President Lincoln put down his beer, walked in between the brawlers, and shoved them apart.
“Enough, Gentlemen!” he roared. “Who be you, and what is your dispute?”
“I am Johnny Mercyseed,” said an overall-clad farmer. “I go around the country and plant mercy for all to take comfort in.”
“My name’s Johnny Strictjustice,” said the other, who wore leather and bore a nasty-looking whip. “I punish people for their crimes.”
“You’re a pervert,” said Mercyseed. “Animal!”
“Wimp!” shouted Strictjustice. “Pussy!”
Two years later, they both died at Gettysburg. Abe planted an apple tree.
“Good idea,” said Johnny Appleseed.
The Talmud dictates that there should be “awe and trembling” upon a couple getting married. The destruction of a glass has its roots in superstition, but it took one pissed-off rabbi to carry the odd practice over to Jewish weddings.
But instead of smashing a glass as tradition dictates, most Jewish weddings these days have the groom smash a cheap light bulb wrapped in a napkin.
Which means, of course, those weddings aren’t real weddings at all. Those couples are living in sin and shall be damned for it.
What do Jews break for a divorce?
The pre-nup, of course.
I swear I didn’t mean to kill the Tooth Fairy.
I guess he forgot me or something, so twenty years later he’s playing catch-up. When he came barging into my house last night, I woke up and shot him with the gun I keep under my pillow..
Now he’s buried the back yard, tutu and all.
Of course, I kept his bag of coins. All I need to do is pull a tooth out from under a pillow and the appropriate change just appears in there. All I need are tons of teeth.
Open wide. This won’t hurt a bit.
“Is everyone ready?” said the Owl.
“Ready!” said the Hare.
“Ready!” said the Tortoise.
The Rat poked its nose from the undergrowth and winked at the Tortoise. “Ready,” it said.
The Owl shrieked “GO!” and the Hare was gone like a bolt of lightning.
The Tortoise watched and chuckled.
The Hare sped along the racecourse he’d let the Tortoise pick out, through meadows and fields and finally down towards the farmhouse…
The Hare shrieked in agony as four traps grabbed his body and ripped open his skin to the bone.
The Rat calculated their winnings.
The Tortoise munched lettuce.
Like Monaco and Andorra, the pocket state of Vinodulce has sat peacefully in the mountains of Europe for centuries, retaining its own local culture and charm.
Count Vinodulce’s descendants have been excellent, wise rulers in all aspects save one: punctuality.
They are notoriously late for everything. Even their own funerals.
So, to keep up appearances, the Count vainly adjusts clock and calendar.
As a result, the ruling family always arrives on time. Hours, days, weeks, and even whole years are simply cast aside and ignored.
For all its modern amenities, Vinodulce is still quite literally living in the Seventeenth Century.
“Justice League isn’t answering, Mayor Bloomberg,” said the assistant.
“Have you tried paging?” said Bloomberg.
“Twice,” said the assistant. “Most are old numbers. One was a pizza delivery guy, and another was someone offering me a dimebag.”
“Have you tried calling that Mustard Man?” said the mayor.
“Um, all he has is mustard,” said the assistant. “No super powers.”
“Just mustard?” said Bloomberg. “Then why is he a superhero?”
“He isn’t,” said the assistant.
The mayor leaned back in his chair and sighed. “What’s the number of the guy selling weed?”
“Yeah,” said Bloomberg. “And a pizza, too.”
All of John’s men were dead, so he hid underneath them for cover.
Strange shadows lurched along shattered walls. Something was walking towards John, but it was with a step neither robot nor man.
John tried to remember what Mother said his father had told her about the robots. Something about…
The something wandered close to a burning barrel. Its twisted, laughing face silently peered in all directions before it shambled off.
“The 600 series had rubber skin,” he mumbled to himself. “We spotted them easy.”
No mother could love that face, not that the thing ever had a mother.