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: sick
Boing
I wasn’t responsible enough for a dog or cat, let alone a pet rock.
“You’d throw it through a window,” said my mother. And then she’d tighten the straps and buckles on my harness.
As I sobbed, I noticed a glimmer on the wall.
A sunbeam reflected off of a buckle.
I named it “Boing.”
He followed me everywhere.
At night, I turned on the lights, and Boing danced on the walls.
Over the phone, the psychologist told my mother to bring me in.
Boing felt threatened, and he leapt into her eyes while she drove us to the hospital.
Contractor
The general watched the wall of his headquarters shake apart and collapse.
The contractor smiled and said “This will give us an opportunity to learn from our mistakes and rebuild better.”
He was the first to die.
A year later, investigators found the contractor criminally negligent, and they imposed a heavy fine on his company.
Which was already bankrupt and out of business.
The fine would have barely paid the cost of the investigation and prosecution. Or the burial and death benefits of the soldiers who died during the attack.
At least nobody survived. Medical costs would have been astronomical.
Vile
Ted’s smartphone was a cesspool of filth.
His browser’s bookmarks linked to the most hardcore and obscene sites on the Internet.
The music library was packed with rap that glorified gang violence, subjugation of women, and drug use.
And his collection of apps couldn’t be any more foul and putrid.
Ted was always on the lookout for more, so he fired up his smartphone’s genius feature to find new apps based on the rogue’s gallery occupying the memory chip.
The phone suggested one app.
So, he clicked the download button, and then opened it.
The app wiped the memory clean.
My Favorite Things
Sure, Maria sings that bright copper kettles are one of her favorite things, but she’s not the one who has to clean them.
I do. I’m the chef who works for the Von Trapp family.
I hate this job, but I’m a Jew. Captain Von Trapp says that if I don’t want to work for him, then I’m welcome to board the next train for the camps.
So, I stay. And cook. And clean those damn kettles until they’re bright and shiny.
If she and those kids don’t shut the hell up, I’m going to poison the next apple strudel.
The Shinbone
I know a man who had his leg amputated because of bone cancer.
The shinbone was a wreck from all the awful chemotherapy, but the other bone… the fibia? Fibula?
Whatever you call it, it was just fine.
So he had it hollowed out and he made it into a flute.
On the Fourth Of July, he’d be at the head of the parade, hopping down the street and playing his bone-flute for the whole town to hear.
The town couldn’t help but stare at the guy.
And they booed. A lot.
Because he was a really lousy flute player.
ACHOO
ACHOO!
Thanks for thehandkerchief, man.
ACHOO!
Yeah, I’ve got allergies. Really bad allergies.
ACHOO!
No, it’s not seasonal. It’s year-round.
ACHOO!
Usually, I have Kleenex handy, but I totally forgot it.
ACHOO!
I must have left my packet in my other coat.
ACHOO!
What am I allergic to?
ACHOO!
You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
ACHOO!
Okay, you asked.
ACHOO!
I’m allergic to bullshit.
ACHOO!
Seriously, I’m allergic to bullshit.
ACHOO!
Worst thing about it is that it’s EVERYWHERE!
ACHOO!
Can’t get away from it.
ACHOO!
Oh, you don’t mind if I keep this handkerchief?
ACHOO!
Uh-huh. Right.
Bad Spelling
Most school kids participate in spelling bees.
My school? It had a spelling hornet. It was much nastier than a spelling bee.
But the private school in the area was even worse. They had a spelling wasp. Some kids ended up in the hospital after that.
All throughout the county, kids had angry red welts on their skin. Allergy medication was scarce, and the schoolyard drug dealers pushed epipens instead of ex or weed.
The state board of education intervened, and standardized all schools on spelling spiders.
Why spiders? Well, why bees? Charlotte was a spider, not a bee, right?
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.
Acting Crazy
Small. Thin.
Forget Captain of the Football Team, I was King of the Drama Club.
I had the lead in every production.
Tom Thumb.
Hamlet.
Peter Pan.
The spotlight was mine… MINE!
Until… puberty.
I got tall, clumsy, and… other things.
This year, instead of Peter, I’m “a” pirate.
Not even Captain Hook? OUTRAGEOUS!
That little shrimp, Marty Finkelstein, stole my role and my Tinkerbell, Cindy Van Hooten!
You know when Tinkerbell saves Peter by drinking poison?
Clap all you want. She’s not getting up.
And this isn’t a rubber sword.
Meet me and your doom at center stage, Peter.