It started with a simple cheer: Hooray!
But, sadly, things got out of hand quickly.
Some people would give three cheers: Hip Hip Hooray!
(Whatever happened to double cheers, I don’t know. And where did the Hips come from?)
After that, people started five cheers… seven cheers… twelve cheers…
Some people did nothing but cheer all day long. And for inconsequential shit, too.
Like, you know. Cheering. Cheering for cheering.
Pretty soon, everybody was cheering all day long. And some people even cheered in their sleep.
Which, in the end, left no time for getting anything done to cheer about.
Oh, you want to know the real story?
Well, it started simple enough. Everyone on the team stopped shaving for good luck.
And it worked. After three wins in a row, the players all had stubble.
After two weeks, the coach said that they really ought to shave, but the players were superstitious and refused to give in.
After two months without a loss, the media got wind of the story, and it felt like every sports reporter was following the team around.
Eventually the school principal put their foot down and threatened the girl’s varsity basketball team with suspensions.
Some people are obsessive about washing their hands.
They wash their hands fifty or sixty times a day.
I’m obsessive about other people washing their hands.
Whenever I see someone, I get out a washbasin and soap so they can wash their hands.
When I went off to college, I was bunked with an obsessive who washed his hands constantly.
The dorm advisors thought that we would be a good match.
We weren’t. We both flunked out because we never made it to a single class.
You could say we both washed out, but I’d punch you in the nose.
I watched the marching band form patterns and spell out words during halftime.
Oh, I wanted to be in the marching band so much, but I couldn’t play a musical instrument. Nor could I twirl a baton worth a damn.
“Play the triangle,” suggested my mother.
So, I did. And I tried out for band.
Along with every other kid who couldn’t play an instrument worth a damn. Which was every other kid.
We were a marching band that consisted solely of triangles.
By the end of the football season, everyone was either deaf or had severe ringing in their ears.
My teacher is angry because I keep falling asleep in class.
But when I fall asleep, I dream of being in class. Asleep in class. And I dream of my teacher in the dream is angry with me for falling asleep in class.
Which wakes me up.
“What did you dream of?” my teacher asks.
So, I tell him.
He is angry with me for falling asleep in his dream-self’s class too.
His outrage jars me awake.
And I am in class. My teacher is angry at me for falling asleep in class.
I wait for the dream to end.
Buddy’s Buddies is a charity camp that Hall Of Fame second baseman Buddy Bunker runs for underprivileged handicapped kids.
They canoe, fish, play games, and have cookouts. It’s fun for everybody.
They also have a computer class there for the nerds who don’t like canoes, fishing, games, or normal kid stuff.
The other kids taunt and bully the nerds, which really boosts their self-esteem. Because the kids are usually picked on for being poor and crippled and funny-looking.
Oh, they also make arts and crafts, with some fancy woodworking, but they just use that junk to beat the nerds with.
Fred always got high marks for penmanship. And nothing else. So, he never got into college, let alone earn a high school diploma.
That’s when he had the idea to kidnap. He figured one or two a year would net him a decent living.
The first was easy, until they got the ransom note.
“This is stunning penmanship!” said the hostage’s wife. And she had it framed.
He sent more ransom notes, and they got auctioned at Christine’s for a fortune. “Send more!” said the hostage’s wife.
Fred cut off the guy’s ear.
“That’s worthless!” said the hostage’s wife angrily.
I had a hard time choosing a major in college, so I decided on Dan Bakerology.
That’s the study of me, Dan Baker.
I got straight A’s in it, too.
Graduated Magna Cum Laude.
Barely beat out my girlfriend, who was minoring in Dan Bakerology.
Well, ex-girlfriend. She dropped me, but didn’t drop the minor.
The campus police called it stalking.
She was allowed to graduate anyway.
For my masters thesis, I plan to turn in a mirror.
The big question is, how the hell do I get a job with this degree?
I knew I should have chosen Sociology.
Tom knew the procedure by heart: When you’ve been shot through with an arrow, break off the end with the fletching and pull the arrow out by the head. Put pressure on both ends until medical assistance arrives.
So, when the professor shot him in the leg with an arrow, he broke off the end with the fletching and pulled it out by the head. Then he tore off a sleeve, bound the wounds, and applied pressure.
“Pass,” said the professor.
The medics injected Tom with the regeneration nanobots, and he watched the professor nock another arrow.
“Next!” he shouted.
Monday, schools were closed because the weatherman said there were icy conditions on the roads, so they couldn’t run the buses.
Tuesday, schools were closed because the weatherman said there was a hurricane warning.
Wednesday, schools were closed because the weatherman said that there were wildfires in the area that were threatening populated areas.
Thursday, schools were closed because the weatherman warned of flash floods.
And on Friday, schools were closed.
No, the weatherman didn’t say anything.
It was because everybody with children had moved away.
What kind of person would raise their kids in a crazy place like this?