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.
Tag: tragedy
Back in the high life
Warren was a musician. His fame had waned, but his loyal fans in every town would pack the small clubs he’d play in.
His last tour was an experimental solo project. He left his band back at home, and he went from club to club, just an amplifier and a microphone.
It was a hit with the fans, and so that’s all he did until the day he died.
Fans showed up at the club he was scheduled to play that night, his guitar and hat on a dimly-lit stage, a single spotlight.
And they still tour to this day.
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.
Stags Of The Star
Human Resources warned us: “Chris isn’t feeling well.”
Instead of his usual attire, Chris came into the office wearing a loincloth and feathered headdress, and he tapped my desk with a golden scepter.
“KNEEL BEFORE CHRISOCOATL!” he boomed.
I figured what the heck, so I kneeled.
“ARE YOU VENTURING TO THE STAGS OF THE STAR?”
Stags Of The Star? Stags…
Starbucks?
“I will journey forth and bring back plenty,” I said.
By the time I got back with everybody’s coffee order, he’d torn the heart out of the receptionist.
I took five bucks from her purse to cover her double-latte.
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.”
Where The Wild Things Aren’t
The night Max wore his wolf suit
And made mischief of one kind or another
His mother called him WILD THING!
And Max said “I’ll eat you up!”
While sending Max to his room
His mother had a stroke and collapsed
Max stood there, confused
He tried to wake up his mother
But she didn’t move at all
So, Max picked up the telephone
And called the emergency number.
They arrived a few minutes later
Put his mother on a stretcher
Covered her with a sheet
And took her away.
Child Services picked up Max
He never wore costumes again
Bashed Brains
Pro Football player Junior Seau killed himself today. He’d been having awful problems as a result of all the concussions he’d suffered by playing football for so many years.
Last year, Dave Duerson from the Superbowl-winning Chicago Bears put a bullet in his gut.
It’s a problem many players have been experiencing, and they want to raise awareness of the dangers of concussions, but some just can’t take the pain and the suffering, so they kill themselves.
It’s sad, but then when you bash yourself against other huge guys for twenty to thirty years, what the fuck do you expect?
The Toaster
Dad was cleaning the gutters when he slipped off the ladder, fell, and broke his neck.
After the funeral, Mom thought Dad’s soul was in the toaster.
“He never did like wheat bread,” she said, as the toast popped up burnt again.
“You have it on the bagel setting, Mom,” I said, but she ignored me.
She’d stay up late, talking to it.
And sometimes went to bed with it.
“I’ll just have cereal,” I told my mom, eyeing the toast and butter suspiciously.
I get the milk from the fridge, which is my Grandmother, and close the door gently.
The Voices In Sally’s Head
Sally hears voices in her head.
But instead of telling her to go wild, set fires and kill people, they tell her to go straight home and clean her room.
They even help her with her Chemistry homework.
“Boyle’s Law is pressure times volume equals a constant,” says a voice. “It’s Charles’ Law that involves temperature.”
Sally smiles, puts down the Chemistry book, and moves over to Physics.
Oh, sure… eventually they told her to burn down the school and kill her classmates.
Then they told her to go home and clean her room.
The cops didn’t find any evidence.
Blood Money Hostage
The kidnapper wanted to send a unique ransom note, so he sliced the message into the stomach of his hostage and pressed a sheet of paper against it.
He pulled the sheet off and…
Damn it. The words were backwards.
So, he flipped her over, and tried again on her back.
He still got a few letters reversed.
The third time, he tried to use her ass, but she was thrashing around a lot, making it hard to get a clean transfer.
Dipping a quill in the blood, he wrote the note by hand.
And she bled to death.
Oops.