Bubba and Billy Bob had never been to New York.
So when they won a Broadway Weekend in the church raffle, they were in for the shock of their lives.
The buildings… traffic… lights… noise…
And…
“That’s the alien who busted up my truck and anal probed me!” hissed Bubba.
“You sure?” whispered Billy Bob.
Bubba nodded, and the men followed the pale gangly figure down the street until they managed to catch and drag it off.
They’d never been to the movies, or heard of Tilda Swinton.
And she wouldn’t anal probe Bubba, no matter how much he begged.
Tag: sick
Little Bird
While walking home from the drug store, extra-strength laxatives in a bag, a bird shit on my head.
So, I pulled out my gun and flicked off the safeties.
But I didn’t shoot it.
Instead, I put the gun away and walked to the pet store.
I bought a bird.
When I got home, I thought about taking the laxatives and shitting on the bird.
Instead, I told the bird I love it for as long as it lived.
Which turned about to be five minutes.
My cats caught it and tore it to pieces.
Then I shat on it.
Funerals
A good friend of mine died last week.
Their relatives were contacted, flights booked, the funeral was set for 11 tomorrow.
Last night, my best friend died.
They were on their own for many years, mostly kept to themselves.
Except for me.
They wanted to be buried as quickly as possible, so the funeral home set them for 11 tomorrow, too.
On the other side of town.
Damn! Which do I go to?
I take a quarter out and flip it.
Heads.
And… I use it in a pay phone to make a bomb threat at one of the funerals.
Writing Cap
Sometimes, I get too busy to write during the day, and my notepad is blank.
So, as I’m stumbling off to bed, I put on my Writing Cap, drink a glass of Creative Juices, and go to sleep.
The Writing Cap is supposed to pick up my brainwaves, translate them into stories, and feed them to my cell phone via Bluetooth.
Instead, it irritates my scalp and makes my hair fall out quicker.
The Creative Juices cause gut-wrenchingly awful constipation.
I call that writer’s block in the worst possible way.
(At least it’s wireless. No more strangling on the cords.)
Cords
I have no sympathy for people who forget their laptop power cords.
I plan ahead, so I’ve got a spare cord at work, and one at home.
Plus, there’s one in my laptop bag, so I’m never without a power cord for my laptop.
Then, there’s the four cords I keep in this van.
Those are the ones I tied you up with after you whined about forgetting your power cord.
Scream all you want. It has soundproofed walls.
Sure, I could strangle you with the power cord in my laptop bag, but I prefer to use my bare hands.
The Fallen Rise Up
Veteran’s Day is for the living soldiers, and they march in parades.
Memorial Day is for the fallen ones, and we go to the cemeteries to put wreaths and flags on their graves.
This wasn’t enough for the witchdoctor, who poured a strange bubbling concoction into the fertilizer bin of the automatic sprinkler system at Arlington National Cemetery.
The timer went off at midnight, by the next morning, our nation’s finest and bravest were roaming the cemetery, shambling around and moaning “BRAAAAAAAAAAAAINS! BRAAAAAAAAAAAAINS!”
Except for Ted Kennedy’s corpse, who had commandeered a maintenance cart, and driven it into the Potomac.
Bloodmobile
The bloodmobile came by our office to collect blood.
“We’re running lower than normal this month,” said a volunteer.
Instead of laying down on the cots, we formed a mob and marched to the local blood bank.
“Oh crap!” shouted the staff there. “It’s a blood bank run!”
They barred the doors, took to the roof, and tried to drive us off by pelting us with bottles of orange juice and cookies.
But we’d come armed with trash can lids, and deflected the projectiles.
VROOM!
Oh no! I’d forgotten about the bloodmobile!
Bodies flew as it careened through our ranks.
Drugs Tomorrow
The more we learn about how the brain works, the better the drugs we’re making.
I’m not talking about curing mental illness or anxiety or brain tumors. I’m talking about the fun stuff.
Acid trips that never go bad.
Highs higher than the highest high.
Maybe it’ll be with pills. Or needles.
I’m betting on the direct route, using magnetic spin.
Quantum-level manipulation with room-temperature superconductors.
Put your head in the scanner, put your head in the cloud.
No more growing.
No more chemistry labs.
No more dealers.
No more gang wars.
Just make sure the outlet’s grounded this time.
Test Drive
One of the drawbacks to owning an electric car is that you can’t leave it running in a closed garage to suffocate yourself.
However, you can still drive it off of a cliff, assuming there’s any cliffs around. Or ram it into a tree without wearing a seat belt, assuming that you have a control or switch that will disable the airbags.
I’m not sure that you can drive it into a lake to drown. Does it float? I’m not sure. Perhaps you could add some cinderblocks to the trunk.
So, want to take it for a test drive now?
Alive!
After our daughter died, the neighbors came by to express their condolences.
And they brought a large number of covered dishes.
So many so, that I sketched up a few plans, converted the basement to an elaborate and functional mad scientist’s lab to bring all this tuna noodle casserole to life.
Sure enough, the moment my wife threw the switch, the noodle-creature rose up and moaned: “Mommy! Daddy!”
The neighbors heard about our experiment, and arrived at the door with torches and pitchforks.
“Please stop playing God,” they said. “And we want our Corningware back if you’re done with it.”