After every school massacre, the liberals blame the NRA and demand gun control.
And I polish up all the weapons in my basement and wait for the government to try to come and get them.
Yeah, I tell people that I use guns to hunt, but who the hell needs to vaporize Bambi with an automatic assault rifle?
Me. Especially if Bambi’s working for the government and trying to take my guns away from me.
Maybe if his mother carried an assault rifle to defend herself, Bambi wouldn’t have ended up an orphan and going around with that stupid bunny.
Tag: cliche
Itsy Bitsy
I’ve spent the last ten years trying to breed itsy and bitsy spiders together to make an itsy bitsy spider.
The problem is that itsy spiders don’t want to breed with bitsy ones, and bitsy spiders will have nothing to do with the itsy ones.
I’d use artificial insemination, but have you ever tried to artificially inseminate a spider?
You have?
Well, dang! You know how hard it is.
Imagine how hard it is when their bits are itsy!
Teeny-weeny… literally!
Once, I thought I had an itsy-bitsy spider, but down came the rain, and…
Well, you know the rest.
The Storymaker
I swore an oath to write a story every day until the day I die.
The Devil overheard me, and he offered me his hand.
And we shook on the deal.
I kept up my daily writing for a few years, but after a while I ran out of ideas.
“A deal’s a deal,” I said, and I went to sleep, not expecting to wake up.
“Don’t give up,” said The Devil. And he gave me a plane ticket to Paris. “Think you can write there?”
I nodded, and The Devil smiled.
“Good. It’s much nicer than Hell. Trust me.”
Ducks In A Row
My boss keeps telling me to get all my ducks in a row.
Have you ever tried to get ducks in a row?
It’s hard. Really hard.
Ducks like to wander around, foraging for things to eat.
They only get in a row if they’re running away from something.
So, I unplugged my keyboard and phone and banged them together to scare the ducks.
Sure enough, they ran down the hall in a row.
Along with everybody else’s ducks.
Pretty soon, the halls filled up with scared ducks running around.
My boss smiled, and then went back to herding cats.
Lost A Friend
When a friend dies, I never say I’ve lost a friend.
No, they’re still my friend. I just won’t hear from them quite as often as I used to.
And it’s even more unlikely that I’ll get back that five bucks they owed me.
As for friends you lose because they’re not your friends anymore, well, were they ever really your friend?
If that friendship was so weak that it took something less than death to end, then it wasn’t a true friendship.
So take my advice: if you want to keep your friends forever, kill them all right now.
Kill Bill
I know a couple who was so into Quentin Tarantino movies that they rented a small Texas church for their wedding and hired the actor who played the preacher in Kill Bill to officiate.
They tried to get Samuel L. Jackson to play organ, but he couldn’t actually play, and he didn’t want to work for scale.
The wedding was interrupted by armed actors playing assassins, and the church was awash in death.
Real blood. Real gore.
Someone got the blanks mixed up with real bullets.
The survivors tried to sue Quentin Tarantino, but the judge threw out the case.
The Bank Of Love
Let’s go to the Bank Of Love and open an account together.
Yes, there’s a penalty for early withdrawal. Over time, most people lose interest.
There are no truly safe deposit boxes. Every love is a risk. Take your chances.
I know a guy who tried to rob the Bank Of Love.
“Put all the love in the bag,” he commanded, pointing a gun at the teller.
The teller filled the bag with love, handed it to the guy, and he peeked inside of it…
Empty.
“Fill it again,” he said.
She did.
Empty again.
You just can’t steal love.
Tink
Tinkerbell flew around the dinner table of the Lost Boys, trailing her pixie dust and laughing.
But none of the boys raised their heads to laugh along. All just moaned and held their aching bellies.
Tinkerbell landed on the table and walked from boy to boy.
Red flushed faces.
Never-food vomiting.
Sunken eyes.
Bleeding sores.
Thinning hair.
Even her beloved Peter was looking haggard, unable to raise himself to crow.
One by one, the Lost Boys died of radiation sickness, not that Tinkerbell ever figured that out.
She flew away, trailing her sparkling deadly Radium trail… I mean pixie dust.
The Gift
Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gave it as a gift to Man.
“If that’s a gift, why isn’t it wrapped?” asked Man
“It’s fire,” said Prometheus. “It burns wrapping paper and other things.”
“Will it burn me?” asked Man.
“Yes,” said Prometheus. “I suppose I should put it on a stick.”
Prometheus quickly fashioned a torch and gave it to Man.
“That’s neat,” said Man and he ran off to play with his new fire.
The fact that Prometheus had stolen fire made it impossible for man to take it back and exchange it for a fancy-knit sweater.
Dawn
Her name is Dawn, but she rarely wakes up before noon.
She’s a bartender in the busiest club in Chicago.
When she’s not serving drinks and trying not to fall out of what passes for a blouse, she’s out cold in her bed.
Guys ask for her number, and she’s always giving it to them. Well, she gives them the number she had before it was disconnected.
She never takes a night off, so the bar doesn’t call her in.
One night, she stays up to watch the sunrise. “How beautiful,” she says, and then she goes to sleep.