forever. Eventually, the cat gets frustrated and gives up.
Also, piñata challenges the senses. Even though Scottie is blindfolded, he can still determine the piñata’s location by the sound of the jingling bell inside.
I knew I should have taken the cat’s collar off first.
Abe went back to his office and slammed the door.
The press had nailed him.
“SECRETARY!” he shouted.
His secretary crawled out from behind his desk and clutched a notebook, trembling.
“Yes, Mister President?” mumbled the secretary. “Problems?”
“What did we discuss yesterday?” growled Lincoln.
The Secretary flipped through his notes. “No man has a good enough memory… to be a successful… liar,” he read.
“You need me to keep track of your lies?” said the Secretary.
The Secretary nodded. “It will never happen again, sir,” he whimpered. “Ever.”
But one hundred and ten years later…
I’m standing on the corner, gun in hand.
People quickly peer out of windows, lean out of doorways and parked cars.
Buses crawl by.
I take aim, and shoot them all.
I reload, and a schoolgirl hugging a cat comes out from behind a lamppost.
Drilled her right through the forehead. Ten points.
Suddenly, a man in a turban with a bomb in his hand leans out of the bus.
I plug him, too.
The lights come up.
“What do you think you’re doing, Achmed?” yells the instructor. “A curse upon your mustache!”
I beg forgiveness and reload.