Category: My stories

The Wacky Adventures of Abraham Lincoln #98

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Abe rubbed the back of his head and moaned.
“Stop that moaning!” said a deep voice.
Abe looked around. Clouds everywhere.
“Is this Heaven?” Abe asked.
“Of course, stupid,” said the voice. “Any other questions?”
“Why did you create so many common-looking people?” asked Abe.
The clouds parted, and God walked out. “See?”
Abe winced and looked away. “Ewwwwwwww!”
“Well, I made Man in My image, right?” said God.
“You’re right,” said Abe. “Sorry.”
“Anything else?” asked God.
Abe trembled. This was his chance to ask The Creator about the Meaning of Life.
“How did the play end?” he asked.

Monkey Fuckers

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You wake up in pain, reeking of sweat and stale bananas.
Another night, another monkey fucked.
This shit’s too sick for Oprah. She thought you were fucking guys in monkey suits or something.
This is the real deal. Oh you’ve tried. Lord knows you’ve tried, but there’s no special patch – only the real thing will do.
They bite and scratch, but that makes it more exciting. Gets you off harder than if they just sit there, screeching.
Curious about little Curious George, aren’t you?
Hold my hat. My yellow hat.
Let me show you how to really grind an organ.

Dr. Santa

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Every year, he puts on a Santa suit, visiting dying children in the hospital.
“There are healthy girls and boys without toys,” he’d sneer, holding up an unopened train set. “Are you planning on being buried with this one?”
He went from bed to bed, filling his sack and leaving a trail of screaming children.
The next morning, while on the way to work, he stopped by church.
“Bless you,” said Father John, gladly accepting the toys and games for the gift drive.
Dr. Walters smiled and got back in his car, off for another day of rounds in Pediatrics.

A Funeral On The Side Of A Cliff

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He spent half his time climbing cliffs and the other half looking for new cliffs to climb.
When his luck ran out, he insisted on being buried in the cliff that killed him.
So, we threw drop-lines over the edge, lowered ourselves to where the rope
snapped on a sharp rock, and dug a niche to stick his ashes in.
The priest was a rockhound from Utah, and he insisted on coming up from the base.
Crazy bastard. We’re all a bunch of crazy bastards, the biggest of all is in this
tin can – see you soon, Johnny, and amen.

Wandering Cat

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My cat likes to wander.
He heads out the door and makes a beeline for Miami.
Spring break.
Just one stop in Biloxi, Mississippi. He likes how they prepare catnip there.
I know this because I read his credit card statements every month.
He’s not good with finances. Gets in over his head if I don’t keep in on a short credit limit and allowance.
I flick the porch light on and off a few times.
He knows that means for him to get his furry butt back inside.
I hear a meow and he’s home, fumbling with his keys.

The Menorah

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“The sun’s almost down.”
“That’s nice. Where’s the cat?”
“He’s outside. It’s time to light the menorah.”
“Where’s the candles?”
“I’m using an oil menorah this year.”
“An oil menorah?”
“Yes. Uses olive oil. More authentic than candles.”
“What?”
“More authentic.”
“You’re gonna burn the fucking place down.”
“No I won’t.”
“Yes you will.”
“We’ve got a smoke detector this year.”
“Test it recently?”
“Um… no… errr…”
“Well, isn’t that a hoot?”
“You put the battery in the TV remote.”
“I did not.”
“Yes you did.”
“No I didn’t. I put it in the Blu-Ray remote.”
“What?”
“You’re a moron.”

The Wacky Adventures of Abraham Lincoln #97

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A crowd stood around the body of Lincoln, which was all the more crowded because of the small confines of the boarding house.
People were gathering up blood-souvenirs, anything the president had bled upon.
“He bled on the sheet!”
“He bled on the pillow!”
“He bled on the lantern!”
The room filled. The walls began to buckle. Elbows banged against the windowpane.
“Everyone out!” shouted the boarding house’s owner, shaking a fire-iron. “Now!”
All the people filed out of the room and on to the street.
Mary Todd looked around at the completely empty room.
“Where’s my husband?” she asked.

Silent Night

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Santa got stuck in my chimney.
He’s yelling for help.
I called the sheriff.
He told me to lay off the egg nog.
That’s how life goes in a small town sometimes.
It’s a nice place, though. Quiet and peaceful.
Until some old fat guy gets stuck in your chimney.
I turned on a flashlight and looked up.
Two black boots. Gigantic red ass.
“What am I getting this year?” I asked.
“A lump of coal if you don’t get me out of here,” he yelled.
Fuck him. Mr. Santa Fatty can wait.
I turned up my headphones.
Silent night.

Grooves

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Old man, asleep at the bar.
He’s never said a word in three years.
Nobody knows who he is or what his story is.
Let’s take him to the jukebox.
You can hear sounds of ancient times by running the needle along ridges in pottery.
It’s from when vibrations got embedded in them as they turned on the pottery wheel.
This old man’s got lots of wrinkles, so we put him in the jukebox.
He is instantly electrocuted.
When the smoke clears, we prop him back up at the bar.
To tell you the truth, he smells kinda better now.

The Trojans

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The plan is brilliant.
We are French, after all.
We shipped the statue in pieces for assembly in the harbor.
The torso of the statue was large enough to hold 500 soldiers. Our weapons are in the torch.
Vive la France, New Paris!
In the middle of the night, we are to crawl out the door and begin the invasion.
“Where’s the door?” I, the commander, asks.
We tapped out a message of surrender to a confused workcrew on the outside.
Ransom is such a dirty word. The diplomats will smooth it over with a gift of wine and cheese.