Category: My stories

Zombie Garden

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You think of this place as a cemetery, but I think of it as a zombie garden.
See this bottle?
Let’s just say that this potion is the zombie equivalent of Miracle Gro.
I just pour it over the grave, wave my hand around, chant for a few seconds, and I’ve got a brand new zombie.
Well, not exactly brand new. Depending how old the corpse is, there’s the problem of rot and decay.
There’s another problem with this garden. The fruits of my labor don’t grow out of the ground by themselves.
Speaking of which, pass me the shovel.

The Wacky Adventures of Abraham Lincoln 75

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A barrel-chested metallic man marched around the White House lawn, occasionally belching steam and smoke.
“What is this that thing?” asked Mary Todd.
“It’s a steam-powered mechanical man,” said Abraham Lincoln. “I built it to garrison forts, positions, stations, and other places.”
“So it can do everything a human soldier can do?” asked Mary Todd.
“Well, there are some limits to its abilities,” said Abe. “It certainly won’t replace those men you sleep with when I’m busy.”
Weeks later, Mary Todd walked into the White House, covered in oil and grease.
And smiling.
“I stand corrected,” said Abe. “You whore.”

Kotel

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When I told the congregation I was going to Jerusalem, they warned me about the Kotel.
“Try not to be shocked,” they said.
After weeks of travel, I was finally in the presence of the Holiest of Holies.
The only thing between me and it was an Arab market. Camels and horses, tied down to fixtures embedded the wall.
A merchant spits on the wall, walks back to his tent.
Elohim
My children will reclaim your Temple
Theodor
I slip it in a crack and pray.
Then I get out my briefcase and I begin to buy up the deeds.

A Swinging Bad Time

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You’ll have to forgive me for not replying to your email.
You see, I’ve got one of those laptops with a fingerprint reader.
The problem is, I cut my finger in the kitchen while chopping up lettuce for salad.
Now the laptop doesn’t know who I am.
There’s an option to use the password, but it’s been so long since I’ve used a password for my laptop, I can’t remember my password.
So I went to a hypnotist, and he swung a watch in front of my eyes for an hour.
But all I could recall was “A swinging watch.”

Hopping Mad

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After a year in the hospice, columnist Art Buchwald died and his spirit went to Heaven.
However, when he arrived, he still only had one leg.
“Where is my other leg?” asked Art.
“We’re not sure,” said Saint Peter. “We’ve checked the warehouses, but there’s a huge backlog in inventory. Plus, there’s a problem with routing issues these days.”
After a brief discussion, they gave Art a set of canes and told him to come back in six months.
Sure, Art had a set of wings like everyone else, but landings can be a real bitch with just one leg.

Brassy

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I sat down on my welcome mat and stared at the bizarre doorknob on my front door.
The old brass fixture had been replaced with the talking animated doorknob from Alice In Wonderland.
And it didn’t want to open.
I waved a key in front of its eyes.
“This is the key to my house,” I said. “Now open the door.”
“That key’s dirty!” said the doorknob. “Clean it first!”
“I’ve got nothing to clean it with,” I said. “Open wide.”
“I’ll bite your fingers off!” it threatened, snapping its teeth.
I really need to cut back on the acid.

The Wacky Adventures of Abraham Lincoln 74

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It was Bath Day, and the White House tub was full of warm sudsy water.
The problem was that Abraham Lincoln would be so busy doing his Presidential duties that he’d end up being the last to the tub.
The water was often quite foul by then, and sometimes a family member would accidentally break the tub.
So Abe finished his work, closed up his desk, and came upon a frightful scene.
“The bottom is out of the tub!” shouted Abe. “What shall I do?”
There was no answer.
So he stripped naked, went outside, and took a dust bath.

Phantom Pain

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As a kid, I compulsively bit my fingernails.
I chewed them ragged and bloody.
Nothing could get me to stop.
After years of suffering, I finally went to a hypnotist.
He convinced me that they weren’t there to bite.
It worked.
On the way home, I was walking through Sears when I noticed the Craftsman display.
I mounted a blade into a circular saw and plugged it in.
The first finger was the hardest to cut off.
The rest were much, much easier.
They call it phantom pain. I still feel them there.
But I don’t want to bite them.

The Big Hand Is On The Ten, The Little Hand Is On The Twelve, And The Slowhand Is On The Slab

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I clawed my way out of the yellow time-bubble and ran for the backstage.
“Stevie!” I yelled. “Don’t get on that goddamned chopper!”
His bodyguards put up a fight, but Stevie got curious and wanted to take a took at me.
Then he punched my lights out, because Clapton had gotten his seat.
I had meant to save them both, but I guess I blew it.
When the “local” Time Society bailed me out, I was given a warning.
And a commendation.
“At least there’s no more ‘No More Tears In Heaven,'” it said. “That song was damned annoying.”

Yankee Blonde

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Sally wasn’t just stupid, but dead-dumb solid-rock stupid.
She was also a blonde, so her smart friends tried an experiment.
You know the old joke where artificial intelligence is where you dye a blonde’s hair black?
Well, they tried it with Sally.
They made her take off her favorite ballcap, then she washed her hair and dyed it dark.
Sure enough, she wasn’t dumb anymore.
Not quite a genius, but certainly smarter than before.
When her hair was dry enough, she put her trusty New York Yankees cap back on.
And, sure enough, she was the same old moron again.