Just keep pulling Guinness for me, and if you’re busy Christine, I’m not worried. The longer it takes you, the warmer the beer. And the warmer the beer, the better it is.
Nobody loses, everybody wins. I’m okay with it.
Running out of cold pint glasses? Not worried about that none, either. Same reason. Wouldn’t be right to think otherwise.
World would be a better place if all the little stuff stayed little.
I used to get riled up about that stuff. Forgot I was in Texas.
Everything’s big here. Little stuff is that much more little by comparison.
Grant nearly choked on his flask. “What do you mean he wants to know what brand of whiskey I drink?”
“I’m not sure,” said his secretary. “Someone in the press called you a drunk, and Lincoln asked what brand you drink so he can give it to his other generals.”
“So they’ll run out of it?” asked Grant.
“No,” said the secretary. “He’s saying he doesn’t care if you’re a hopeless drunk.”
“Well, it’s about time,” said Grant. “Coming to bed?”
The secretary nodded, and wondered if Lincoln would order his other generals to engage in violent bestial sex, too.
Everybody raised their glasses in a toast to me.
“Happy birthday, Willard,” they said.
“No hard feelings about the funny farm thing?” asked Albert.
“None at all,” I said, smiling.
They drank, and the cake was brought out.
By the time the song was over, I learned over the cake and said “I wish you’d all just die.”
Sure enough, as I was blowing out the candles, each guest was either dead or holding their throats, dying.
“How?” choked Albert, the last one alive.
“Poisoned wine,” I said. “It’s a very good year. No hard feelings, Al?”
He didn’t answer.
Patrolman X4T8 couldn’t be retrofitted to deskbot duty while his new leg was backordered, so they stuck him in a window to watch the alleyway.
“What if I see something?” asked X4T8.
“Call for backup,” snickered Dispatch.
After a week of watching trash blow from one end of the alley to the other, X4T8 decided to take action.
“U3P9,” wired X4T8. “Armed suspect spotted.”
“E6G2,” wired X4T8. “Armed suspect spotted.”
X4T8 watched the Patrolmen enter at either side of the alleyway, draw, and fire.
Both went down with fried mindcores.
Rebuilt, X4T8 went on patrol the next day.
We depend on tourism down here. The whole place is geared for tourism. Hotels, reef diving, restaurants – you name it.
Okay, so a skanky college student came down here and partied just a little too much, and she vanished without a trace.
Now everybody’s screaming boycott or sanctions, FBI’s trumping all over the place.
What a mess.
Our image needed a boost, so I suggested a marathon. Never mind that you’d have to run in circles to make a course of 26 miles.
We did it anyway. And was working.
Until a runner tripped over the skank’s body.
With the invention of Dreamshare, it was only a matter of time before dreamactors came about.
Professional dreamers, dreaming up dreams for sale.
The Morpheant Union tried to regulate entertainment-product dreams. Thankfully, independent production resisted and won out.
Then, someone got the bright idea to shift education from schools to dream academies. The classroom of the mind was born, a one-on-one tutorial between the slumbering student and the teacher.
No more bullies. No more cliques.
Every one was the teacher’s pet. Or was the Homecoming King. Or Queen.
Such fond memories I have of school. I replay them every night.
Sure, I gave a fortune to Over-President Ichiro’s campaign, but the ambassadorship wasn’t the reward I had in mind.
The other day, a Grelp was in the embassy, asking about the horseshoe above my office door.
“Old Earth custom,” I said. “It’s for good luck.”
The next day, there was some sort of problem with a power converter trade agreement, so I headed over to the Grelp Ministry of Off-Planet Trade.
Nailed over the oozeway to Minister Sploch-Brbl’s puddlechamber was an entire horse, dead.
“For muchly more luck,” said Sploch-Brbl, flibbering happily.
Thank God I didn’t put up my crucifix.