When did women start throwing panties on stage?
Some say it started with Tom Jones and his Vegas concerts.
Others say it was Wayne Newton, because women would mistake him for Tom Jones.
And still others say it started with Elvis, and panties that ended up on Tom Jones’ or Wayne Newton’s stages were there only because of the unusual updrafts and air currents on The Strip.
But the truth is, it started with Axl Rose.
Not because women were totally in love with him or were enthralled by his music.
No, it’s because he’s such a whiny rockstar pussy.
Category: My stories
Snapshots
Clark Kent asked Jimmy Olsen about a good sturdy camera that would stand up to travel.
“Oh, one like mine,” said Jimmy, handing Clark his spare.
Clark developed his own shots, framed a few.
Typical Metropolis street scenes. Sunsets. Lois smirking.
Clark eventually bought his own, returned Jimmy’s camera.
Jimmy saw that Clark had left some film in there, but he didn’t want to bother him, so he developed it himself.
The Eiffel Tower? The Grand Canyon?
On the same roll?
Jimmy fainted as the final shot on the roll appeared through the developer’s solution.
The whole earth. From space.
###
Perry White called Clark Kent into his office and handed him a smartphone.
“Use this to tweet and facebook,” said Perry. “All that new stuff.”
“Um, how do I do that?” stammered Kent.
“Read the fucking manual,” said Perry. “Lois figured it out, so do it!”
Jimmy Olsen helped Clark set it all up: signing up for accounts, friending people, and testing the camera.
Everything went great, until someone noticed the GPS tags.
From Paris to Metropolis in 20 minutes?
“Um, someone hacked my password?” stammered Clark.
“At least you didn’t tweet your dick like that Weiner guy,” said Lois.
Letters
Professor Troy crawled into the cave and looked around the debris.
Tattered bits and pieces, a few bones.
And a rusty oil lamp.
He looked closely at it.
Arabic letters… he translated… “RUB THIS.”
Lamps? Genies granting wishes?
He chuckled. What would he wish for?
More funding… a time machine to see the past as it was…
What was the last thing he wished for?
Oh. Right. He’d said: “I wish other archaeologists would treat specimens properly.”
So, he made a notation where he found it, snapped a few photos, carefully wrapped it in a plastic bag, and tagged it.
Never
Remember that game
Back in High School
Senior year.
The last of the season
Or, was it the state finals?
The state finals,
So hot, the grass drank in the water
From the clack clack clacking sprinklers
Like the town drunk.
Two outs, bottom of the ninth
And you hit one over the fence so far,
I swear, it’s still going.
Rounding the bases,
Grinning wide as the sky,
And you fell to the ground
Threw down your glove
And… and…
Wait. You weren’t the batter
It was you on the mound
Blowing the save.
You never pitched again.
Never.
Verification
When customers call us, they’re supposed to answer a verification question.
If they don’t have a verification question on file, they need to log into our site and set one.
“But I’m not in front of a computer!” they growl.
I wonder if they pull this crap on people at the bank.
“I left my checkbook and wallet at home,” they yell. “I don’t know my account number. I have no ID. And I never let you put my fingerprint on file. Now give me my money.”
They are resellers, who are entrusted to other people’s stuff.
Seriously misplaced trust.
The Voices
Every so often when we try to do something, we hear those voices:
You can’t do it.
You’re not good enough.
Don’t bother trying.
But we don’t always hear them. And other people never hear them at all.
So, I set up a 900 number that people can call to be connected to a room full of critical and pessimistic people.
Sure, I could write an app to simulate that kind of thing, cycling those voices in a loop, but when I tested it, those voices played over and over in my head, and I just gave up on it.
Diamonds Are
When Marilyn sang that diamonds are a girl’s best friend, she wasn’t talking about the precious stone.
She was actually talking about Diamonds. Capital D.
The Diamond Brothers, Sven and Olaf.
Oh, sure, you saw Marilyn in the paper with Joe DiMaggio and Arthur Miller, and then there were the rumors about those damned Kennedys, but that was nothing compared to things Marilyn did the Diamonds.
What? Were they a threesome?
No.
They did housework for her. Some heavy lifting, killing nasty spiders.
Very dependable, but lousy at reading prescription labels.
They quietly went home to Sweden after the funeral.
Ho Ho Hock Up A Lung
So, you got sick over the holidays?
Color me shocked. I’m not surprised.
I told you to boil and sterilize any and all Santas before sitting in their laps, but NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! you just had to tell Santa what you wanted right there and then without taking precautions… gah, you fool!
Wouldn’t even wear a big plastic trashbag or put down tissue-paper.
Sure enough, you catch the Santacrud.
It’s the third-leading disease of the holidays, right after drowning in wassail and choking on sugarplums! We must raise awareness! We-
We’re under mistletoe?
Go get a step ladder. I’ll take it down.
The Poison Machines
The preacher of the breakroom raises his hand and shouts:
The snack machines are full of brightly-colored and delicious death in shiny crinkly packets.
Just push a button.
They fit in your hand, so easy to tear open, puffing out rich scents.
Turn away, turn away. Don’t breathe it in!
They confess their ill intent right there on the ingredients list.
Poison! Poison!
Even the water… flour… sugar… all unclean and tainted by the industrial processing and cooking and packaging and delivery systems.
You are not the consumer. You are the consumed.
The machine wobbles… and falls on the preacher.
Bonjour
“Bonjour,” said the butler.
Casey clicked the Language button on his remote.
“Konichiwa,” said the butler.
“Fix the damn thing!” yelled Lisa.
Casey clicked it a few more times, and the butler said “Hello” in ten more languages.
But never “Hello.”
Casey clicked the red button on the remote.
The butler bowed and his eyes rolled up as he shut down.
“Scratched language disk,” said Casey. “Mind if I borrow yours?”
“What?” gasped Lisa.
Casey pointed the remote at her, clicking the red button.
Lisa’s eyes rolled up and she shut down.
You’ll shout much nicer in French, he thought.