The Adventures of Mustard Man – Chapter 18

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Why did I follow that star to Bethlehem?
I packed a sampler of the finest the Mustard Man Company has to offer, and the next thing I know I’m watching Jesus’ birth.
You say there’s only three Wise Men? Well, let’s see…
Gaspar brought gold. Not a bad present at all.
Bartholomew brought myrrh. Not sure why. That stuff stinks.
What’s-his-name brought frankincense. It stinks worse than the myrrh.
And then there’s me. I brought mustard.
I never did find the star back. So I crawled in a cave and slept 2,000 years.
What? I’m not in the book?
Crap.

The Wacky Adventures Of Abraham Lincoln 45

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Abe looked at the Santa Claus that had been hired for the Christmas Party and scowled.
“He’s drunk,” said the president. “And he can’t keep his hands off the ladies.”
“I’ll have him removed, sir,” said his bodyguard.
The bodyguard grabbed Santa, who protested loudly.
“I am not drunk and lewd! I am merely acting! I am an actor!”
“That’s nice,” said the bodyguard, dragging him out the front door.
Santa shook his fist at the White House. “John Wilkes Booth shall have his revenge!”
History tells us that he did. But not about the Santa gig.
Goddamned Carl Sandberg.

Housebroken

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Frosty the snowman told his wife Krystal that he didn’t want a dog.
Krystal insisted. “We need him for security,” she said.
“Dogs are messy things,” said Frosty. “And they make snow yellow.”
Frosty lost. They got the dog.
“Stupid dog,” mumbled Frosty.
Frosty tried to housebreak the thing, but it kept falling asleep in front of the fireplace and melting all over the carpet.
“Your dog wet the carpet again,” said Krystal.
“My dog?”
Frosty sighed, held up one of the dog’s coal eyes, and pointed it at the wet spot.
“Look what you did!” shouted Frosty. “Bad doggy!”

Spare Santas

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We watched the sleighs take off in the night, patted ourselves on the back, and headed back into the Workshop to enjoy our only night off before we’d have to plan for next year.
An hour later, one of the sleighs comes back.
Rocket’s got three bullets in his flank and Chancer’s hanging dead from the harness.
There’s a big black boot caught in a sleigh skid. I tugged it loose, and a few bloody toes fall out.
“Squad seventy-two,” I mumble.
Pacific Northwest. Trouble over Pocatello.
We warned the Santa, but they never listen.
That’s what spares are for.

Breaking Eggs

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Doctor Odd held the eggs against the phase-regulated vacuum pump and flipped the switch.
“Watch!” he yelled.
The eggs vibrated for a moment, glowed red, and then their insides dropped into the skillet below.
“Success,” said Odd, inspecting the shells.
Not a crack.
“You can’t do this!” shouted his assistant. “This is madness! You cannot make an omelet without breaking a few eggs!”
“You’re right,” said Odd, looking at the bubbling eggy goop in the frying pan.
“Thank God you came to your senses, Doctor,” said his assistant.
“What was I thinking?” said Doctor Odd. “It needs peppers and mushrooms!”

Anchors Aweigh

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Yes, It was my treachery that sank the ship.
I was paid by the enemy to scuttle it during the night watch.
However, as I swam towards the rowboat that was waiting to pick me up, I was entangled in the anchor chain and dragged to the bottom of the ocean.
Straight to Hell.
The anchor chained to my leg feels like it gets heavier every century I drag it, but I know that it’s my mind playing tricks on me.
Or is it my soul playing tricks on me?
I regret nothing.
Well, except getting tangled in this anchor.

Hatestorm

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Howard Stern was the least of it. Foul-mouthed juvenile miscreants, amoral priests and vile partisan pundits, spreading filth and putrid rants throughout the ether around the clock and around the world.
You see, Marconi never finished his equations. The Principle of Saturation went unpublished, so the garbage and hatred building up in the invisible spaces between matter and antimatter went unrealized.
Until one day, after a particularly gross midget-sex roundtable on Opie and Anthony, the Saturation point was exceeded.
Clouds of rancor spilled across the skies. Marconi’s worst nightmares realized, a thousand years of darkness.
The fools blamed global warming.

The Adventures of Mustard Man – Chapter 17

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Whether you call it Sulfur Mustard or Mustard Gas, it doesn’t matter. It’s a chemical weapon with no relation to mustard itself besides the slight mustard or garlic like odor if it’s impure.
Otherwise, it is odorless and tasteless. There’s absolutely no warning you’ve been exposed to it until your skin blisters a few hours later.
Or when you die.
On the other hand, Mustard Man Mustard has a savory bite to it. And it doesn’t make your skin blister. Most of all, it won’t kill you.
Unless someone crushes your skull with a jar of it.
Be careful, okay?

The Wacky Adventures Of Abraham Lincoln 44

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It was Christmas at the White House. Everyone was getting into the holiday spirit.
Except Abe, of course. He’d grumble and roam the halls instead of decking them with boughs of holly.
So, Mary Todd convinced him to play Santa Claus. Being so thin, they figured he could actually slide down the chimney.
However, they didn’t count on the amount of padding it would take to get him to fill out the suit. Or the fact that he was so tall.
The suit looked ridiculous. Gangly, gaunt black-bearded Santa.
So, they celebrated Hanukkah instead, burning Southern cities instead of candles.

Simple Math

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The warden got tired of screaming at Governor Jackass about running out of room on Death Row. Simple math: too many walking in, not enough leaving feet-first.
On the day the last empty cell was taken, the warden got word yet another prisoner was coming.
No room. That’s when he took matters into his own hands: Any new prisoner coming in that needed a cell would have to kill a man for his cell.
One in, one out. Simple math.
Eventually, word got out.
Horrified, the governor put a new warden in office.
The old one left feet-first. Simple math.