Category: My stories

The Western Ukranians want closer ties to Europe and to have a Western democracy.
The Eastern Ukranians want closer ties to Russia and to have an Eastern democracy, which is really just a socialist autocracy.
Both point their fingers at each other and accuse them of being servants of the money-grubbing Jews.
Me, I want them both to fuck themselves and die.
Let them have their wars. Their massacres. Their war crimes.
The more, the better.
My people can move on to Spain or Israel or wherever they want.
And leave these Jew-hating scum to their mutual prison and cemetery.

Tom is always buttering up his bosses.
Literally. He carries around a butterknife and an insulated cooler with butter in it.
The challenge is keeping the butter soft enough to spread, but not to allow it to spoil.
Nobody likes the smell or taste of rancid butter.
He could melt the butter and spray it with a power painter or a spray bottle, but he wants to butter up his bosses, not scald them.
What do the bosses think about Tom’s attempts to butter them up?
Security escorted Tom out the door this morning.
I guess it’s Tom that’s toast.

Centuries ago, the British would transport criminals across the oceans to Australia.
Recently, scientists came up with a plan to transport criminals to the moon.
Well, just the dangerous ones. The ones with life sentences and no possibility of parole.
The prison was automated, with robot guards, hydroponic oxygen and food generation farms, and so on.
The inmates were put to work building a moon colony for future residents.
Do a good job, and you earn a release.
And the plan worked. The colony was completed quickly,
The prisoners were all released… to the cold, airless surface of the moon.

After years of trying to write The Great American Novel and failing, Fred gave up writing.
“Why?” asked Joe, Fred’s agent. “I know you have it in you.”
“No, I don’t,” said Fred. “But you do.”
“Me?”
Fred became Joe’s agent, and when Fred finished writing his novel, Joe shopped it around and got it published.
Best seller. Fifteen weeks.
Joe’s next nine novels were also best-sellers.
Joe got famous, and Fred booked him on talk shows and book tours.
They both made a good living.
These days, you’ll catch them on the golf course.
Joe lets Fred keep score.

When you go to an amusement park or public event, do it when you’re sick.
That way, you immune system is already active and working on fighting illness and infection.
Otherwise, when you’re fine and healthy, your defenses aren’t ready for the many illnesses from around the world.
Would you rather have a simple cold, or a full-blown tropical virus that makes your eyes, ass, and ears bleed?
It’s like measles parties, but instead of exposing kids to an infected kid to build immunity, you gather adults to Disneyland or a Rolling Stones concert.
Biological warfare is so much fun!

Disneyland is Disneyland.
Getting in the park early will let you ride a few rides before the long lines take over. And thank God for the purse checks and metal detectors doing their security theater routine.
Those guys slow down the rush of fresh meat long enough to keep the lines good until ten or ten-thirty, maybe eleven on a weekday.
All the restaurants fill up quickly, and unless you have a reservation, it’s corn dogs and cokes again.
Line up for the light show and fireworks, stand behind a family of Watusi with big hair and hats.
Goodnight, Mickey.

Jerry counted down the days to retirement.
“I plan to build a boat and sail it over as much water as I can before I die,” he said.
We tried to convince him that he should just buy a boat or lease one instead. But Jerry had a dream, and you can’t talk a man out of his dream.
The doctors couldn’t talk him out of his dream even after he sawed off three fingers.
So, Jerry had another accident.
We rented a boat to hold his funeral on, and spread his ashes over as much water as we could.