Maimonides counted 613 commandments in the torah.
Number 185 prohibits people from eating non-kosher maggots.
Does this mean there are kosher maggots?
Nothing on the Internet.
So, I asked my rabbi, but he called me a noodnik and told me to leave.
Then I went to the grocery store to look for some.
The kid at the register thought I said “Faggots” and called the cops.
That’s when I looked up Maimonides.
He lived in the 12th Century.
Perhaps all the kosher maggots were eaten to the point of extinction.
Just like the kosher lobster and shrimp.
Stupid medieval bastards.
Category: My stories
Chicken Legs
For many years, Baba Yaga’s hut walked around on a pair of gigantic chicken legs.
But a harsh winter forced her to cook and eat one of the legs.
Instead of walking around smoothly on two legs, the hut hopped and wobbled on its single leg. Everything inside the hut was knocked around, and anything fragile was smashed to bits.
The old witch was forced to cook and eat the other leg.
Since she couldn’t find any more chicken legs, she bought a Winnebago.
Not as terrifying-looking as a magical chicken leg hut, but you should see how she drives!
The Wrong Watson
James Watson was a diligent lab assistant, but his boss liked to smoke opium. Instead of inventing the telephone, he’d get stoned and pretend to be Sherlock Holmes.
“The game is afoot!” shouted Alexander Graham Bell into the receiver.
Watson walked down the hall and into Bell’s office. “What did you say?” he said.
Bell would laugh, pick up the violin, and play.
Badly.
Later, Bell shouted “Does LeStrade have another case for us?” into the receiver.
“Yes,” shouted Watson back. “It’s the case of Shut The Fuck Up And Invent The Telephone.”
Bell smiled, and then invented the bitchslap.
The Bum Wish
Downtown.
Waiting for a bus.
Nobody around.
Except for a bum, pushing a grocery cart.
Don’t sit down. Don’t sit down.
He stops, sits down on the bench, and pulls out a bottle.
Shit.
“Empty,” he said, tossing it into the cart. “Make a wish.”
“I don’t believe in wishes,” I said. “You have to take matters into your own hands.”
I looked around, then down at my hands.
“Are you sure?” the bum asked.
I looked at the bus schedule. How much longer? Dammit, I wish-
The bum smiled at me.
“Wish granted.”
The bus arrived, I got on.
Sports
Back in high school, if you weren’t lettering in a sport, you had to take gym. Although, gym classes weren’t called gym.
Instead, it was called Life Sports. Activities you’d likely take up when you got older.
Except that I fucking hate golf. And tennis. And softball. And basketball. And lifting weights. And running.
Pretty much every activity I hate. Except horse riding. But they didn’t have horses. Thank God.
What do I like to do? I like to walk and throw darts in the pub.
That’s it.
Now get your fucking horse out of here. It’s blocking the dartboard.
Mama Mia
Deep in the forest, you’ll find an old witch named Baba Yega.
She lives in a hut that walks around on chicken legs.
How this came to be, I’m not sure. But it probably has to do with dodging property taxes. And relocating to better school districts.
Better, as in better sources of kids to eat. Ones with high truancy rates, because she can just bag them while they play hookey.
In fact, principals often invite her to come eat their students.
“Just the dumb ones, please,” say the principals. “We need to maintain high scores to keep our funding.”
Kiss Me
Johnny went through the whole bar, kissing everyone who had on a Kiss Me, I’m Irish button.
Some kissed him.
Some pulled away.
And a few screamed and slapped him.
One girl’s boyfriend threatened to punch out Johnny’s lights.
But the boyfriend had on one of those Kiss Me, I’m Irish buttons, so Johnny kissed him, too.
And the boyfriend punched out Johnny’s lights.
The incident got in the paper, then started a debate on dressing provocatively and free speech.
It wasn’t like shouting fire in a movie theater, but they wore those buttons, right.
Promises, promises.
Johnny’s still laughing.
The Grinch of St. Patrick’s Day
Is there a Grinch of St. Patrick’s Day?
There sure as hell is, dammit.
His name is: me.
When I see fields of clover, I don’t look for the four-leafed mutants. I just turn up the volume on my iPod and fire up the riding lawnmower.
When someone offers me green beer, I throw it back in their face. Real beer is black, as black as night, and can’t be colored green.
And when someone says there’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I punch them in the face.
Because, well, it really pisses me off.
One Way
NASA never called it a one-way mission to Mars.
They called it a colonization mission.
But the crew knew that once they were on their way, they’d never come back.
NASA launched a series of cargo pods at Mars before launching the colonists.
The plan was to build the colony with all those materials.
Instead, an asteroid took out the lead cargo pod, and the debris knocked the others off course.
The colonists were carrying some supplies, but not enough.
And even if emergency supplies could be launched, the launch window had passed.
NASA finally called the doomed mission “one-way.”
Feeding Time
I know that my pet python doesn’t love me.
It’s just a snake.
But it’s big and beautiful.
And I love it.
I used to feed it mice and rats, but the pet stores won’t let me buy them anymore.
And the medical testing breeders are so damn expensive.
The city shelter euthanizes so many puppies and kittens every year.
I made them a deal.
They paid me to take care of the dirty business, and I wouldn’t answer any questions.
Some of them wanted to watch.
I said no.
This isn’t a sideshow spectacle. It’s nature.
Show some respect.