Some people can’t see the big picture.
That’s because they’re standing on it
The picture is so big, they can’t see it… the whole big picture
They don’t have a viewpoint that allows them to see it.
So, they take the 10,000-foot view.
Only then can they see the big picture.
Oops. Lost a contact. And forgot a spare pair of eyeglasses.
Oh well. Use your smartphone to snap a photo, and then see the big picture when you get to the ground.
What? You dropped your smartphone?
Maybe you don’t need to see the big picture all that badly.
It’s amazing what you can do with clever advertising.
Dingo Gulch was a dead end, no hope, washed out hovel in the back end of nowhere, but the mayor hired a top notch PR company, whose glossy brochures and slick ads sold us as a boom town… And, before you know it, we had prospectors, speculators, investors and entrepreneurs beating down our doors to get a piece of the action.
It didn’t last long, of course, when people realised what a dump Dingo Gulch was, they pulled out sharpish – but not before they’d spent all their cash!
Boom, and the moon was gone. No one believed it could happen, but it did. The so-called brotherly neighbors from next door, meaning the next galaxy or wherever they came from, threatened to do it and everyone laughed, not a care in the world. Then, it happened. Those damn little green jerks. Ever since they moved in with all that scientific progress, new ideas, new concepts, new gadgets, life was a lot more complicated. That resonant boom was only outmatched by the roaring sound of space ships exploding as they left Earth. Oops! “Should we prepare for war?” someone asked.
I still hear the boom of artillery, even though the war is done.
I can still smell the acrid tang of napalm, even on the freshest of breezes.
The insistent thud of choppers; the whine and thud of missiles; the staccato clatter of machine gun fire pervades my waking hours, and stirs me from my sleep.
And, over it all, the screams and cries of my fallen comrades; the pungent smell of cordite, sweat and blood.
Even after all these years.
And, somehow, I have been forgotten.
For although I was a soldier.
I was also Viet Cong.
The second best thing to a controlled fire is, wait for it … things that go BOOM. Yup from M80s to Bikini Atoll, boom just can’t help but put a smile on ones face. Of course being on the business end of boom, not so good. As a rule landmines not of the top ten boom list. That’s boom bad. What I’m talking about is a deep pre-adolescent desire to see thing fly apart with sufficient amount of loudness. I still have a boom scar from my gas pool plastic Bismarck explosion. It was a teachable moment for damage radius
Whatever had been used to cause such a boom in the corner of the cafeteria also produced a large amount of smoke.
The smoke continued to rise toward the ceiling, even while Ms. Frunsio ranted about how much trouble all the boys would be in when she found out who had caused the explosion.
As it reached the ceiling it set off the smoke detectors and the sprinklers kicked on.
Boys and girls ran from the cafeteria, screaming and covering their heads, except for Billbert who stayed to watch Linoliumanda dancing to music only she could hear, water raining down.
Every time Ricky Ka sacks a quarterback, he gets down on one knee and waits for the crowd to shout KA-BOOM!
And he jumps up with his arms raised.
He racked up a dozen sacks in his rookie year, twenty in his next year.
Defensive player of the year award.
Again and again.
KA-BOOM! KA-BOOM! KA-BOOM!
Playoff wins, two Super Bowl rings.
Then came the injuries.
Knee surgery. Shoulder surgery.
Back from rehab, and then done for good.
Hall of Fame ceremony, he got down on one knee.
He held his chest, fell over, and never got back up.
MAY 5 jack
MAY 12 slurp
MAY 19 zone
MAY 26 PICK TWO
stunted growth, bath, passive, pelt, atmosphere,nameless,tendency
JUN 2 surrounded
JUN 9 losing
JUN 16 logic
JUN 23 plot
JUN 30 PICK TWO
reason, discretion, zone, stunt, simple, deadwood, Tuba
JUL 7 current
JUN 14 devotion
JUL 21 peer
JUL 28 PICK TWO
alligator, bath, vindictive, caterwaul, mildred, bruises, That’s Life, mush
AUG 4 speed
AUG 11 lady
AUG 18 partners
AUG 25 PICK TWO
German, in the darkness…, vehicle, halfway, cute, color-coded, Pan
SEP 1 furrow
SEP 8 dresser
SEP 15 void
SEP 22 net
SEP 29 PICK TWO
avoid, intertwine, den, get, fudged, meltdown, Tan
OCT 6 smutty
OCT 13 sturdy
OCT 20 tool
OCT 27 PICK TWO
saucy, holidays, turtle, boom, cluster, chainsaw, Breast
NOV 3 boom
NOV 10 who cares?
