Tag: silly

The Witch Doctor

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I carried Bobby’s mangled corpse to the Witch Doctor, begging him to do something.
“Sure,” said the Witch Doctor. “Stand back.”
I stepped back and watched the Witch Doctor mix up various ingredients in a gigantic boiling pot.
He poured out the contents on the broken body and chanted some kind of magic spell.
An hour later, Bobby’s wounds were healed and broken bones were straightened.
Good as new. Almost.
“He’s not moving,” I said. “Is he alive?”
“Alive?” asked the Witch Doctor. “I’m sorry. I thought you were from the morticians’. You want this one alive? Man, you’re fucked.”

Buzzed

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Gene Krantz’s cigarette fell from his lips and bounced off of his console.
“What the fuck did Neil say?” he asked.
“Houston to Eagle, repeat,” said Mission Control.
“I’m King Of The Moon!” said Neil Armstrong. “Bow down to the King Of The Moon!”
“Maybe Buzz slipped him something?” asked a doctor.
The cameras showed the mad astronaut advancing on another with a probe. “I dub thee Sir Aldrin!”
“Back off, Neil!” shouted Buzz Aldrin, scampering back up the ladder.
“Cut the feed,” said Gene. “Thank God for the tape delays. We’ll just go with what we filmed last month.”

Soda Bomb

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I’m an idiot.
I bought a case of Coke Zero the other day. You know, something different than the usual iced tea and water and red wine.
So I put a can in the fridge and one in the freezer.
Which did I drink? The one in the fridge.
Later, I needed some more ice, so I opened the freezer and…
Coke Zero everywhere.
I work at a place that has this sign on the break room fridge: “Do not put soda cans in the freezer or they will explode.”
I think I need one of those signs at home.

Pillows

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After a while, a pillow soaks up so much sweat that you can’t wash it out.
It’s time to go pillow shopping.
Do you fill it with down? Cotton batting? Memory foam?
Here’s a suggestion: clouds.
I mean, you look up and you see them all over. And they look so soft and fluffy.
Why not clouds?
Go skydiving on a cloudy day and bring a big plastic bag. Then, as you’re falling, scoop the cloud into the bag.
Once you’re on the ground, pour the cloud into a pillowcase and sew it shut.
How comfy. How restful.
Sleep now.

Thumbs Up

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Alicia wasn’t just a thumb model, but she was the thumb model.
If you had a photo shoot that needed a close-up of the perfect thumb, you called Alicia.
Sure, it was her left thumb, but her left thumb reversed was better than any right thumb on the planet, too.
Ten years ago, it was insured for two million dollars, and on every billboard on every highway across America.
Then, she thumbed her nose at the whole shallow modeling industry.
Now, you’ll see it by the side of the road, hitching a ride just a little more down the way.

Lighter

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Howard spent a lot of money on his silver torch-style lighter, so he wasn’t about to give it up when he went through airport security.
“Can’t I just get it checked?” he asked the TSA agent. “I’m late for my damn flight.”
“It’s too late for that,” said the agent. “Please surrender the item and proceed through the detector.”
Howard argued with the agent for a minute, and it ended with “Well, if you’re so worried, how about the lighter I’ve got hidden up my ass?”
Howard took a later flight. He also asked for a blanket to sit on.

Egg Timers

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Two egg-timers sat across the negotiating table from each other.
One was an antique of iron, clear crystal, and sand.
The other was made from plastic, filled with a fine powdered silica.
Both were cracked and pitted, weary of endless war. But neither was yet willing to yield to the other.
Another arbiter was led into the room, and he sat down at the table.
“I’m sure we can find something in common,” said the arbiter. “You’re an egg-timer, and you’re one too.”
Five hours later, the arbiter left for a cigarette and never came back.
Just like the others.

Blood Donor

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Like clockwork, Harold went to the blood bank every sixty days.
At first, he kept a calendar. Big red circles, dutifully crossed off each time.
He’d been doing this for twenty years when one day the receptionist held up her hand.
“There’s a note on your file,” said the receptionist. “One moment please.”
Harold wondered what it was about…
Was it some kind of disease they found?
What is a horrible, incurable disease he’d gotten somehow?
Was it… was it…
The receptionist put a cap on Harold’s head.
“Happy twentieth anniversary!” everybody shouted.
Harold thanked them when he came to.

MVP

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What was that about there’s no such thing as bad publicity?
We bid six million dollars on the sponsorship rights for the official truck of baseball. For that, we got to hand the keys of a shiny new truck to the All-Star MVP.
He smiles nice and wide.
I swear, as God as my witness, we didn’t know that the guy didn’t know how to drive.
Five minutes later, we hear screams. He’s run over a kid in the parking lot and smashed the truck into a light pole.
No seatbelt, and the airbags failed.
He smiles, bloody and gap-toothed.

By The Barrel

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“Never pick a fight with someone who buys ink by the barrel,” slurred Mark Twain, staggering drunkenly in the street.
“Certainly, sir,” said the police officer. “But I think you’ve had too much to drink.”
“That’s because I buy wine by the barrel,” said Mark Twain, falling flat on his face in the dirt.
The officer dragged Twain back to the hotel lobby, and that’s when the newspaper office exploded.
“Great Scot!” shouted the cop.
“I also buy black powder by the barrel,” mumbled Twain. “That’ll teach the son of a bitch to be late paying me for my articles.”