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.
The carpeting swirled, the walls breathed, and the air sparkled with energy.
“There is nothing true anywhere,” Abe said to the three-headed cyclops with bat’s wings for arms.
The three-headed cyclops smirked. “Go on,” it said.
“The true is nowhere to be seen,” said the president.
“Maybe,” said the cyclops. “Your perception is most strange. Is there more?”
“Yes,” said Abe. “If you say you see the true, this seeing is not the true one.”
“That’s very deep,” said the cyclops. “But I’d like to remind you that I warned you not to eat those brownies, Mister President.”
Sir Vapid paid for musicians to accompany him on his adventures. He thought he’d be more impressive with some kind of theme music.
So a deal was struck, and off they went.
They climbed mountains, crossed swamps, went on holy pilgrimages, and even negotiated a treaty between some farmers and an ogre.
“Impressive,” said King Richard. “You’ll go far, Vapid.”
But the moment he got into a fight, the other knight ran him through with a sword.
“Perhaps I should have bought some armor instead of minstrels,” were his final words.
They played at his funeral for no additional charge.