NOV 17 option
NOV 24 PICK TWO
panel, acid, blaine, current, coma, stink, Taste
DEC 1 sassy
DEC 8 the F word
DEC 15 broken
DEC 22 throne
DEC 29 PICK TWO
probiotic, seventh, fletch, brown manilla envelope, mention, that’s what she said…, Support
NEXT YEAR’S TOPICS
pulled from the water
hop to it
do the needful
nobody gets out of here alive
We apologise for the inconvenience
what’s that on the radar?
It’s not you, it’s me
signals from outer space
here be monsters!
who’s blood is that?
pick a card… any card!
the hand that feeds you
to hell with the critics
Fat Freddy was so fat, he couldn’t see the numbers on the scale.
So, he bought a talking scale.
No, the talking scale didn’t groan or say “Only one at a time!”
It just told him his weight.
Which is a smaller number than pounds.
Freddy thought it was telling him his weight in pounds.
When he used his treadmill, it was set to use kilometers.
So he thought he was walking more miles than he actually walked.
He died of a massive heart attack.
His family paid for the funeral in dollars.
American dollars, not Canadian dollars.
Nobody at the dictionary company likes to work with Santos.
If you looked up the word “pedantic” in the dictionary, you wouldn’t just see a picture of Santos.
You’d see a picture of Santos arguing with Daniel Webster about the definition of pedantic.
Several editions of the dictionary missed publication dates because he wouldn’t stop arguing.
He was so obsessive about splitting hairs and tearing his hair out over the most minute detail, he ended up bald.
It left him without nits to pick, so he turned to nitpicking others.
The publisher gave Santos a final word to define: fired.
The handball championships.
The best of the best.
Playing in the finals.
They dive and swat and scream.
Scraping the ground, bloody knees and elbows.
Plastic goggle frames fly off their heads, cracking on the pavement.
Ragged leather gloves, torn surfer shorts, soles ripping off of their shoes.
Towels soaked in sweat, empty water bottles.
Pickle brine jars.
Anything for a win, anything.
Shouting at the referee, the crowd.
Kicking over chairs.
Time out, time out.
One more serve to go.
Bounce it on the ground.
Slap it, and scream with everything you’ve got.
We named the bomb disposal robot “Scooby” after that dog in the cartoons.
Scooby was great for snipping wires and dragging bombs away from crowded areas.
Then we’d remotely detonate the bombs, either by setting off the explosives with a small charge or shooting the hell out of them until they exploded.
Sometimes, the locals would shoot somebody, put a grenade or bomb under them, and call for the medics.
Scooby was useful at scouting these human bombs, flipping them over to reveal the deadly trap.
And then, a bomb took out Scooby. Blew him to bits.
Scooby became Scrappy.
Long ago, I remember going to a hot dog place, and it was great.
It isn’t there anymore.
There was this really good pizza joint, too.
It’s also gone.
The rib joint in Columbus?
The bar and grill where I’d get margaritas and fish tacos and salads?
Gone. Gone. Gone.
They’re all gone.
Meanwhile, I drive past McDonalds and Burger King and Wendy’s and Jack In The Box and Subway and…
The mediocre chains stretch across the city… the state… the country… the world…
I park and go into the local barbecue pit sandwich restaurant.
Don’t ever change.
The tortieboom, or turtle tree, grows in the wettest, darkest tropical forests. Its fruits look like large oranges. When ripe, they split open, and a baby turtle emerges. It hurries down the tree seeking the safety of a warm puddle. Adult turtles give birth to egg-like seeds for new turtle trees.
In drier, sunnier climes, the tree flourishes, but economises its resources by omitting its turtle phase, bearing fruits that contain its own seeds. These are the orange trees that we all know.
This is why Buddhists and vegans are forbidden to eat oranges, for they are animals, not plants.
We keep seeds for thousands of species and varieties of plants in the Doomsday Vault.
Should disaster ever come, future generations can recover these plants.
I walk across the frozen tundra, enter the vault lobby, and open the hatch.
I close it behind me before I descend the stairs.
Another hatch, another set of stairs, and then… the vault.
I quickly find what I am looking for…
I grab all of those seeds and return to the surface.
And dump them in the lake.
It’s bad enough we will destroy the world.
Why make future generations suffer more?