It doesn’t take long to make a fresh pitcher of iced tea.
I strip 8 teabags from their packages, drop them into a pitcher, and then put a kettle of water on the stove.
Turning the dial to High, I walk into the living room and sit for a while.
I guess this is the superstitious part of me, not watching a pot because a watched pot never boils.
I wait 5 minutes… 10 minutes… 15 minutes…
No whistle yet?
I go back into the kitchen.
Great. I turned on the wrong burner.
I guess those pots don’t boil either.
Tag: cliche
Boiling Point
An old saying goes that to boil a frog, you need to put the frog in the pot and then turn the heat up slowly. Otherwise, the frog will feel the boiling water and leap out.
This is stupid.
Whenever I boil a frog, I throw it in the pot of boiling water with one hand and slam the lid down with the other hand.
Or, I’ll whack the frog against the countertop to stun it before throwing it into the pot.
If those two methods don’t work, I’ll just play my Titanic DVD so it will jump in willingly.
Life Coach
Years of therapy didn’t help.
Mountains of pills didn’t help.
Shelves full of self-help books didn’t help.
If anything, my life’s gotten more confusing and out of control.
So, I hired a life coach.
For three weeks, he followed me around and took notes.
Then, he called me into his office and said:
“I’m benching you.”
Another guy got up from a chair, patted me on the shoulder, and said “No hard feelings?”
Since then, I’ve been sitting here and watching him live my life.
And you know what?
He’s doing just great! I should have done this years ago!
Toot
I’ve often been accused of tooting my own horn too much.
This is an outrage!
Unlike others, who do it out in public, I have the decency to reserve a rehearsal room for my tooting sessions.
The more I practice, the better I get.
Or, are they accusing me of not letting others toot my horn?
Why would I let them do that? I paid for it, It’s mine. Mine!
And just the thought of your lips on my mouthpiece. Ewwwwww! Grosssss!
Toot your own damn horn! Leave mine alone!
Now I have to boil the damn thing, you bastards!
Flower Shop
The whole town loves Evelyn’s flower shop.
It’s a nice store, right there on Main Street.
The awning needs a bit of work. And the paint’s faded on the glass on the door.
She keeps saying she’ll touch it up, but she never does.
The flowers are pretty. She grows them herself in greenhouses behind her house, right outside of town.
There, she plants the seeds, keeps the plants fed and watered.
She cuts her finger, sings the magic spell, and rubs the blood on silver shears.
Snip.
Snip.
And we all love her shop just a little bit more.
The Killer Pool
Every week, I have to fish a dead neighborhood kid out of the pool.
No, they don’t drown in it. The coroner’s made that perfectly clear after every autopsy.
No water in the lungs.
And the fact the children have had their throats cut.
The blood. I don’t know if that gets taken care of by the chemicals and the filter. And I don’t care… I drain the pool, scrub it down, and replace the water.
The water bill is killing me.
One more, and I’m just going to fill the thing in with dirt and raise a vegetable garden.
Bob Dylan
Bob Dylan is an asshole.
Heaven doesn’t have a door to knock on.
It has gates. St. Peter stands at the Gates Of Heaven with a book, and the dead line up to find out if they get in.
You don’t have to bang on the gates, because St. Peter is always out there, waiting for the recently-deceased.
Well, not really waiting, since people are constantly dying and joining the line.
Does he ever get a break? And how does he get updates in that book?
After lying to us for decades, Bob Dylan sure as hell isn’t in it.
Nothing is off the table
My boss, the President, says that nothing is off the table.
Nothing’s fallen off of it, either. It’s a very sturdy table. Unlike most tables, which have a bit of wobble in them due to uneven legs or a warp in the floorboards.
Sometimes, he puts beverages on the table. I make sure there’s plenty of coasters for them.
You know, because coasters count, too. Nothing’s off of the table, remember?
Oh, and dust. Lots of dust on that table. Dust isn’t nothing, either.
I just know it’s not easy to dust when you can’t take anything off the table.
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
Whenever I need to get away, I pack a bag and head up to my dad’s old cabin in the woods.
For years, I’ve been doing this, chopping wood to feed into the stove, watching the snow fall, and reading by candlelight.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said to his framed photograph.
It was hanging a bit askew, so I straightened it.
Something fell from behind it.
A letter:
“Dear Son,
This cabin actually belonged to my brother Tom. He’s buried under the floor.
Love,
Dad”
So, I thanked my Uncle Tom, tossed another log on the fire, and made some coffee.
Bloomberg
The elevator groaned under the weight of the morbidly obese passengers inside.
*BING*
The doors opened, and the mayor, pinned to the wall, squeezed his way out into the hallway.
He sighed, dashed out a quick note, and headed to the press room.
Dozens of fat reporters, tossing questions at him.
“SHUT UP!” he shouted. “SHUT THE HELL UP!”
Everyone went silent.
“AS OF NOW, NO MORE SUPER SIZED SUGAR BEVERAGES! SMALLER PORTION SIZES IN RESTAURANTS! WE’RE GONNA GET FUCKIN’ HEALTHY!”
The mayor’s decree took effect, and people just got fatter.
Because they order two of the smaller portions now.