Category: Elisson

I saw Mr. Wilson through the window screen
Noticed he was looking just a little bit green
And moldy ’round the edges. Then I started to freak
When I remembered that he had croaked last week.
Well, you know them zombies gotta eat dem brains
It’s the Standard Zombie Diet, in snow, sun or rain
Don’t go for no Grape-Nuts, no yogurt or pie
Just wanna eat your brains and make you die
O Zombies, keep the hell away
O Zombies, keep the hell away from me
I’m hiding in my zombie-proof basement
With my computer and my color TV

Eraj the Iranian was fussy.
He was fussy about his Farsi.
He liked Fanta, because it was fizzy…but it made him fat.
He shaved but rarely; his face was fuzzy.
He feared flatulence, but he was fated to fart.
He preferred Persian sausages, for they were Farsi forcemeat.
He had exceptional vision; he was a far-seeing Farsi.
He was a man who tilled the soil; he was a Farsi farmer who favored fava beans.
He had few faults, favoring facts over opinions.
Eraj, the fat, fussy, fizzy, fuzzy, flatulent, far-seeing Farsi farmer who favored favas, was a fine friend.
Finis.

Jackson discovered, quite by accident, that if he ate nothing but spinach for a day, his poop would be green the next day.
Experimentation showed that a diet of beets resulted in dark red excrement.
Rice with plenty of turmeric ended up as yellow feces.
Carrots – lots of ’em – generated loaves with an orange cast.
He was ready.
He ate the biggest meal of his life, one food at a time, sequentially. Then he took a handful of Doxidans and stood naked over the huge blank canvas, waiting patiently.
In just a moment, thought Jackson Poolock, Art Happens.

He was the best salesman north of the Arctic Circle, they said, and they were right. Yukon Will was his name, and he could sell anything to anybody.
When Seward bought Alaska from Russia, it was his great-grandpa that closed the deal. Will inherited the family talent.
He made a comfortable living for years, selling refrigeration equipment to the Inuit. Yep: iceboxes to Eskimos. But they loved him for it.
When he died, they carved his image on the base of a wooden pillar. “Who’s that?” people ask, and I answer:
That’s Willy – Lo Man on the totem pole.

A rabbit hopped into a bakery.
“Ya got any carrot cake?” asked the rabbit.
“Sorry, no,” said the baker.
The next day, the rabbit came back.
“Ya got any carrot cake?” asked the rabbit.
“Sorry, no,” said the baker.
This went on for days. The baker began to feel bad for the rabbit, and so he decided to bake a carrot cake – cream cheese icing, the works.
The next day, the rabbit came back. “Ya got any carrot cake?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do!” said the baker with a smile.
“Tastes like shit, doesn’t it?”

Chef Jean Boudreaux was eager to be a part of the renaissance of New Orleans, and so he decided to open a restaurant in the French Quarter. But surprisingly, he opened a Chinese restaurant.
Precisely because it was such an unexpected choice of cuisine for its location, “Le Vieux Sécret Chinois” was a smashing success.
Another reason for its success: Chef Boudreaux’s legendary sangfroid. Nothing bothered him.
One time, some dumplings caught fire in the kitchen after having been left in the wok too long. Responding to the excited sous-chef’s shouts, Boudreaux was unflappable.
“Laissez les Won-Tons brûler,” he said.

The little white truck rolled slowly through the suburban neighborhood, its arrival heralded by the intermittent jingling of bells.
Excited customers poured from the houses, clutching shiny quarters. They queued up, jostling each other for position. The truck halted; the driver hopped out, looking jaunty in his starched white shirt. The chrome-plated money changer on his belt caught the sun.
Jimmy was first in line. “Gimme a tube of Astro-Glide, please.”
Mary was next. “I’ll take the Warming K-Y.”
The Lubes-On-Wheels driver smiled. Nothing put his customers in a Good Humor quite like the arrival of the Vice Cream Truck.

Manny had worked at the Pickle Factory since he was a teenager.
As the years passed, he developed a sick obsession. Day after day, a single thought pounded inside his head: He wanted to stick his dick into the pickle slicer.
Too bashful to discuss his obsession with his wife, he sought psychiatric help. But the drugs the headshrinker prescribed were powerful, filling Manny’s head with an unpleasant metallic buzzing. He stopped taking them.
Eventually, Manny yielded to his impulses.
His supervisor caught him in the act. Horrified, he fired Manny on the spot.
He fired the pickle slicer, too.

Today is June 6, 2006, which may be variously rendered as 06/06/06 or 666.
Believers in the literal truth of the Book of Revelations are collectively Shitting a Peach Pit, for 666 is the Number of the Beast. Whereas, 36D is the Number of the Breast.
It is the birthday of Auntie Christ…and Uncle Christ will be in a world of pain, for he forgot to buy Auntie a present.
And it’s the area code for Arkham, Massachusetts.
I will observe the day by coloring in my Coloring Book Out Of Space. There’s a lovely picture of Cthulhu in there.

The world looks different when you have eyes on the side of your head.
That was the first thing I noticed. That, and my craving acorns.
The last thing I remember about my old life was the ground coming up at us. Fast. Those damned passengers – why couldn’t they have just accepted the inevitable? Instead, it’s “Let’s roll” and we end up in a Pennsylvania field. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
I really thought there would be seventy-two virgins waiting for me. Yeah, sure: all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
Guess the Hindus were on the right track after all.