He started as a software programmer, making cool games that sold millions of copies.
Now, as the CEO of his own software company, he was all about the bottom line.
Which was bottoming out.
“MAKE ME THE NEXT KILLER APP!” he shouted at his programmers.
So, the programmers worked up code that linked a phone’s motion sensors, GPS, and traffic data.
Whenever the driver of a car was in heavy traffic and going very fast, the phone would make a horribly distracting noise that would cause the driver to crash.
They installed it on the CEO’s phone.
Without telling him.
Tag: horror
Marshmallow Town
Marshmallow Town is under martial law.
Campers with sticks, graham crackers, and chocolate bars are roaming the streets, abducting Marshmallowites and dragging them back to their campfires.
To impale them.
To hold them over the fire.
To stick them between the crackers with the chocolate and…
OH MY GOD! THE MARSHMALLOWITY!
Sadly, marshmallows can’t fight back, so they’re hired a brute squad from Butterville.
The butter brutes patrol the streets, looking for campers with sticks.
“Your sticks are no match for our unsaturated fats!” shout the butter brutes.
So the campers pull out their knives and warm them with lighters…
The Invasion
After the invasion, we spent trillions of dollars rebuilding the infrastructure we’d bombed and destroyed, sacrificing thousands of soldiers fighting the insurgents thwarting those rebuilding efforts.
Despite the unpopularity and the massive expense of the project, the politicians ordered the military and the contractors to continue.
Then, one day, a builder took off his hard hat, looked around at the beautifully-paved streets and newly-painted shopping malls and schools and houses and hospitals, and he said “It looks like we’re done.”
A security contractor nodded his head, and then said: “Nice place. But quiet. Is anybody left alive to enjoy it?
The Pitcher
Pablo Picasso’s last words were “Drink to me!”
But his caretakers misheard him, and thought he’d said “Drink me!”
So, they put him in the bathtub, chopped him into pieces, and ran him through the blender, toasting their friend Picasso with every bloody glass of the liquefied artist.
His bones posed a serious problem, since they were too difficult for the kitchen blender to pulverize, no matter how small they cut them up with the woodshed axe.
One of them suggested melting them with acid.
“How are we going to drink the acid?”
They tried anyway.
(Nobody drank to them.)
The Magic Bell
Every street-corner Santa has a magical pot and a magical bell.
The pot is a gateway to another dimension full of evil and demons that can only be blocked with a large volume of money.
The bell is used for driving off any evil beings that manage to make it through the pile of money and into our world.
Demons can’t stand the sound of bells. Hurts their ears.
What? It hurts your ears, too?
Maybe… you’re a demon!
Santa! Santa! I caught one!
Help me stuff this guy into your pot to send him back to his evil dimension!
Kate
Remember that supermodel Kate Moss? Yeah the really thin chick. Really thin. Scary thin. She could put on a bikini and double her weight. yeah, that’s her. You could see the bones in her hips… her arms, really unattractive, yet, she was a model.
Well, she got bitten by a zombie… kept groaning brains, and all, but when it got right down to it, after all the biting and attacking and stuff, she didn’t really eat any brains. Oh, sure, she’d moan braaaaaaains along with the rest of the pack, she ended up just pushing them round on her plate.”
The Woodwork
I was told that when I was finished my novel, publishers would be coming out of the woodwork.
I dreamed of publishers, crawling out of the walls… my dresser… the floorboards, reaching for me through the darkness…
I’d wake up screaming, thrashing about.
That’s how the accident happened.
My wife tried to wake me up, and I knocked her down, head hitting the lamp…
The trial was a circus, and I ended up with a 20 year sentence.
I finished my novel in prison.
Publishers aren’t coming out of the woodwork for it.
Good. At least I can sleep now.
Anyone For Tennis?
If you were to remove the lungs from an average human and spread them completely out, they’d have the surface area of a tennis court.
It would also get you disqualified from your match. It’s considered bad form to rip out your opponent’s lungs and spread them across the court. Although Andre Agassi coked up enough to do it, some say. And John McEnroe made people think he’d do that to a referee or two.
Then again, seeing how fierce Wimbledon is about playing on grass, I’m sure they’d change to lung-surfaced courts before they’d ever consider clay or concrete.
The Tree
I suppose we should go over a few things.
We’ve been fighting over that tree for too long. We need to settle this before it gets out of hand.
First, you said it’s on my side of the property line, so I have to take care of it.
But you took all the fruit from it.
Then, during the storm, I’m supposed to pay for that branch that fell on your house.
So, I cut it down. But you sued me?
That’s why I made a coffin from the wood.
Now sign this release, or I’ll bury you in it.
i Vacuum
I bought one of those robotic vacuum cleaners.
Cool device, but it ran out of power before it finished vacuuming my floor. Way too many repeated routes running down the battery.
I thought about putting a bigger battery in it.
Nah. Not elegant.
I popped open the case, hooked it to my computer, and hacked the route programming.
It compiled, rebooted, and sat there.
And then vanished.
Scratching my head, I looked back over my program and checked my math.
The italic “I” was in red.
Imaginary numbers. Non-existent hyperspace.
Oops.
I called Support.
It’s not covered by the warranty.