Whenever someone says “You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours” I feel uncomfortable.
In order for us to scratch each others backs at the same time, we’ll need to get awfully close to each other, and facing each other.
We’ll look awfully silly that way, and not that I have anything against people of differing sexual preference, I’d rather not get a reputation for that behavior.
“We’re just scratching each others backs!” I say.
“Oh, sure you are,” you say, and wink.
Sure, we could take turns, but who goes first?
We toss a coin, and both call heads.
Tag: cliche
Why do birds
Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near?
This is a trick question, right?
It’s because you’re covered with bird seed.
How do you do it? How is it sticking to your body?
Is it some kind of spray-on adhesive? Caramel? Office Depot gluestick?
Either way, it’s really kind of weird.
When the birds pick the seed off, does it hurt?
And do you scrape it all off at the end of the day, or do you wash it off?
I’m just curious, that’s all. And I’m sick of gluing dog biscuits to my body to attract dogs.
Day
Jimmy’s a really annoying guy.
How annoying?
Well, he calls Thanksgiving “Turkey Day.”
And calls birthdays “Cake Days.”
And Easter ends up “Bunny Day.”
“Shouldn’t that be Candy Day or Basket Day?” I ask him.
“No, because people confuse that with Halloween.”
Which he doesn’t call “Candy Day” or “Basket Day.”
He calls Halloween “Pumpkin Day.”
When his mother died, I asked him if he called it “Casket Day.”
He looked me in absolute horror. “Oh my God no! How could you say such a thing?”
“I’m sorry for being so insensitive,” I said. “I guess you had her cremated.”
Not A Prophet
The press says that God talks to Jimmy, but that’s nonsense.
Jimmy can hear God talking, but he’s only overhearing what God is saying.
According to Jimmy, it’s a constant stream of mathematics. At first, Jimmy tried to copy it down, but he didn’t know mathematical notation.
Until the researchers taught him how.
Formula after formula, solution after solution. His notebooks contain tangled nightmares that Bertrand Russell and Einstein couldn’t have comprehended.
I watch him write, then erase what he wrote, write again.
Jimmy laughed. “God stutters.”
The lightning was quick; a charred desk and ashes were all that remained.
The Judges Demand
The fear holds me tight.
The judge demands an answer, but I have none.
I take the Swiss Army Tool from my pocket, flick out the sharpest blade, and draw it cross my left palm.
It doesn’t take long for enough blood to well up, and I quickly draw a circle around my feet.
“O Great Ancestors!” I shout. “Guide me through this moment of peril!”
The dust begins to swirl… the lights grow dark… a rumbling from the skies…
“DISQUALIFIED!” shouts the judge.
The dust settles, the lights come back up.
“Next contestant: Zymurgy.”
And they spell it right.
Success
She kept a suitcase packed and ready.
Success was right around the corner. She knew it was coming. It would knock on her door at any moment.
It never came.
Oh, sure… Success sent emails and left phone messages and mailed her a few postcards begging her to come out and see him.
Remember the floral arrangements? She was allergic to flowers, but not these. Success was very thoughtful and did the research and found these flowers for her.
And she still wouldn’t leave. Success had to come to her.
“It doesn’t work that way,” wrote Success. “Goodbye, my love.”
Three Strikes You’re Dead
I took you out to the ballgame and bought peanuts and Cracker Jack.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked. “You know what peanuts do to you.”
You didn’t even look up from your program. “I left the Epipen at home. I don’t care if I ever get back.”
So, I handed you the peanuts.
The announcer asked everyone to please rise for the national anthem, but I could tell from your blue skin and the foam at the corner of your mouth that the convulsions weren’t far off.
After the third, I felt your wrist. No pulse.
“PLAY BALL!”
The Lame Of Thrones
I hear a lot of hype regarding this Game Of Thrones television show, but I don’t have much interest in it.
I mean, how many games can you play with thrones, anyway?
The first one that comes to mind is Musical Thrones.
(It’s like Musical Chairs, but with thrones.)
I can’t see how much fun that would be.
I mean, the king sits in his throne, the queen sits in hers. They win.
And if anybody else tries to sit in their thrones, they get their head cut off.
If I want to watch people getting beheaded, I’ll watch Al-Jazeerah.
Irony Rocks
The arts and crafts store sells stones engraved with words:
Welcome
Hope
Love
They’re meant to be placed in gardens.
But I like to put them in a sack, wait until midnight, and hurl them through noisy and rude neighbors’ windows.
The house full of fratboys, cranking their speakers every goddamned night.
The paperboy who comes around every week trying to sell me a subscription that I don’t want.
The jerks who never mow their lawn.
The ones with the dog that shits in my yard.
And, of course, my own window.
(So they don’t think it’s me doing it.)
Fuss
It was another quiet day at the library, right?
Wrong.
An old couple burst in through the front door, fussing and arguing with each other loudly.
Then, the old woman grabbed the gigantic dictionary off of the reference desk, opened it to the last page, and RIPPPPPPPPPPPP! tore it out.
Sticking it in her purse, she repeated this with all the other dictionaries, and then stormed out of the building.
The old man stuck some cash into my hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Here’s some money for the damage.”
“Why?” I asked.
“She always insists on having the last word.”