Category: Elisson

Sometimes, after dinner,
I crave a Berliner –
That noble and perfect dessert.
But a gluttonous sinner
Will bite his Berliner,
An act that may cause it to squirt –
Take a napkin and pin ‘er
Between your Berliner
And you. It will keep off the dirt.
Then enjoy your Berliner
(It won’t make you thinner –
Your diet it’s likely to hurt.)
You might want your Berliner
Washed down with some gin, or
Some human breast milk – you pervert!
I feel like a winner
When I eat my Berliner
Without getting jam on my shirt.
After dinner? Berliner!

There’s a Chassidic guy
With a patch on his eye
And a wad of gum to chew
You’ll forget your troubles
When you see kosher bubbles
They call him Bazooka Jew.
Oh, he’s used to stares
When he’s saying his prayers
‘N’ blowin’ bubbles, too –
Working his jaw
Like a mother-in-law,
My buddy, Bazooka Jew.
The rabbi said “It’s pretty weird –
But the gum doesn’t stick to his beard!”
He might be in Dallas
A-schleppin’ his tallis,
Or Fort Worth – or Timbuktu.
And now and again,
When I hear “Pop – amen!”
I know it’s Bazooka Jew.

Manny gripped one end of the elastic between his teeth and pulled. When the vein in the crook of his left arm looked just right, he stabbed the spike in. Pressing the plunger home, he sighed with pleasure. Aaaaahhhh.
Suddenly, “Pomp and Circumstance” blared. Rough hands lifted him, propelling him across a hastily-erected stage. A rolled-up piece of paper was thrust into his hands. After a quick handshake from a black-robed dignitary, he was booted off the platform, landing in a refuse can.
He unfurled the paper. Who knew that graduating from marijuana to hard drugs would be so formal?

Bradley sat back, Mai-Tai in his hand, looking out at the ocean seventy yards from his deck. He smiled.
He had purchased the beach house just a month ago. He hadn’t been sure if he’d be able to swing it, but then this listing popped up. Prime oceanfront, it was a steal at twice the price.
Low in the sky, a mottled gibbous moon hung, making the water sparkle.
A low moaning sound made his head snap around. An army of many-tentacled horrors was shambling up the beach. They held out their scabrous, pitted palps towards him.
Yeah. Some steal.

Miguel Cortez was born on Cinco de Mayo, 1955 at 5:55 a.m., the fifth son of a fifth son.
On his fifth birthday, his mother hit the Loteria and won 55,000 pesos.
Time passed; Miguel grew to be a handsome young man. He married a girl from his hometown, and in time they had five children.
On his 55th birthday, Miguel – now a successful American citizen living in New York (in a luxury apartment at 55th and Fifth) took $5,000 to Pimlico and put it all on the fifth horse running in the fifth race.
The nag came in fifth.

Philbert Philpott poked at the paleolithic midden heap with his polished pick. Perhaps, he thought, there’ll be something interesting in this dusty stratum of detritus.
Philbert occupied an exalted position on the University staff. He would travel to the digs with the other professors of Antiquities and write his scholarly articles; but unlike that of the others, his work was filled with sarcasm and invective. Surprisingly, this made him popular.
He would rank on the Rosetta stone and lampoon the Lyceum. He pooped on Petra and said “Fie!” to Phoenicia.
Meet Philbert, chair of the Snarkyology Department at Mishegoss University.

Freedom. So many have given their lives to preserve it.
For some, freedom meant an end to slavery. For me, it meant being able to use stem cells – and a heap of grant money – to perfect replicant technology. Cloned humans.
Think of the possibilities! Replacement organs. Better: being able to answer the age-old question: What if?
I had to know. It was a bitch getting the DNA, but somehow I managed.
He comes out of the gel-tank tomorrow. Twelve weeks of deep-sleep hypnopaedia, and he’ll be ready for his stovepipe hat.
Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Abraham Linclone.

The Ark settled down on its resting place atop Mount Ararat as the floodwaters receded.
Noah threw open the doors. It had been an arduous journey, but he felt cleansed – cleansed down to his very soul. He smiled. Time to plant a vineyard and build a new world!
Three years later, a grumpy Noah sat around the fire after his thousandth postdeluvian meal of wine and fish.
“I sure miss all them critters, Lord. A steak once in a while would be nice.”
A heavenly Voice boomed, “Don’t blame Me, Noah. I quite clearly said ‘animals,’ not ‘enemas.'”
“Oopsie.”

“Kick their ass!
Plant ’em in the grass!
Hold that line!
Catch that pass!”
You couldn’t find a more unlikely football team than the Fighting Farmers of Lewisville.
As a Team Eponym, the Fighting Farmer is almost as ridiculous as the University of California (Santa Cruz) Banana Slugs. But these Farmers will make you laugh out of the other side of your face.
Fueled with Agrarian Animosity, they take to the field (the “Back Hundred”) and become veritable Tractors of Truculence. In contest after harrowing contest, they plow through their opponents, reaping a rich harvest of touchdowns.
Only in Texas.

Red was a man who believed in an orderly life.
Perhaps it was his military background, but for whatever reason, it was “a place for everything, and everything in its place.”
His gun cabinet was carefully arranged, weapons sorted by type and caliber. You could eat off the floor of his garage…provided you cleaned up afterwards.
And his butt-plugs? Meticulously shelved by size.
To those who questioned his orderly outlook, Red would always say, “There’s nothing wrong with being a little anal.”
To those who questioned his personal proclivities, Red would always say, “There’s nothing wrong with a little anal.”