Ted booked a week off, and he had planned to travel somewhere during that time, but he decided on a staycation instead.
But he forgot to remove the Facebook and Twitter announcements about his plans.
Burglars had read these posts, and planned to rob Ted’s place.
Instead, Ted shot the burglars as they broke in.
It was all very exciting, from the attack to his eventual exoneration by the district attorney. Better than any vacation than he’d ever had.
So, when his friends needed a house sitter, he volunteered and brought his guns.
And had them post about their vacation.
Category: My stories
Suicide Hotline
After Robin Williams died, a lot of people posted on their Facebook timelines all kinds of videos, photos, and noise about harassing depressed people to go seek help.
They think this is helping.
Yeah, I fight with depression. Heck, I used to have the National Suicide Hotline on speed-dial, but one time I accidentally butt-dialed it and they thought I was going to kill myself.
After ten minutes of arguing, they said: “Then why do you have the number on speed-dial?”
I hung up, and realized that I don’t have to answer calls like that all day.
Life’s good, really.
Christopher Gunness
Christopher Gunness
You fucking tool
You fucking fool
Do you let Hamas hide rockets
Up your ass
Or is your lying crying head
Jammed too far up there
Your schools
Teach kids to hate
And crave death
Your hospitals are ammo dumps
Rocket launching sites
And command centers for murderers
Reporters and civilians
Who call you on your lies
Are shot and killed
And dragged through the streets
All that concrete
To rebuild schools and hospitals
And homes
Used to build tunnels
Built by child slave labor
Drag out those dead children
Claim they were
Shot
Bombed by the Jeeeeeeeews
Seven Inches
Timmy never felt comfortable as a man.
He’d saved for years, but he was still seven inches from becoming Tina.
Close, but not enough. He kept saving for the final cut.
That’s when the devil showed up.
“I can give you that,” he said. “All of it. 100% natural.”
Timmy happily grabbed the contract.
“Sign it as Tina.”
The next day, she woke up…
Soft breasts, not implants. And the cock… Gone! Labia, vagina, a clitoris! And it felt…
Wait. A hard cot. Bars. Prison cell.
“All natural, death row prime,” whispered Satan.
He’d been given a condemned woman’s body.
Helper Monkey
Eddie types fast. Really fast.
But his coding skills suck.
Bob, on the other hand, writes amazing code.
He just can’t type worth a damn.
So, we paired them together.
Eddie writes for Bob, then Bob corrects Eddie’s code.
Still not good enough.
That’s when somebody suggests a neural link. Wire their brains together.
Bob does the thinking, and Eddie is the output device. A mere printer, or a helper monkey.
Bob thinks this is cool.
Eddie didn’t, until we drugged him. And fitted him with the neural link cap.
Which still needs system drivers.
Who will write that code?
Woody
Woody Allen has used the same typewriter for fifty years.
However, he’s had a few worn-out parts replaced here and there. And he’s gotten fresh ribbons as he’s needed them to write.
Miles and miles of typewriter ribbons. So many miles, they could wrap around the earth…
How many times?
Two? Three? Four?
Or hundreds and hundreds of miles?
Well, it’s not that he’s ties them end-to-end and wrapped them around the earth. He’s too busy writing and producing and directing movies.
But he still has time to tie up his wife Soon-Yi with them, the twisted little nebbish freak.
Bobo
Every year, my mom and dad would hire Bobo the Clown for my birthday, until I grew too old for clowns.
Facing the big fifty, I decided I wanted to see Bobo one more time.
Thing is, both my parents are gone. Maybe Bobo, too.
I did some searches, and had to hire a private investigator.
Three days to go, and he got a hit.
Bobo was rotting away in an old folks home.
I dropped by and thanked him, and apologized for getting too old for him.
“We all get too old,” he said, “Happy birthday.”
And died.
Smashes
Every time I buy bread from the store, it gets smashed.
Even when I pack it myself.
Even when it’s the only thing I buy.
Even when I put it in my patented No Smash Bread Safe.
It ends up smashed.
So, I baked my own bread.
I used a bread baking machine, fresh ingredients, and 24/7 closed-circuit security camera coverage.
And it doesn’t end up smashed.
It smells so wonderful… so incredible… so fresh!
I pull it out of the baking pan, let it cool, and slice it with a razor-sharp bread knife.
And then I smash it.
Birthday Guy
Nobody ever remembers Ted’s birthday.
Not even Ted.
You know how people say “Hey, when’s your birthday? It’s coming up soon, right?” as an icebreaker?
Nobody does that with Ted.
It’s not even on his driver’s license. Or birth certificate.
The subject just never comes up.
Ted doesn’t really mind that he’s never had a birthday party or cake.
He doesn’t like attention or a lot of noise.
And he really doesn’t like cake. Or ice cream.
Now, when it comes to party hats, well, he likes wearing those.
On his crotch. And nothing else.
Let’s not invite him, okay?
I Love The Movies
I love the movies.
I love going to the movies.
I love the theater, the popcorn, the cokes, the sound…
Tear that ticket in half and hand me the stub.
The curtains open.
The lights go down.
And…
Previews. Ads. Public service announcements.
I love all of this.
When I was little, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.
“In the movies,” I said.
Actor? Director? Producer? Makeup? Set designer?
Nope. I just want to be in the movies.
My English teacher said the right word is at, not in.
And I got an F.