Tag: quote

Axe Murderer

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The judge banged his gavel and called the court to order.
“Fred Axemurderer, you are charged with two counts of first degree murder. How do you plead?”
A blood-soaked figure in torn overalls and a hockey mask stood up.
“Well, let’s see,” he said. “You have my axe over there. Next to it, videotapes of the murders. Beside that, my signed confession. What more do you want?”
All the while, Fred’s attorney was shouting “HE PLEADS NOT GUILTY BY REASON OF INSANITY!”
You see, only a crazy man would give up the massive revenue potential of a sequel. Or two.

Yorick

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The old jester imagined that he would be telling jokes in court to laughing royalty, screwing maids in the barn, and dining on the best of what the castle’s kitchen had to offer.
Instead, he had a mouth full of mud and his back ached from the weight of the young prince.
“Horsey!’ shouted Hamlet.
Yorick groaned with each kick to his ribs.
At first, it was a delight. But with each passing week of being a plaything, Yorick grew weary.
Yorick never did get the laughter, maids, or feasts.
He died a broken man, a feast for the worms.

Back In The Day

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Back in the day, Batman would be all over Gotham City, battling villains, busting crooked capers, and solving crimes.
Then, one day, instead of coming up with an elaborate way to kill Batman that he could escape from, The Joker stabbed him in the heart with a knife.
After that, all the fun of being a bad guy just went away. They had nobody to match wits against anymore.
Most retired. But others, well…
Sad, really, watching The Riddler going around, taunting passers-by with “What have I got in my pockets?”
Oh well. Fun while it lasted, right, Mr. Kent?

The Windup Cupcake

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She knew I was coming, so she baked me a cake.
She’s baking me a windup cupcake, my favorite kind of cupcake.
Watchmaker and confectionist, lover and friend.
It’s in the oven, baking.
Can you smell it?
It’s good.
If you listen closely, you can hear the ticking of the gears, counting down the time.
It’s its own timer, it’s own oven timer.
When it goes off, it’s ready.
And then, light the candle, and make a wish.
Know what my wish is?
That I just lick the frosting, and I don’t break my teeth on this lovely windup cupcake.

Wild West Bar

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If you ever find yourself in a wild west bar, the last thing you want to ask the piano player for is Madonna’s “Borderline.”
Sure, her baby is pushing her love over the borderline, but there’s no need to start a fight over it.
People have gotten killed for less.
No, it’s better to stick to the newer stuff, like Vogue or… or…
Okay, all she’s doing now is lame Karaoke-style covers of classics while dancing in her underwear.
No, that shouldn’t be a cue to dance in your underwear in the wild west bar singing Madonna tunes.
As if!

Drummer Boy

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I played my drum for him.
I played my best for him.
Did he like it? Did he smile?
No. He cried! He cried like a shrieking pig!
Why the hell was I playing a drum for a kid in a barn, surrounded by goats and camels and rats?
You don’t play drums for babies… you shake rattles. You pluck strings. Or play a flute.
You make goo goo noises in their faces until they clap and laugh and smile.
Stupid baby.
Probably won’t survive the night, anyway.
Hey, nobody’s watching the gold that old fart brought.
It’s mine! Sweet!

The Landscape Of Dorian Grey

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As we back across Dorian’s perfect lawn, like a plush green carpet, we stop to admire its beauty.
The eternally young monster lay in a pile of dust in his foyer, shown his accursed painting, but outside in the fresh air… the grass… the grass…
“It’s always looked… perfect,” I said. “Too perfect.”
We head back inside, looking for a painting of landscaping.
What depiction of brown, wretched, barren grounds awaits us?
Instead, we come across a painting of a puddle of water, lumps of coal, a rotten carrot.
Well, I guess that explains Dorian making a snowman in July.

The Hamburger

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Condiments slipping, sliding from a sesame seed bun, flowing down a white shirt like a tidal wave, staining pants with yellow and red.
Brion Gysin was eating a hamburger in a manner no mortal man had eaten a sandwich of any kind, and the consumption of said hamburger was an experience I had the pleasure of witnessing in its entirety.
Like an Aztec war bib, that shirt became, a river of color.
It was no less than religious epiphany, a communion that I daresay has not been repeated since, not even by Jack Kerouac and his legendary overstuffed Chicago-style frankfurters.

Making A War

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There’s always that one person at a party, off in the corner, all by themselves.
Fred was holding the string to a red balloon, mumbling “All I need are ninety-eight more and I can start a nuclear war.”
So, we gathered up all the red balloons, but still came up short.
The party store was closed. We couldn’t buy more.
“Maybe if we paint the other ones red? I said.
But nobody had red paint, and the paint store was closed, too.
The next morning, I was drinking my coffee, when I heard the sirens.
Should have gotten a pinata.

Hand Of Revenge

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A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, the old saying goes.
In the silvery moonlight, a severed hand crawls its way through the forest.
It’s been crawling for a while, because it’s all tangled up in vines and dead leaves. Completely covered in dirt.
Don’t ask how it performs this hideous task. To learn of the magic spells that impel this hand is to earn oneself eternal damnation.
Just stay back, let the hand pass, and know that whomever it is seeking will suffer great pain.
But not as much as the one-handed wretch who sent it out, seeking revenge.