Marylin climbed into the rocket’s capsule, strapped herself in, and closed the hatch.
She looked over the console to check the readings.
Everything was perfect.
She started the automated launch and flight sequence.
As the system counted down to zero, she wondered if she was making the right choice.
Life on the orbital satellites was comfortable and simple, and people lived peacefully there.
Would she, a misfit with a red-tagged file, fit in there?
The countdown reached zero, and the rocket lifted from the pad.
Through the window, Marilyn watched as the launch center receded… and Earth slowly grew larger.
Bob said he’d make an honest woman out of Sally.
So, he and his CIA buddies grabbed her off the street, stuffed her in a white van, and drove her to an interrogation center.
Her answers were vague, and the high-speed camera caught microexpressions in her forehead that suggested she wasn’t telling the truth.
Polygraphs are stress-dectectors, not truth-detectors, but the interrogator used it to catch Sally off of her guard.
Another session on sodium pentathol confirmed the results.
“She’s no good for you, Bob,” said the interrogator.
Bob called off the wedding, and dumped Sally’s body in the bay.
Wasn’t a great artist
But he liked to teach art
Who could potentially be great artists
Would be inspired
To practice, and make art.
With his brushes
Making happy little trees
And happy puffy clouds
Would wait for the director to shout CUT!
So he could go back home
And sit in the dark
With a bottle in his hand
And a loaded gun in his mouth
He’ll paint the walls
With his brains
His huge afro
Falling against the blood
To make one last happy puffy cloud.
Bill and Benny are art thieves.
They steal art.
But not the art that other art thieves steal.
Like paintings or statues.
These guys steal ballets.
How do you steal a ballet?
I don’t know, but they do.
And there’s nothing more boring than a bunch of anorexic chicks in tights, tutus, and slippers just standing around.
Waiting for the police to find their production of Swan Lake.
Bill and Benny are smart.
They don’t use Craigslist or fences to get cash for the ballet.
They also respect the art of dance.
Just pay the ransom, and nobody gets hurt.
It’s been years since anybody’s seen a tuba.
Sure, we’ve seen oboes and sousaphones and clarinets, but a tuba?
No. No tubas.
One day, there were tubas everywhere. As far as the eye could see.
But now? Not a tuba to be found.
Look in all the music stores. Look on eBay. Look on Craigslist.
No tubas at all.
Look in the dictionary. Tuba isn’t there.
it’s not on Wikipedia either.
Google it, and nothing comes up.
It’s like China and the Massacre at Tiennamen Square.
Except with tubas.
What did we do wrong?
And how do we fix this?
My brother went off to college in Boston.
Every few months, he’d come home.
And he’d go shopping with my parents to buy up the things he’d need.
“It’s cheaper here than in Boston,” he’d say.
And it was. Boston, being a big city, had high prices.
While Columbus prices weren’t so high.
Also, the sales tax in Massachusetts was much higher than in Ohio.
So, yeah, things were much cheaper here than in Boston.
Never mind the fact that he’d get my parents to buy all those things here, as opposed to having to buy them himself in Boston.
Back in Fifth Grade, the Math teacher taught us basic geometry.
She handed out a test with shapes on it.
“Name each shape,” she said.
When I saw a square, I called it a square.
When I saw a hexagon, I called it a hexagon.
And so on.
When I got my test back, I saw a big red F on it.
“All of the names” the teacher wrote in red.
The square was also a polygon, a quadrilateral, a rectangle, and a rhombus.
I called her all the names I thought she was, and landed in the principal’s office.
Today’s lesson from Master Gallagher is how to shoot your target while facing a headwind.
One must ensure that the bullet is smooth and the balance is perfect.
Otherwise, it will corkscrew in the air and go wild.
To reduce this effect, you must fire from an absolute minimum safe distance.
Unlike calm days, when you can achieve greater accuracy from longer ranges.
Brace the rifle steady.
Take a beep breath, exhale, and squeeze the trigger gently.
The watermelon at the other end of the football field explodes.
“Grab your mallets,” he says, grinning. “It’s time for your next lesson.”
Of Dalton Trumbo’s
Johnny Got His Gun
Is that Dalton
When a car
And he lost his
And the only way
Was to fart
In Morse Code
It took a while
For the nurses
To realize that
He was trying
They fed him beans
All day long
While a troop
Of Boy Scouts
Handled the transcriptions
He wrote the book
Said that it stunk
To the Boy Scouts
I’d like to think that if Mickey Mouse ever wrote up a will, he’d leave his pants to Donald Duck.
Because it’s really rude, walking around without pants. Especially at a funeral.
There’s not much point in leaving his shoes to the duck. They probably won’t fit those big webbed feet.
And if Donald ever wrote up a will, he’d leave his sailor shirt to Mickey Mouse.
If Goofy died, he could leave his pants to Donald, and his vest to Mickey.
And his hat to Pete, because it looks so much friendlier than the bowler hat that Pete wears.