Category: My stories

It’s amazing how quickly a preacher will turn from preaching love and brotherhood to revenge and bloodshed when you touch his daughter.
Is she an adult? Damn straight, she’s an adult.
The things she can do with her tongue…
The hellfire and brimstone hypocrite reaches past his bible for the shotgun.
Now’s not the time to tell him “She came on to me!”
Now’s the time to run. Run like Hell.
And if you want to pray, pray.
Pray that he didn’t load it, or it jams.
“Call me!” she shouts at your back, as you hear the first blast.

Even though you may think that it’s sexist to use the term “mailman” instead of the gender-neutral terms “mailperson” or “letter carrier” the truth is that no matter what gender ratios the Postal Service uses for hiring quotas, much like the clownfish and other unusual coral reef-dwelling species, the staff that runs delivery routes for letters and packages undergoes a metamorphosis which slowly transforms all of them into the male gender.
The Postal Service denies any involvement, because the biological agents they force staff to drink is supposed to render their letter carriers into neutered, docile homonculi, not all men.

“Leave no man behind” isn’t the official policy of our armed forces, but they do their best to bring every soldier, pilot, and crewman home that they can.
The obvious exception is when they get vaporized by nuclear weapons, as what happened when the North Koreans tried to reunify with the South.
Or when the Russians let ISIS acquire a pan-dimensional energy source and they sent most of Libya to a parallel dimension. Ain’t nobody coming back.
So, go ahead. Test this new light-speed spacecraft.
If it works, great. If it doesn’t, you get an empty coffin at Arlington, okay?

The old general used to give out his wristwatches as gifts.
He’d take off his wristwatch and hand it to you, saying “Here, have this.”
And you’d say “Thank you” like it was some Rolex.
But they never were.
They were cheap knock-off wristwatches.
Most of the time they were broken. Or had a worn-out leather strap.
Or something else wrong with them.
But a gift’s a gift, right? It’s the thought that counts.
Mine runs pretty well.
Well, ran.
Damn thing wasn’t waterproofed, and I wore it in the shower.
Maybe I’ll give it as a gift to someone?

Hardware sores and department stores in the city are so expensive.
Even the electrical outlet specialty store is out of my price range.
So, when I’m looking for a new electrical outlet, I shop at the outlet outlet store.
It’s in a mall outside of town along with all the other outlet stores for The Gap, American Tourister, and other brands.
Except that instead of fashion, the outlet outlet store has great deals on electrical outlets.
Sure, you have to pay a bit for the gas to get there, but if you’re buying in bulk, it’s well worth the trip.

I wanted to buy a frozen pizza at the grocery store, but all they had was Mexican-style pizza from Red Baron.
Isn’t the Red Baron a German legend?
Why is he making Mexican-style pizza?
And why am I buying a pizza from an enemy combatant?
That’s like Hitler Sandwiches or Bin Laden Ice Cream.
Mexican-style pizza, taking jobs away from American pizza.
We should build a wall. Out of pizza. To keep the Mexican-style pizza out.
And have the Red Baron pay for it!
But then, it’s the Red Baron.
He has a plane. He could just fly over it.

You do not fuck with the coroner of Smith County.
You do not want him to tell you “You are dead to me.”
If he doesn’t like you, he signs your death certificate, and you’re legally dead.
You lose everything… your job, your bank accounts, your credit cards, your house, your car…
Your life is dead and gone.
And you’re standing there, watching it all happen, and you can’t do a damned thing about it.
And nobody will help you, because you’re dead. The dead are beyond help.
I can’t help you either.
Because the coroner declared me dead, too.

The Democrats run primaries and caucuses to choose delegates to go to their national convention, and those delegates will select their party’s presidential candidate.
But they also have superdelegates, who are party leaders and elders who can choose whoever they want to choose.
The irony of the Democratic Party using anti-democratic election tactics is amusing.
And inspiring.
Because I’ve started my own party.
It’s the “We know better than you” Party.
Our primaries and caucuses are just meaningless polls and debates.
Every delegate is a superdelegate.
Because we know better than you.
And if you don’t like it, fuck you.

The Royal Surveyor was a borderline obsessive.
He obsessed about borderlines, and he took his job very seriously.
Every tree, rock, and clump of dirt went into his logbook.
Then, he handed it to The Royal Guard.
“This is the border to guard!”
The Royal Guard, formed from the most aggressive borderline psychotics, took the job very seriously.
Nobody crossed that border.
The king, afflicted with borderline personality disorder, got in one of his moods and decided to travel.
The Royal Guard blocked his path.
“We’re guarding this border!” they said.
The king had them executed.
And then barbarians invaded.