Without language, nor lust. I guess you could still call it love.
They played backgammon at the café every evening. A bottle of wine between them – a smile, a wink. Nothing more than that.
One night, a madman shouted “GOD IS GREAT!” and exploded.
As if He needed reminding.
A week later, the man looked at the rebuilt café. He folded his tear-soaked paper, picked through the alleyway, and found a bloody chip.
Most people place stones on tombstones; he placed the chip.
Her husband showed him the way.
He never went back, except in his dreams.
As the shelters filled up, FEMA Director Michael Brown challenged his team to come up with alternative housing arrangements.
Strategic placement of hurricane survivors on television talk shows absorbed 2,000 of them. Green room sofas sure are comfy.
Golf courses became Brownville shanty towns. Nothing wrong with camping. People love to camp.
Best idea of all was shipping them out to zoos.
“It works for the Chinese and those damn pandas, right?” said Brown.
Two problems: hurricane survivors don’t live on bamboo like pandas, and they tend to fuck more often than pandas.
“Zoos can charge extra then,” said Brown.
Wynn put another zero on the check.
“It’s tacky,” said the mayor. “No.”
“Tacky?” said Wynn. “This town was founded on tacky.”
Wynn put yet another zero on the check.
“One more, please,” said the mayor.
The eleventh finally arrived.
“Have they said how they’re going to demolish it?” asked the tourist, standing behind a fence a block away from the New York, New York.
“It’s a secret,” said the cop. “They told us to keep you behind the barrier, that’s all.”
“Look!” shouted another tourist, pointing up.
That’s when they saw the pair of airliners.
“Tacky,” mumbled the cop.
Most children utter first words of Mommy or Daddy.
Little Abraham wasn’t like that. He said “One day, I shall be President.”
This spooked his parents considerably. Each accused the other of coaching the boy to recite that phrase.
Young Abraham learned a lot of words after those few, but not a day went by without him saying his first words, over and over.
As he climbed the political ladder, more and more people believed in Abe’s mantra. Some even repeated it with him.
“One day, I shall be-”
“You’re the President, stupid,” said Mary Todd. “Enough already.”
Pausing a moment during his weekly trip to the market to sell the abbey’s wine, Brother Antwelm watched as the lights descended from the sky.
BOOM! Every bottle in the donkey cart shattered!
Then, a roaring dusty whirlwind surrounded him. When it stopped, a glowing dome appeared on the grass nearby.
With a hum, the dome split and a tall figure emerged.
Radiant… magnificent… perfect…
And on fire!
Brother Antwelm grabbed the donkey’s cloth blanket and slapped out the fire.
Sadly, the magnificent figure was crisped. But his image was fused on the blanket.
Antwelm shrugged and continued to Turin.
Lighter than a feather, a buzzing mosquito follows the scent trail and lands.
It smells its surroundings, sniffing for blood.
The jagged proboscis digs, ripping through flesh for rich red blood. The mosquito drinks. Its belly quickly fills…SMACK!
“Goddamned parasite,” yells the news cameraman. “Suck someone else’s blood for a change.”
“You’re live in thirty seconds,” the producer buzzes in his earpiece. “Live in thirty seconds.”
The cameraman heaves the camera up on his shoulder and flicks on the power.
The thousands of exhausted survivors just sit and stare. The cameraman licks his dry lips and thinks Pulitzer.
The sun went down, and night approached quickly.
Billy looked at the cheap Cracker Jack sticker and smirked.
“The toys they give out sure suck, right, Grampa?” he asked.
Grampa Fred slumped against a tree and said nothing.
“I guess I shouldn’t have let the GPS thingy batteries run down.”
“If you still smoked, I’d have matches for a fire.”
Billy looked at the Quit Smoking gum. He rubbed two sticks of it together and tossed them away.
“If only you hadn’t run out of pills…”
Billy stopped. He looked around.
A pill! Another!
He followed the trail home.
The majestic Orbital Hilton, the “Jewel of the Sky,” also has the grim nickname of “The Suicide Space Suites.”
Individuals with incurable terminal diseases often purchase one-way tickets to the hotel, run up gigantic tabs, and then cycle out of the airlocks buck naked.
Or they will join a spacewalk hiking tour only to sever the safety tether.
Some take off their helmets, while others fire their thrusters at the earth so they burn up like shooting stars.
Because of this grim parade, hotel policy has been changed to require a substantial deposit for all guests, refundable upon return planetside.
Fatigued and wounded, King Kong clung to the building with his remaining strength. However, all he could muster was not enough, and his grip failed at the worst possible time.
As he fell, he realized that he should have carried the blonde in his mouth so his arms would share the strain of climbing the building.
He also decided that climbing the building was quite possibly a bad idea, too.
His nemesis told the gathered crowd that beauty killed the beast, but Kong’s final thought was that poor planning and a lack of ergonomic awareness was a major contributing factor.
Every July Fourth, there’s some kind of hot dog eating contest at Coney Island.
Some skinny Japanese guy always wins, which is why they think five full-sized adults can fit into one of their cars, I guess.
I can’t eat animal fats anymore due to a crash diet my doctor came up with.
This is why I buy the big Super Star Dogs at Minutemaid Park – they hold the most condiments like relish or mustard and onions.
Those vegetables are healthy right?
And I swear it’s not my fault that someone put meat in between them and the bun.