Category: My stories

The cemeteries are full of indispensable men, said De Gaulle.
And from the looks of things, we desperately need the services of indispensable men.
So, each of you grab a shovel and start digging. I’ll prepare the lab and a batch of the special revival serum. We’ll have an army of indispensable men by sunrise.
This isn’t to say that you’re indispensable. I mean, I couldn’t do this project without you.
Although, if you gave me enough time, I could dig up these men and revive them myself, but it would take much, much longer.
You know what I mean.

Scientists at NASA wanted to send bees up in a rocket to the space station.
They wanted to see how bees would react to zero-gravity conditions.
Would their honeycombs change their geometry from series of hexagons to some weird, alien topography?
Would their social structure change, where the drones and soldiers ruled over the queen?
So, the rocket went up, and the bees were transferred into the cargo bay.
They escaped, and stung the shit out of everyone on the space station.
Thankfully, none of the crew were allergic, but there were a lot more volunteers for routine maintenance spacewalks.

Scientists talk about the gene pool.
But they don’t talk about the lifeguard at the gene pool.
Or how much it costs to hire a gene pool cleaning service.
They come out and skim the dead leaves from the gene pool, and maintain the chemicals so that the water is clean and doesn’t burn your eyes when you swim.
The university can’t always afford all those extra costs, so they tend to call it a “gene fountain” or “gene koi pond.”
And they tell their staff and visitors not to swim in it.
Scientists have the most boring pool parties.

Bob was the fastest case profiler in law enforcement.
He could pick up any case file, and after five minutes, he had a description of your culprit.
The thing is, Bob was also the biggest liar in law enforcement.
Because he’d pick up the case files from his own crimes.
“The killer is seven feet tall, bright orange, and has chainsaws for hands,” he says. “Oh, and wears a bowler hat in the shower.”
As his coworkers thanked him and began their manhunt, Bob clocked out and went out to eat.
And start hunting for his next victim.

Jenny was a good girl, but her friends thought she was just a big bundle of nerves.
Which, I suppose, is fair. Because she was just a big bundle of nerves.
No skin or bones or fat or muscle or anything else.
After her accident, all the doctors managed to save was her nervous system.
Just a brain, spinal cord, and spidery nerves in a jar of electrolytes.
When guys asked her out on a date, she knew it was for her brains, not her body.
Although some liked to wave magnets over her and cause weird sparkly light displays.

They called Marty “Mister Smarty Pants.”
But it wasn’t his pants that was smart.
It was actually his underwear.
They were a strange hybrid of boxers and briefs, and when he wore them, he felt so much smarter.
Perhaps it was the way they held him there that led to increased confidence, and with that confidence came the appearance of greater intelligence?
You know, how glasses and a lab coat make people sound more authoritative?
Marty tried to wear those, too. And nothing else.
He got arrested for public indecency, despite his attempts to talk his way out of it.

Reports came out that the chief executive of a chicken sandwich restaurant chain supported groups that were against same-sex marriage.
So, same-sex marriage supporters boycotted the chicken sandwich restaurant chain.
Same-sex marriage opponents started a rally for the chicken sandwich restaurant chain.
In the end, the chicken sandwich restaurant chain reported record sales.
The chief executive became richer.
And lots of people clicked Block, Mute, and Unfriend on various social networks.
However, same-sex marriage became legal in the United States through a Supreme Court ruling.
As for the chickens, well, they still were slaughtered, processed, and turned into sandwiches.

The company I work for is moving to a new building.
I am moving from a shared office to my own office.
I have my own door and desk and outlets.
I don’t have a window, though.
Which is good, because my office is pretty high up, and I’m afraid of heights.
I will make my office somewhere nice for other people to visit.
Because other people may have offices with windows.
And I don’t like heights. So, I don’t want to visit them.
Or, if we have an argument, be tempted to shove them out through the window.
Again.

Sociologists talk about “white flight” from urban areas to the suburbs, or from open communities to gated communities.
But the community of Silver Acres took the term literally.
Before the gangs and drug dealers could get a foothold, the residents of Silver Lake tore down their houses, built airships, and took to the sky.
A few thugs fired their guns into the air, but the Silver Lakers had armored the keels of their ships.
Barrels of fuel dropped from the airships, and Silver Lake became a raging inferno.
The hot air blew the airships higher, above the terrified screams.

Fred was the dirtiest player.
No, he wasn’t dirty because he broke rules.
I can’t remember him getting a penalty or a fine.
Nor was he dirty from gambling or cheating.
He played cleanly and honestly.
Fred’s dirt was dirt.
Totally filthy. Repugnant.
Everywhere he went, he was surrounded by a billowing dirt cloud.
A real-life Peanuts Pig Pen.
No matter how much he showered and bathed,
He couldn’t explain it.
He was just a magnet for dirt.
Scientists put him in a clean room.
And he still got dirty.
Fred’s team waived him.
Because he wasn’t very good.