Category: My stories

Screwball

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Ned held the ice pack to his head and realized that he’d been hit in the head with a foul ball every game he went to.
He pointed this out to the stadium’s medic.
“Interesting,” he said.
The next day, free season tickets arrived. Courtesy of the team.
Outfield boxes. Home run territory.
So, for the next home game, Ned sat in the stands and waited for a ball to hit him in the head for a home run.
In the fifth inning, a bat slipped out of a batter’s hands, flew 300 feet, and clocked Ned in the face.

The Odd Daughter

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Doctor Odd looked at the destruction in the yard, sighed, and kneeled down to talk to his daughter.
“Pumpkin,” he said. “Remember when Daddy taught you about grafting?”
Pumpkin nodded her head.
“Well, there’s a good kind of grafting and a bad kind. Good grafting is when you combine plant varieties to make bug-resistant species or crops that survive droughts.”
Pumpkin smiled.
“Bad grafting is what you did with your friend Bobby, the lawnmower, and your dog.”
Pumpkin frowned.
“Daddy will clean up this mess. Now go wash up for dinner.”
Pumpkin ran inside and squealed happily for tater tots.

The Wacky Adventures Of Abraham Lincoln 58

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After much shouting, Abraham Lincoln could take no more.
He stood face-to-face with General Grant.
Well, as close to face-to-face with General Grant as one could manage. Grant’s beard presented a formidable barrier, his whiskey breath even more so.
Not wanting to waste more time arguing, Abe put his hand on his heart and said, “I now wish to make the personal acknowledgment that you were right, and I was wrong.”
Grant grunted, holstered his guns, and leaned over a railing to throw up.
Abe would wait until Grant passed out before doing what he was going to do anyway.

Oliver’s Obsession

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As soon as Oliver noticed the burnt-out bulb in the vanity mirror, he ran for the utility closet.
It was full of light bulbs. The obsessed Oliver hated burnt-out bulbs.
Just as he pulled out a replacement, the power went out.
That wouldn’t stop Oliver, however.
Feeling each bulb, he tried to tell which was burnt-out. But none felt warm.
He unscrewed each one, shaking it hard… no telltale jingle, either.
So Oliver sat on his bathroom countertop for three hours until the lights came back on.
They did. All of them. No burnt-out bulb.
He replaced them all, anyway.

The Monkeys

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Bill bred the monkeys specifically for manual dexterity and docile temperament.
The typewriters, hauled out of some warehouse, just needed dusting and fresh ribbons.
Writers Guild representatives caught wind of Bill’s plan and used everything short of poisoning the banana supply to stop him.
Despite these evil schemes, Bill persevered, and his simian legions grew.
And produced.
At first, random garbage was the result. Lots of stained, crumbled sheets of typing paper covered with garble.
Then, smashed typewriters and the occasional dead monkey.
They never did manage to produce Shakespeare, but made a fine line in Bill’s obituary years later.

Abandoned Baby

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There was a knock at the door, and the dogs in the back yard barked like bad.
“Shut up,” said Arthur. “It’s not dinnertime yet.”
The dogs barked louder.
Arthur walked to the front door, and opened it. When he looked down, he saw a baby in a basket.
No note.
“You don’t have a name?” said Arthur. “Let me think of a name for you…”
Arthur picked up the basket, went to the back yard, and tossed the baby to the hungry dogs.
“Your name is dinner,” said Arthur.
Arthur put the basket in the bathroom to store magazines.

The Magician

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No outs, bottom of the ninth. The team is one run up, but the bases are loaded.
The manager comes out of the dugout, takes the ball from the pitcher, and waves to the bullpen.
The doors open, and Mysterio The Great strolls out, magnificent in his top hat and red-lined black cloak.
The next thing the crowd knows, there are three outs. The game is over, Mysterio gets the save.
The crowd, apprehensive and confused at first, eventually realizes their team has won, and they cheer wildly.
Mysterio bows, waves his wand, and disappears in a puff of smoke.

Not The Same

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The suicide bomber only managed to kill one person when he blew himself up at the sidewalk café: the security guard who kept him from killing more.
The bomber exploded in the guard’s embrace, both dying at the same time.
Both shared something else in common: the same exact type of cell phone. Down to the ringtone.
The guard’s widow got the phone of the bomber, and the bomber’s widow got the phone of the guard.
Neither noticed the difference or ever charged the batteries on the bloody devices. They just sat on memorial shelves, occasionally taken down for dusting.

Nosferatu

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Want to know the truth about Nosferatu?
He wasn’t a vampire. He was just really pissed off.
Imagine, going to the carnival or a gift shop and looking for a personalized mug with your name on it… they have John and Mary and Susan and Joe, and Bob and Kent and…
And no Nosferatu.
If you ask the salesman, he asks you to repeat it. So you have to repeat it. Twice. Pretty soon, you’re shouting it and waving your hands around crazily.
See? That’s how it happens.
Now get me a fucking Laurence mug! Not W, with a U!

Coyote

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It was Paco’s first time crossing the border, and he didn’t want to get caught
His cousins tried the desert route. Those that survived were caught and spent five months in jail, only to be bussed back home.
“Use the coyote,” said his grandmother. “He is a genius at crossing the border.”
Paco found the coyote. He handed him the money, and the coyote handed him a crash helmet.
“What is this for?” asked Paco.
“The catapult,” said coyote. “Our would you prefer the rocket roller-skates?”
Paco shrugged. “Who am I to question genius?”
“Supra-genius,” said the coyote. “Hold tight.”