Author: R.

The Cartoonist

849030

Walter walked the studio grounds, lost in concentration.
He needed a new character. Mickey had been packing theatres for years – not bad for a lousy cartoon short! – but rentals had begun to sag.
Face it. The Mouse was a victim of his own success. Originally a mischievous trickster, he was now good-natured and bland. Booooring.
What he needed was a foil. A character with a rotten disposition, to create dramatic tension. But who?
He almost tripped on the duck’s carcass. It lay by the side of the pond, half-eaten.
Two months later, /Morty Maggot/ opened to rave reviews.

Fabio Sucks

655298

I’m just as stunned as you are. Fabio was a great spokesman for “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.”
I guess his vampiric transformation was just too gruesome.
Such a waste.
And that’s what fooled us all – the hair, the muscles. Who knew he was so brilliant with chemistry?
It didn’t take him long to get labspace at Unilever to develop a cruetly-free food source for himself.
Not only will “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Blood!” eliminate any fear of transfusion-related ailments like AIDS and Hep-C, but it’s damn tasty, too.
Still, every now and then I miss draining someone.

Stool

849021

Eddie walked into Clancy’s, looking for an empty seat. There – next to that platinum blonde with the Cosmo! Maybe she wasn’t a Working Girl. Riiight.
“Ah wouldn’t sit down theah effen Ah wuz yew.”
The warning came from the end of the bar. Strange little guy, clad in buckskins, sporting a coonskin cap, reeking of pine.
“I’ll sit wherever the fuck I want, Mark Trail.”
With that, Eddie slid onto the barstool. It shattered into flinders, dumping him unceremoniously to the floor.
“H-h-how’d you know?”
“Name’s Dan’l Boone, and Ah know more about B’ar Stools than jest about anybody.”

Toadboy

685707

My mother did a lot of drugs in her wilder days.
She claimed she took a break for the seven months I was inside her, but I know she’s lying.
My genes are full of errors, minuscule errors in the spirals of DNA in my billions of cells.
Doctors say I should be dead by now. But I’m still kicking, and the nurses keep checking on me around-the-clock.
Every now and then, one sneaks a lick of my skin.
Their eyes roll back, and they shudder with pleasure.
That’s nice, but I wish they’d remember to switch the goddamned bedpan.

For Elise

786808

My sister Elise calls me her guardian angel.
Father, called me a tumor. He left when we were 4.
Mother didn’t say much of anything about the withered midget on her daughter’s back.
Elise and I don’t just share a liver and kidneys – we share absolutely everything. No secrets between us, although she sometimes jokes “What are you plotting behind my back?”
The doctors whisper over headphones that there’s risk, but not as much if they don’t have to worry about me.
“Mother didn’t,” I say. “Why should I?”
I promise she won’t wake up alone. I’m her angel.

Reconciliation

928652

Abdul Abulbul Amir is revered for bringing East and West together.
Back in 2052, Amir was an impoverished cleric living in Dearborn. Many of his brethren denounced America. They could only envision a future of struggle, Islam versus the powers of the West. Theirs was a bipolar world of Muslim and Infidel, of which only one could be right.
But Amir had a vision.
“Surely, a country that can make a dessert this wonderful is no Great Satan!”
And so, he began preaching a new message of love for America from a true Religion of Peace:
“Imam and Apple Pie!”

The Cute

643547

Warden Wilson’s motto was “We put the ‘cute’ in electrocution.”
His first order of business was to replace the old wooden electric chair with a comfortable electric couch.
Fresh flowers and rustic decorations adorned Death Row to give it a “homey” feel. Lots of framed needlepoint, and the bars were replaced with delicate wrought iron.
When the guards’ union balked at the duck and the bunny suits, Wilson flew into a berserk rage.
“Fine!” he shouted. “Forget about the flowers and hugs… you can keep your stupid batons and guns!”
Wilson’s bludgeoned and shot body was found the next day.

My Captain

618001

When it got dark, The Captain and I climbed out of the bunker for a smoke.
My pack was empty. The Captain had just one.
I watched as The Captain lit up.
“We’ll get more soon,” he said, taking a deep drag. “I’ll smoke half, you’ll smoke half, okay?”
The tip glowed red in the night.
Then, more red.
Laser dots.
He dropped before I could shout.
I sat still, watching The Captain’s body in the tiny glow of the cigarette tip.
No more shots. The snipers just saw him, not me.
I haven’t smoked since.
Now pass the needle.

Ich Bin Ein Jelly Doughnut

915179

Sometimes, after dinner,
I crave a Berliner –
That noble and perfect dessert.
But a gluttonous sinner
Will bite his Berliner,
An act that may cause it to squirt –
Take a napkin and pin ‘er
Between your Berliner
And you. It will keep off the dirt.
Then enjoy your Berliner
(It won’t make you thinner –
Your diet it’s likely to hurt.)
You might want your Berliner
Washed down with some gin, or
Some human breast milk – you pervert!
I feel like a winner
When I eat my Berliner
Without getting jam on my shirt.
After dinner? Berliner!

The Wacky Adventures Of Abraham Lincoln 66

636818

Lincoln walked out from the telegraph office and silenced the curious reporters with a sheepish grin.
“I have no comment at this time,” said Lincoln.
“But… but…”
“Well, gentlemen, there is a little woman at our house who is probably more interested in this dispatch than I am.”
Lincoln strolled back home, where Mary Todd was finished preparing the evening’s meal.
“Did you win the election?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” said Lincoln. “But I think Thumbelina will want to know that they’ve found a Borrower community in Oregon.”
He stuffed the telegram into the hole in the wainscoting.