Category: Guest Authors

Miguel Cortez was born on Cinco de Mayo, 1955 at 5:55 a.m., the fifth son of a fifth son.
On his fifth birthday, his mother hit the Loteria and won 55,000 pesos.
Time passed; Miguel grew to be a handsome young man. He married a girl from his hometown, and in time they had five children.
On his 55th birthday, Miguel – now a successful American citizen living in New York (in a luxury apartment at 55th and Fifth) took $5,000 to Pimlico and put it all on the fifth horse running in the fifth race.
The nag came in fifth.

Philbert Philpott poked at the paleolithic midden heap with his polished pick. Perhaps, he thought, there’ll be something interesting in this dusty stratum of detritus.
Philbert occupied an exalted position on the University staff. He would travel to the digs with the other professors of Antiquities and write his scholarly articles; but unlike that of the others, his work was filled with sarcasm and invective. Surprisingly, this made him popular.
He would rank on the Rosetta stone and lampoon the Lyceum. He pooped on Petra and said “Fie!” to Phoenicia.
Meet Philbert, chair of the Snarkyology Department at Mishegoss University.

Freedom. So many have given their lives to preserve it.
For some, freedom meant an end to slavery. For me, it meant being able to use stem cells – and a heap of grant money – to perfect replicant technology. Cloned humans.
Think of the possibilities! Replacement organs. Better: being able to answer the age-old question: What if?
I had to know. It was a bitch getting the DNA, but somehow I managed.
He comes out of the gel-tank tomorrow. Twelve weeks of deep-sleep hypnopaedia, and he’ll be ready for his stovepipe hat.
Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Abraham Linclone.

The Ark settled down on its resting place atop Mount Ararat as the floodwaters receded.
Noah threw open the doors. It had been an arduous journey, but he felt cleansed – cleansed down to his very soul. He smiled. Time to plant a vineyard and build a new world!
Three years later, a grumpy Noah sat around the fire after his thousandth postdeluvian meal of wine and fish.
“I sure miss all them critters, Lord. A steak once in a while would be nice.”
A heavenly Voice boomed, “Don’t blame Me, Noah. I quite clearly said ‘animals,’ not ‘enemas.'”
“Oopsie.”

“Kick their ass!
Plant ’em in the grass!
Hold that line!
Catch that pass!”
You couldn’t find a more unlikely football team than the Fighting Farmers of Lewisville.
As a Team Eponym, the Fighting Farmer is almost as ridiculous as the University of California (Santa Cruz) Banana Slugs. But these Farmers will make you laugh out of the other side of your face.
Fueled with Agrarian Animosity, they take to the field (the “Back Hundred”) and become veritable Tractors of Truculence. In contest after harrowing contest, they plow through their opponents, reaping a rich harvest of touchdowns.
Only in Texas.