When Daylight Savings Time kicks in, I have one less hour to come up with a story for the day.
I looked back over the years, and the stories on the short days tend to really suck.
On the other hand, when Daylight Saving Time is over, I have an extra hour to write a story.
And those stories kinda sucked, too.
In fact, a lot of my stories really suck.
But the great thing about it is, there’s thousands of them. And even if one percent are good, that’s still dozens of good stories.
And that’s fine by me.
Category: My stories
Fries
What do you dip your fries in?
Ketchup?
Mustard?
Mayonnaise?
Cheese dip?
Barbecue sauce?
I like sour cream with my fries.
What’s so weird about sour cream?
They’re potatoes, right?
And what do people usually have with potatoes?
Sour cream.
And bacon bits.
And green onions.
And cheese.
Not the cheese dip crap, but real cheese.
Why not just make a baked potato?
Because I can pick up fries a lot quicker than it takes to make a baked potato.
And it’s harder to dip a baked potato.
Cut it up, and it crumples apart on your fork.
Fries. Fries.
The Mozart Effect
Some scientists say that if you expose a baby to Mozart, it will boost their IQ.
Other scientists say that this has no effect on a baby’s IQ.
No matter what the scientists say, everyone agrees that exposing Mozart to babies really pissed him off.
“Vat’s mit all zees kinders!” he’d shout, sticking his fingers in his ears and scowling at the room full of babies. “Vere ist mein harpsichord?”
Then the babies would scream louder, and Mozart became even more irritable and outraged.
Further research is necessary on The Mozart Effect. And self-changing diapers to stop babies from screaming.
Idioms
I told a blind woman that she was easy on the eyes.
She tried to slap me. And missed. Because she’s blind.
I told a man with no legs to quit dragging his feet and get the job done.
Damn, his motorized wheelchair was fast.
I had to run up a flight of stairs to get away from him.
I told a mute person that they were like music to my ears.
But they couldn’t hear me.
Still, they could read my lips.
And they punched me in the face.
The guy without legs ran me over with his wheelchair.
N
I sipped my coffee and read the gossip pages:
Mindy broke up with Max.
Marty broke up with Mary.
Melissa broke up with Mark.
Madison broke up with Milton.
Sure enough, everyone’s name began with an M. And they all broke up.
I looked at yesterday’s gossip pages.
Sure enough, everybody’s name began with L.
I couldn’t look up the gossip pages from the day before. Those were already recycled.
Will everyone in the gossip pages tomorrow have a name that begins with N?
What happens when we get to Z?
“Nate,” said Nancy. “We need to talk.”
Tomorrow, dear.
Fried Baby
They said that if I tried to open a restaurant that served fried baby, the townspeople would chase me with torches and pitchforks.
But the truth is, they’ve been pretty good to me.
The zoning commission approved the lot. Right next to an adoption agency. The building inspector says that the restaurant is up to code, and the health inspector says that the kitchen is clean.
“Don’t forget hairnets,” he says.
“On the babies?” I ask.
“No, for your fry cooks,” he replies. “Babies are usually bald, right?”
“Oh, right,” I say.
The town arrives.
Brandishing pitchforks?
No, waving coupons.
Kitchen Zone
My kitchen is the fucking Twilight Zone right now.
I’ve got an entire cupboard full of Tupperware, but none of the lids fit any of the containers.
Same thing with the pots and pans. The lids are either too big, too small, or the wrong shape.
Seriously, who the fuck wants a square pan? I have a square lid here, and no pan that matches it.
Maybe some kitchens are like clothes dryers. Left socks vanish from the dryer, pots and containers wormhole out of kitchens.
This is why you should use child safety locks.
And eat out at restaurants.
Dimensional
See this? Little doohickey?
It’s a transdimensional actuator. Latest in relativity dynamics.
Just set the coordinates and constants, twist the knobs, and you’re somewhere else.
Know what the worst thing about inter-dimensional travel is?
It’s the stuff that’s not in the next dimension you miss.
Not just oxygen and gravity and water. Or your family.
I’m talking about the little things, like a root beer float.
Few places have root beer.
Fewer have vanilla ice cream.
Those that have both? Don’t ask.
So, I don’t stay long, because nothing beats a good root beer float.
Well, oxygen kinda helps too.
Flight Insurance
I need to fly somewhere.
What? Do I want insurance?
Well, let me take a look.
One insurance plan offers insurance that pays benefits if you die on an airplane.
Another insurance plan offers insurance that pays benefits if you die in a terrorist attack on an airplane.
The second plan costs more, despite the fact that the first plan overlaps the terms of second plan.
Why do people buy the second?
Because they’re afraid? And stupid?
But I’m going to buy it anyway.
Because I could do this through GoToMeeting.
Instead of flying there.
But I’m afraid. And stupid.
Stalin
We walk along the path, looking for the house.
They colored the building green so it would blend in with the trees around it.
Curtains were cut short so nobody could hide behind them.
He watched movies alone so nobody could see him laugh. Or cry.
Emotions were something he didn’t feel appropriate to share.
Carpets were removed from the hardwood floors so he could hear people walking up to him.
We walk the halls where Stalin used to walk, in the house where he got away from it all.
From the nightmare that he created for so many others.