The Adventures of Mustard Man – Chapter 5

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Dear Justice League of America,
It is with much regret that I must decline your invitation to join your esteemed organization. Not only am I an ordinary person who lacks superpowers or technological wonders to simulate superpowers, but I am under exclusive contractual obligation to the Mustard Man Brand Mustard Company.
However, should the world be under attack by mustard-vulnerable alien invaders, much like the Martians in the “War of the Worlds” story were fatally vulnerable to the common cold virus, then please do not hesitate to call upon me through my numeric pager.
Regards,
Mustard Man
Enclosed: sampler package.

The Final Twist

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They drive the backhoe off, jump into the hole, and shovel out the remaining dirt.
A crane lowers into the vault and bumps the casket.
“Who disturbs my rest?” I think.
They raise the casket, lay it on a gurney, and roll it into the truck.
Two hours later, the coroner cracks open the casket.
It’s so rare to see a body with a spear through its skull, but not everyone dies from mooning a Zulu tribe.
Somehow, this excites him.
Unspeakable, disgusting acts follow.
Finally, he takes my arm in his latex-covered hand and winds my watch.
Gee, thanks.

Thirty Pounds To Go

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Bob watched the man toss pizza dough up and down.
Up and down.
Up and down.
Bob drooled.
Just thirty pounds to go, he thought. I just need thirty more pounds.
Up and down.
Bob opened his wallet and looked at The Card.
LETTUCE, WATER, AND VITAMINS it said.
Up and down.
Bob tried to remember what a pizza tasted like.
His mouth tasted lettuce.
And water.
And the bitter pills.
Up and down.
Bob swore that once reached his goal weight, he’d bomb insurance company for rejecting his gastric bypass surgery.
Up and down.
Just thirty pounds to go.

Doctor Odd

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Doctor Odd received the express written consent of Major League Baseball on Monday.
By Wednesday, Idaho was gone. Totally vanished. Nowhere to be found.
The market reacted quickly. Prices for potatoes skyrocketed. “Would you like fries with that?” was whispered only among the wealthy.
Congress held weeks of hearings, but they never did receive an adequate explanation from the baseball commissioner or Doctor Odd.
He said he was just being patriotic and trying to make Syria vanish, but his calculations were off by a bit.
What I found strange was that nobody ever asked for him to bring Idaho back.

Reach Out And Touch This, Pal

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Last century, they had competing standards for cellular. There was TDMA, CDMA, GSM… all sorts of different ways to slice up spectrum and get people chatting and sending snapshots around the globe. Carriers fought over which was best, and handset manufacturers fretted over the incompatibilities.
Same with hyperwaves. Luna went MS-HW. Mars Colony implemented HW 2.0. Alpha Proximi did MS-HP and StarTalk. Migdal Mayim’s doing StarWave.
Imagine your brain exploding because some Lunatic calls without a gamma-compensator. Or a Reaganite goes catatonic after faxing Io because the compression algorithm resembles sonic stunner harmonics.
What? The phone’s ringing?
It’s for you.

The Saved And The Blessed

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I look up, and I see the Face Of God in the angry, boiling skies.
I look down, and there’s piles of clothes everywhere. A few unguided cars roll into streetlamps or bushes.
Rapture? Well, isn’t that nice. Bye bye, fundamentalists.
I’m sure that a few houses will start to burn because ovens have been left on. Or planes will crash because pilots have vanished and cockpit doors are locked these days.
My next-door neighbor’s empty Armani suit in a pile. In his driveway.
Next to his lovely, perfect Ferrari.
I may not be Saved, but I am truly blessed.

The Wacky Adventures of Abraham Lincoln 5

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“My home is a what?” yelled General Lee.
“A cemetery, sir,” said the messenger.
“This means war!” shouted Lee. He then looked in the mirror.
“Wait. Hold on. I’m already at war. Damn you, Lincoln!”
Lee sent a squadron of Confederate spies to the backwoods of Kentucky. They found the log cabin, and Lee had it rendered into toothpicks.
“Excellent party, Miss Scarlett,” said Rhett Butler. “These cocktail weenies are most excellent.”
“It’s the quality toothpick spears that make them good,” said Scarlett O’Hara. “Lincoln’s finest.”
Both laughed until they smelled the smoke.
Sure enough, General Sherman crashed the party.