Category: My stories

So, after the Super Bowl, someone stole Tom Brady’s jersey.
Despite lots of noise from law enforcement, it’s been missing for weeks.
What’s to stop Tom from fucking with the thieves and claiming he found his lost jersey?
Then sign a certificate of authenticity and sell it at a charity auction.
I mean, Tom lied about the deflated footballs that he used a few years ago, right?
And in the end, he’d be doing it for charity.
His diehard Boston fans will believe anything he says, anyway.
Why not make a buck off of those suckers while he’s at it?

Shakira claims that her hips don’t lie, but when you inject them with sodium pentathol, the truth comes out.
Oh, man, the truth comes out! The stories they could tell!
Of course, you can’t compel a pair of hips to testify against their owner, especially under duress or chemically-enhanced interrogation.
That won’t hold up in court. A good defense attorney will object, the judge will sustain the objection, and the jury will be instructed to ignore that testimony.
What you have to do is get a wiretap warrant, and then catch the hips perjuring themselves.
And her ass will follow.

John Redcloud was a lousy sailor and a constant drunk.
He was usually too blitzed to find his boat at the marina.
“Three Sheets To The Wind” was its name.
The rare times he managed to stagger to the right slip, his boat was usually moored at or crashed into another, covered with angry notes from his fellow sailors and the harbormaster.
Or sunk to the bottom, the topmast and ragged mainsail sticking out of the water like the fish wanted to surrender.
His father would buy him another, because boats are slightly cheaper than Porsches.
And cops. And reporters.

Is there a unit of measurement for fucks to give?
The gandhi? The motherteresa? The marthinlutherking?
Or is it named after someone else who gave a fuck?
Such as Jesus. He gave a fuck about a lot of things.
I think that the unit is actually the shit.
Because people already give a shit about things.
Or run out of shits to give.
What’s the conversion rate between fucks and shits?
What about damns? (We know that darns are equivalent to one damn, right?)
The truth is, I don’t really care.
I ran out of shits to give long ago.

Whenever I misbehaved, my mother would ask if I was raised in a barn.
“No,” I’d say. “But you’re too drunk to notice.”
“I’m out of beer,” she says, and she pulls a five from her purse. “I swear, if you spend this on candy or the arcade, I’ll kill you.”
Years later, she found Jesus. Right around when her liver gave out.
“The doctors say they can put just part of your liver in me,” she wrote. “It’ll grow back.”
I put the letter back in my pocket.
She died last night.
I ask Siri where’s the nearest arcade.

Do you prefer Coke in a bottle, can, 2-liter plastic container, or on tap?
Dr. Odd doesn’t like it from any of those.
So, he mixes it himself in his lab.
It wasn’t hard for him to figure out the formula. He is a mad scientist, after all.
The hard part was finding the one planet in the universe with oceans of that exact formula.
A tiny wormhole brings him the syrup, and it mixes with carbonated water from another wormhole dispenser.
The Jack Daniels, he adds from the bottle.
Because the only place you can get that is Earth.

Forget about that… we have bigger fish to fry.
Is a shark a fish? Yes? Okay, then we have bigger fish to fry.
Although we don’t have a deep fryer big enough for a shark.
Or a big enough skillet.
We’ve got a baking sheet big enough, but we don’t have an oven big enough to bake it.
Why do we have such a big baking sheet if we don’t have an oven big enough for it?
Can you grill a shark? Or roast it on a spit?
Maybe we should cut the shark into smaller pieces and fry it?

On March 30, 1981, during an assassination attempt on President Ronald Reagan, White House Press Secretary James Brady was shot in the head.
He was rushed to the hospital in grave condition.
Several hours later, most media outlets reported that Brady had died.
Despite the fact that the trauma surgeons had saved his life.
Brady fought hard to survive and recover.
No, he never returned to his job.
But he did return to the White House Briefing Room.
The audience of reporters and correspondents applauded him, those same despicable vultures who rushed to pick at his twitching corpse for headlines.

It is Holocaust Remembrance Day.
And we say NEVER AGAIN!
There are some that wish that Hitler had finished the job. AGAIN! they shout.
And others deny that it happened at all. NEVER! they shout.
What amazes me is that you’ll find someone who believes both.
Both lies taught by the same teachers to classrooms full of young hateful monsters.
The result is someone who shouts AGAIN! and also NEVER!
Believing and exposing both of these evils at the same time.
So, I stopped saying NEVER AGAIN!
Instead, I say we reopen the camps, and gas those crazy monstrous assholes.