Most people work out the crossword in pencil, but confident people work it out in ink.
Then there’s the crazy ones who do their crosswords in blood.
I’m not talking about scratching a nib against a mosquito bite.
No, these are the wackos who slash a wrist or a thigh to get their own blood.
Even though this tactic guarantees a free-flowing supply, it puts a rather draconian time limit on your puzzle.
Well, that, and you’ll stain the newspaper… and the table… and the carpet…
Speaking of which, what’s a 10-letter word for binding wounds?
Hurry… I’m blacking out.
Tag: tragedy
Reno
Johnny Cash once sang that he shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.
So, I stayed out of Reno. Even if he was on tour on the other side of the world.
Just couldn’t take a chance, you know.
Now that he’s dead, I go to Reno all the time.
I walk along the sidewalk, smiling wide, and laughing when someone tells me that acting like a greenhorn will get me shot.
“No way,” I say calmly. “Because Johnny Cash is dead.”
They draw their guns and scowl.
I hope they’re not related to him. Or clones.
The Sled
I grew up in a big family, and we didn’t have much.
All the kids had to share one sled. We carved our names into it.
Right over the curse.
That Winter, the year I had the broken leg, the other kids took turns going down the hill.
“Let’s all get on!” shouted Robbie.
I watched through the window as the sled veered out of control, and they ran straight into the old tire swing tree.
Broken necks, hypothermia, and frostbite got them all.
Except me. I was the last kid left.
My dad busted the sled up for firewood.
The Shooter
They said peace and love, and they offered me a flower.
I looked to Billy, who was standing behind the peacenik.
We do this a lot: I confront a stranger, Billy scouts behind them, and reports if they’re safe.
I can read lips.
“He’s holding a gun behind his back,” he said.
So, I shot the guy.
“WHAT THE FUCK!” shouted Billy. “I said he was holding nothing behind his back!”
“I thought you said ‘gun,'” I said. “Oops. Sorry.”
We dragged the stranger to the dumpster and threw him in.
I kept the flower.
“You need glasses,” said Billy.
What do you want to drink?
The stewardess asked me what I wanted to drink.
I said “The tears of every bully who picked on me in school.”
She checked her cart.
“We’re out of that sir. Care for some Pepsi? Or juice?”
“What about their blood? Do you have their blood?”
“Sorry, sir, but we don’t carry that either. Maybe you’d like a glass of milk?”
“Just don’t give him any booze,” growled the guy next to me.
Frankie?
Frankie Podhoertz.
Sitting next to me.
He used to beat me up for my lunch money every day.
“Just a straw,” I said. “A sharp straw.”
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.
Ted’s Toilet
My Uncle Ted invented a time-traveling toilet.
Shit makes it go forward in time, and piss makes it go back.
“Just sit down, do your business, and flush,” said Uncle Ted. “The plumbing takes care of the rest.”
“What if you do both?” I asked.
Uncle Ted smirked. “I’m not sure. Either the toilet will work out the math, or you’ll be ripped apart by a paradox wave.”
The next weekend, my girlfriend got sick on Jager-bombs and threw up in the toilet.
I haven’t seen her since.
Which really sucks, because it was her month to pay the rent.
Companion
Myst has lost a lot in her little life.
She lost her cat family when we took her away from them.
She lost Nardo when he died.
And Bruwyn when he never came home again.
Our hope was to get her a kitten that she’d bond with and make a companion.
That way, she’d have a cat to clean her ears, chase around to play with, and not be alone while my wife and I are at work.
Tinnie the kitten is supposed to be that companion.
Oh, she loves us. But she and Myst hiss at each other.
Shit.
The Actor
A famous actor died last night.
I said famous, not good. He really wasn’t that good, but nobody’s saying that.
Out of respect for the dead, they say.
Because the dead deserve more respect that the truth.
Okay, I will admit that it’s a tragedy, because he left some big shoes to fill.
Oh, they’ll get filled. Certainly by a better actor. It won’t be hard at all, really.
A better actor will move up the ladder, on and on, until some Hollywood waiter gets an opportunity to follow his dream.
There’s the tragedy: service here is slow enough already.