I use my iPhone to play Words With Friends, but all my friends have given up on this Scrabble variant for a game called Angry Birds.
Apparently, these birds are angry because a bunch of evil pigs have stolen their eggs, so they attack various structures built by the pigs trying to kill them and take all the eggs back.
I loaded the game and tried to negotiate a settlement between the birds and the pigs.
And then I killed them all.
I smiled, had a huge plate of bacon and eggs for breakfast, and sat on a feather-filled pillow.
Category: My stories
Where did the turkeys go?
Strange things are happening these days.
The strangest?
Where did all the turkeys go?
That’s the question everybody’s asking.
All of the grocery stores are out of turkeys.
There isn’t a turkey to be seen at any farm.
And if you bought a turkey already and put it in your freezer, you’re probably wondering why there’s a huge empty space in there now.
Even pictures of turkeys have vanished from everywhere. There’s no entry for it in the dictionary.
Oh well. I didn’t like turkey anyway. Forget it.
Pass the mashed potatoes and gravy, please. That roasted eagle smells wonderful.
Poetry In Motion
After watching girls roll around the track and beat the crap out of each other in what was billed as “Poetry In Motion”, we walked out of the roller derby and put together our own sport:
Rollerpoetry.
Instead of helmets and pads, we handed out berets and copies of Allen Ginsberg’s book “Howl.”
Poets would circle the track, sharing the verse in ways that teachers and Kindles couldn’t.
Opening night, the crowds gathered around the track and booed the circling poets.
One bumped into another. They started throwing punches.
My friends, there’s no avoiding the truth: Culture truly is dead.
The Balloon
There was once a balloon in Balloon Land who was unlike the others.
He was filled with mustard.
They all floated around and laughed at him.
So he rolled away, far away, until he reached the Kingdom of Hot Dogs.
Frightened, the balloon began to cry, and mustard dribbled on to a hot dog.
It made a pretty yellow squiggle.
Another hot dog saw this. “Put one on me!” it said.
All the hot dogs wanted squiggles, and eventually the balloon ran out of mustard.
“What good am I now?” it cried.
The hot dogs sacrificed it to their god.
I Am Cancer
I am cancer.
I will take your hair and drink your strength.
I will use your body as a battlefield, fighting you to the death.
I will hide behind you as doctors try to kill me, and you will suffer along with me.
I may take your skin as a trophy, rob you of your eyesight, and maybe take an arm or a leg if I feel like it.
I can take everything you have and everything you are.
Except one thing: those who love you.
I can never take them from you.
But I can take you from them.
Raise the flag
As a joke, the doctors trained one of the monkeys they had nursed back to health to raise the flag over their observation post at dawn and lower it at dusk.
That monkey taught the other monkeys to perform this trick, and pretty soon there were flags all over the research center, raised and lowered by monkeys.
When one of the scientists tried to lower the flag by himself, the monkey bit him.
That scientist is known as Patient Zero in the records.
Not that there’s anybody left to read the records.
The monkeys still raise and lower the flags.
Medical
It used to be that being a werewolf was a death sentence.
But thanks to modern medicine and sturdy cages, a werewolf can expect to live out as close-to-normal life as expected.
Insurance companies can no longer jack up premiums or dump these afflicted patients as “suffering from a pre-existing condition” or as an “act of God.” Thank you, President Obama!
And employers cannot discriminate against them as long as they don’t pose a danger to their coworkers. Clever and careful scheduling resolves any potential, deadly, and costly conflicts.
(Especially with the vampires we hired to supervise the night shift.)
The Predator
The predator lay in a growing pool of his own blood, flowing over the photos and newspaper clippings he’d taken to remember his crimes.
I’d shot him in the hands, the feet, the legs, the arms.
He begged for mercy as I reloaded my gun.
I ignored his pleas and the growing sound of sirens.
He then found some courage. “Who are you to judge me?” he growled, “You have blood on your hands too.”
And, so I did.
“But it’s your blood,” I said. “Hardly innocent.”
And then I shot him in the chest, again and again.
Click. Click.
How Cats Defeated Hitler
In an underground cafe in Berlin, sitting at a table with a bottle of something dark and crisp, an old man hobbles up to me and hands me a fluffy grey cat.
“Cats defeated Hitler,” he said, smiling.
And he walked back into the shadows.
I looked at the cat.
The cat looked at me.
And purred.
I wanted to get up and follow the old man and ask him what he meant, but the cat was so soft and furry, and the purring was so nice.
So, I just sat, drank my beer, and surrendered to the grey cat.
The Bully
The Bully watches the playground, grinning.
Kids are swinging on the swings, sliding down the slide, and they’re all having fun.
Nobody is fighting or crying.
He can’t remember the last time there was any trouble in this playground.
The other bullies are gone.
Back then, he had heard kids crying, and instead of bullying them, he bullied the bullies.
And won.
A girl runs up to him and puts a flower in his lap.
“Thank you,” she says.
The bully reaches for the flower with his good hand and smells it.
It’s wonderful.
Then he steers his wheelchair home.