I heard about a scientist who constantly cracked the knuckles on his left hand every day for thirty years to see if there was any more risk of arthritis than on the other hand that he didn’t crack the knuckles on.
Both of his hands felt the same, but his fellow scientists felt like he was going to beat the crap out of them.
“Sure, his research is in arthritis and how cracking his knuckles would affect its progression,” they said. “But does he have to always have a menacing leer on his face as he walks around the lab?”
Category: My stories
The Pitcher
Pablo Picasso’s last words were “Drink to me!”
But his caretakers misheard him, and thought he’d said “Drink me!”
So, they put him in the bathtub, chopped him into pieces, and ran him through the blender, toasting their friend Picasso with every bloody glass of the liquefied artist.
His bones posed a serious problem, since they were too difficult for the kitchen blender to pulverize, no matter how small they cut them up with the woodshed axe.
One of them suggested melting them with acid.
“How are we going to drink the acid?”
They tried anyway.
(Nobody drank to them.)
Building The Next Disaster – Episode 3,000
Storms and floods washed out the cemetery on the hill, decaying bodies, caskets, and headstones scattered throughout the devastated town.
The townspeople did their best to gather up what they could, despite the wretched conditions they were living under, not much food, no electricity, no clean water.
The National Guard pitched in, volunteers from around the state.
It took a week to get basic services back, weeks to get the rebuilding effort going.
The next year, you could hardly tell there’d been a storm or flood. It was back to the way it was.
So when the next storm came…
Teacher
The scientists worked up a proposal for teaching chimpanzees language and applied for a grant.
It was rejected, and they were confronted with security officers, cattle-prods and whips.
“What is the meaning of this?” said the lead researcher.
“Shut up and get into the cages!” said an officer, cracking his whip.
Several days later, in the middle of a social grooming and bark-chewing rest period, the scientists learned that their proposal had been misread by the grant foundation, and they were being taught how to be chimpanzees.
Nobody spoke up, because it was fun.
And the mealworm treats were delicious.
Punxsutawney
Let’s face it: nobody gives a shit what goes on here in Punxsutawney during the rest of the year. Nobody comes here when it’s not February second. It’s as if this place didn’t exist.
Isn’t that the truth?
Once the cameras are off and the reporters go home, we break down and fold up the houses, rolling them back into the abandoned coal mines.
The streets are disassembled, the signs and lampposts packed away, and the robot citizens marched into the storage facilities by the few actual humans.
Close the freeway off-ramp, and… done.
Race you to the cryogenic chambers!
Crazy Horse
There’s been some speculation regarding Crazy Horse’s name, and I’d like to set the record straight.
He got his name from his father, who had also been named Crazy Horse, but gave his name to his son.
Some legends say Crazy Horse stole his father’s name, but all he ever did was rifle under his cot and look at his porn collection.
Oh, and Crazy Horse’s horse wasn’t crazy. He was a rather well-adjusted horse, a good mount.
His name was “No, I’m Not Crazy, But This Crazy Motherfucker Riding Me Is, So Cut Me Some Slack, Dude.”
Any questions?
Fancy Labels
I have a rule: The fancier the label, the worse the product.
I made this rule based on the assumption that the more a company spends on label design, the less they have left over for quality parts, ingredients, manufacturing, or anything else related to the actual product.
Good products don’t need eye-catching gimmicks or advertising to get you to buy them. You can sell them in a brown paper wrapper if you wanted to.
I wrote a book about this.
Okay, so it has an orgy of blood, sex, and explosions on the cover.
Hey, gotta sell it, right?
The Magic Bell
Every street-corner Santa has a magical pot and a magical bell.
The pot is a gateway to another dimension full of evil and demons that can only be blocked with a large volume of money.
The bell is used for driving off any evil beings that manage to make it through the pile of money and into our world.
Demons can’t stand the sound of bells. Hurts their ears.
What? It hurts your ears, too?
Maybe… you’re a demon!
Santa! Santa! I caught one!
Help me stuff this guy into your pot to send him back to his evil dimension!
Rusty Tools
I was looking around the internet when I came across an online university collection.
There were lectures on history, literature, and all sorts of other academic interests.
I tried to watch the Math and Science lectures, but despite having taken them in college long ago, I couldn’t keep up with the formulas and equations.
None of it made sense.
I took my framed diploma down from the wall and folded up the parchment.
Then I mailed it back to my alma mater with a note.
“If they take driver’s licenses away from elderly people, then this should be returned, too.”
Kate
Remember that supermodel Kate Moss? Yeah the really thin chick. Really thin. Scary thin. She could put on a bikini and double her weight. yeah, that’s her. You could see the bones in her hips… her arms, really unattractive, yet, she was a model.
Well, she got bitten by a zombie… kept groaning brains, and all, but when it got right down to it, after all the biting and attacking and stuff, she didn’t really eat any brains. Oh, sure, she’d moan braaaaaaains along with the rest of the pack, she ended up just pushing them round on her plate.”