Sally sells sea shells by the sea shore.
She is the only sea shell seller by the sea shore.
She has the sea shell market cornered.
Every morning, Sally and her contracted prison laborers go to the shore and collect up all of the sea shells.
If you try to go to the beach and collect your own, Sally will ask you nicely for your shell.
If you refuse, she might offer to buy it from you for a quarter.
But if you insist on keeping the sea shell, her goons will throw you into the sea and you’ll drown.
Ted wasn’t a very good employee, and his supervisor constantly reprimanded him and gave poor performance reviews.
One day, the supervisor said “We’re need to have a ‘Come to Jesus’ moment here.”
Ted went back to his desk, put on a Roman centurion costume, picked up a spear, and went back to his supervisor’s office.
“I know you’re busy,” he said. “We’ll skip the whole crown of thorns, whipping, and nailing to a cross part, okay?”
And then he stabbed his supervisor in the gut.
There wasn’t a rock to bury the supervisor under, so Ted used a filing cabinet.
The best thing about Pluto’s demotion from planet to dwarf planet was Sailor Pluto being stripped of her status, too.
Literally stripped. All of the Sailors gathered together, and they slowly stripped the former Sailor Pluto until the hot young college student was left naked and powerless.
And then they took turns spanking her.
Never mind that Sailor Moon and Chibi Sailor Moon don’t represent planets. They represent the Moon, right?
Better strip them down, too.
Oh, and then they could all take a bath together, too.
And this is why Neil DeGrasse Tyson isn’t allowed to write fan fiction.
When I win the lottery, I’m going to hire a gang of birthday clowns, and have them follow me everywhere like a posse.
A posse of clowns, in their makeup and baggy pants and floppy shoes, making balloon animals and squirting flowers and annoying the hell out of everyone.
We rough it up with other lottery winners and their posses.
Of mimes. Of Renaissance Fair fortune-tellers. Of chiropractors.
And we fight. Boy, do we fight.
We fight like… well… a pack of clowns.
There are a lot of casualties.
I pour out a forty-ounce of seltzer water on the curb.
People are always saying that the barbarians are at the gate.
Of course they are. It’s Barbarian Airlines, and everyone knows that you need to be at the gate at least 45 minutes prior to departure.
Oh, sure, they might have some trouble with Security, and parking is such a hassle, but as long as they’re at the gate 45 minutes prior to departure, they’ll be fine.
Now, the standby barbarians, those are the real problem. One or two get seats and upgrades, but the rest…
Close the door!
Push back from the gate!
And let’s get out of here!
Failure is not an option. Failure is not an option. Failure is our goal.
Failure, Idaho may not sound like a great place to live, and you’d be right.
It’s a horrible place to live.
The water is poisonous and the air is toxic.
That’s why we brought water and breathing masks.
We get in, grab as much of the money left in the bank’s vault, and get the hell out.
If anybody’s guarding it, they weren’t going to last much longer. Killing them is a mercy.
What if they want to come along?
We’re robbers, not the Red Cross.
“Are you staying in Atlanta?” asks the stewardess.
“No,” I say. “But I wish I was.”
We’re flying to Columbus.
I spent ten years there.
I never wanted to go back.
But there’s a conference there and I couldn’t get out of it.
The Visitor’s Bureau consists of one big sign that says “WHY?”
If you can see it through the pollution.
I ask for a ginger ale.
“Sure you don’t want something stronger?”
Maybe if she comes back this way, I’ll get a bottle of Jack.
By the time you feel the smooth whiskey burn, the bottle is empty.
John and Joe look the same, but they’re not twins. They’re not even related.
Joe’s adopted. But their parents made him undergo a bunch of plastic surgeries to look like John.
You can hardly see the scars.
Well, the surgery scars.
Their parents used to beat John whenever he acted up, or didn’t do things exactly like John.
When the drugs wore off and he chewed through the gag, how he used to scream at night.
“Your name is Joe,” they said. “Say it.”
“My name is Linda!” Joe would shout.
More drugs. More surgeries.
John watched, and he laughed.
Dr. Smith says not to sweat the small stuff.
Then he says “It’s all small stuff.”
Of course, Dr. Smith says it’s all small stuff.
Everything is small compared to Dr. Smith.
The guy is almost seven feet of solid muscle.
Plus, he keeps his office cold. Meat locker cold.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sweat,
If he did, it would freeze like an icicle.
So, I take my pills and come to my sessions.
And I always answer his questions politely.
Because, to him, I’m also small stuff.
And he wouldn’t even break a sweat crushing me.
Have you heard about the power of compound interest?
That’s when you deposit a dollar in the bank, and the interest builds up the principal to earn more interest, until your ending balance is much larger than before.
The problem is that if interest rates are low, or zero, there’s no compound interest.
So, people invest. Too much.
The bubble builds with the overvalued investments, until the bubble bursts.
The scared folks out there end up keeping their money stuffed in their mattress.
This is why I invest in mattress companies.
For people to stuff money under… and sleep better.