Category: My stories

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.

Every day, Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water.
And every night, the creature crawled up from the well and came down the hill to fetch something to eat.
Usually, it was something small, like a chicken or a rabbit.
But sometimes, it would grab a horse or a cow.
Or try to snatch a baby.
“We should cap that well,” said the town elders.
“But where will we get water?” asked Jack and Jill.
“From the river, like everybody else,” said the elders.
Jack and Jill went up the hill with concrete mix…

They say if the shoe fits, wear it.
But I’m going swimming. I don’t want to wear it.
It’s hard to wear a shoe while swimming.
Especially one shoe. I’ll look weird.
And then when I’m done swimming, I’ll get sand in the shoe.
I hate it when I get sand in my shoes.
Or shoe, when there’s just one that fits.
I could hop on the sand with my bare foot, but I’d look even sillier than swimming with one shoe, or walking with one.
Leave it here on my towel?
No. Then someone will steal this shoe too.

Amy may be the prettiest girl in town, but she’s also the most hateful.
Hate literally oozed out from her pores.
A yellowish-green snot color, slick and slimy.
Before, if you got it on you, it had an interesting warmth and tingle, like a gentle Icy Hot.
It made her really popular among the boys.
Then, the hate turned into a nasty venom, and a few horny boys ended up in the emergency room.
Finally, it became a searing rage, and she left a trail of molten lava.
Until she burned through the melted sidewalk and vanished into the earth.

So, you want to go to the eighth floor?
No.
Go ahead, swipe your badge on the sensor and press the eight button.
Do it over and over.
I don’t give a fuck, I’m not going there.
Push and hold the button in. Yesssss… that feels so good.
See it light up?
Now let go.
Aaaaaand… the light goes out.
No eight for you, bitch.
Maybe I’ll let you go to seven.
Then you can haul your fat ass up the stairs to eight.
No?
Then I’ll take you to six.
Keep it up, and we’ll go to five, okay?

Every presidential candidate promises to move the US embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, but they never do.
There’s always some excuse that comes up when they change from a candidate to the officeholder.
Never mind that the US Consulate in Jerusalem, with its Arab-speaking staff and regular breaks for Islamic prayer times, is a de facto embassy to the Palestinians.
Congress passed a law mandating the move, but the President can delay the move, and always chooses to do so.
The Israelis came up with a solution.
They moved a black family next door to the Tel Aviv embassy.

The kidnapper was a total cliche.
White unmarked van.
Fake beard and glasses.
Lured the kid in with candy and a story about a lost puppy.
Just a few seconds with a chloroforum-soaked rag, and he had his prey.
He’d soundproofed his basement, and tested it by turning on the stereo as loud as he could, and trying to hear it from the front door.
Perfect.
“Nobody can hear you,” the kidnapper says. “You can scream for hours, and nobody will hear you.”
“Siri, call nine one one,” said the kid.
He’d forgotten to check the kid for a phone!