Truth

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There are those who spout utter crap and claim it to be true fact. Left or right it does not matter just as it long as it causes the media to natter. There are those who spend their time trying to correct this rubbish day after day. The end facts do matter don’t they?
Whether its something minor or major about war or your odd neighbour. The facts are what matter because they are what is the truth. Lies beget lies and can lead to lots of bother. I hope that I am in the group that pursues the latter.

Dull As Sandpaper

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“Let me go,” said the blindfolded reporter.
He struggled with the straps, but it was to no avail. There was no way he was getting up from the chair.
A giggle. A snicker.
“Who are you?” he whined into the darkness.
“Dull as sandpaper, are we?” said a voice.
The reporter instantly recognized the voice. It was someone he’d interviewed a few weeks ago, but he decided to “sex up” his story a bit for the readers.
“I was just trying to-”
“Do unto others,” said the voice. “As they’ve done to you.”
That’s when he heard the belt sander.

Trevor

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Trevor began reading out the words before him; clearly and precisely. He worded it as it was meant to be read. The room began to vibrate and the air became musty. The flames grew higher and higher as they turned blood red. Trevor concentrated on the script for all he was worth. His concentration meant he didn’t see what rose from the altar. The tentacle rose to full length before it focused on Trevor. He didn’t notice when it wrapped round him and pulled him towards the altar. By the time he noticed it was too late; he was gone.

The Tory

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There once was a young Tory guy who wanted to be an MP. He worked very hard for the party, became a counsellor, went to all the right conferences and followed the party line. Then one day a bright young Tory leader came along and told our hero was no longer needed. You see he was born white, straight and male; all things bad in the modern Conservative Party. Of course this is not a tale of fantasy or fiction but ever so true. Count yourself lucky you are this poor soul. What a terrible waste of a young life.

The Ghost Ship

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We matched velocity and docked with the luxury liner.
The alarm went off as we suited up. Damn, those things are annoying.
Floating throughout the ship we found dozens of lifesacks. Must have been sudden atmospheric failure.
Every one contained a passenger or a crewman. All dead. No survivors.
Was this a bad batch of lifesacks? The hole stabbed in each suggested no. Each victim was frozen in horror.
Who’s the murderer? We checked manifest… all accounted for.
Did they finish everyone off, then themselves?
Whatever. That’s the Orbital Navy’s problem. We’re pirates.
We robbed the cargo hold and left.

You’re Not Kong

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The gigantic squid crawled through the streets of Manhattan, dragging a bored blonde beauty in one of its slimy tentacles.
“It just isn’t the same,” she said. “It’s nothing personal, it’s just me.”
The gigantic squid stopped and clacked its beak.
“I don’t have anything against squid in particular,” said the woman. “I admire your radial symmetry and your color-shifting skills. But it’s just that ever since I had that little fling with Kong, I just can’t see myself with anything different than a gigantic simian.”
She and the gigantic squid parted ways. They wrote for a while, then nothing.

The Adventures of Mustard Man – Chapter 18

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Why did I follow that star to Bethlehem?
I packed a sampler of the finest the Mustard Man Company has to offer, and the next thing I know I’m watching Jesus’ birth.
You say there’s only three Wise Men? Well, let’s see…
Gaspar brought gold. Not a bad present at all.
Bartholomew brought myrrh. Not sure why. That stuff stinks.
What’s-his-name brought frankincense. It stinks worse than the myrrh.
And then there’s me. I brought mustard.
I never did find the star back. So I crawled in a cave and slept 2,000 years.
What? I’m not in the book?
Crap.

The Wacky Adventures Of Abraham Lincoln 45

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Abe looked at the Santa Claus that had been hired for the Christmas Party and scowled.
“He’s drunk,” said the president. “And he can’t keep his hands off the ladies.”
“I’ll have him removed, sir,” said his bodyguard.
The bodyguard grabbed Santa, who protested loudly.
“I am not drunk and lewd! I am merely acting! I am an actor!”
“That’s nice,” said the bodyguard, dragging him out the front door.
Santa shook his fist at the White House. “John Wilkes Booth shall have his revenge!”
History tells us that he did. But not about the Santa gig.
Goddamned Carl Sandberg.

Housebroken

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Frosty the snowman told his wife Krystal that he didn’t want a dog.
Krystal insisted. “We need him for security,” she said.
“Dogs are messy things,” said Frosty. “And they make snow yellow.”
Frosty lost. They got the dog.
“Stupid dog,” mumbled Frosty.
Frosty tried to housebreak the thing, but it kept falling asleep in front of the fireplace and melting all over the carpet.
“Your dog wet the carpet again,” said Krystal.
“My dog?”
Frosty sighed, held up one of the dog’s coal eyes, and pointed it at the wet spot.
“Look what you did!” shouted Frosty. “Bad doggy!”

Spare Santas

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We watched the sleighs take off in the night, patted ourselves on the back, and headed back into the Workshop to enjoy our only night off before we’d have to plan for next year.
An hour later, one of the sleighs comes back.
Rocket’s got three bullets in his flank and Chancer’s hanging dead from the harness.
There’s a big black boot caught in a sleigh skid. I tugged it loose, and a few bloody toes fall out.
“Squad seventy-two,” I mumble.
Pacific Northwest. Trouble over Pocatello.
We warned the Santa, but they never listen.
That’s what spares are for.