You know how in the movies, some guy gets in a cab, the cab driver says “Where to?” and the guy says “Just drive!” and the cab driver says “It’s your dime, pal.” and he pulls out into traffic and drives around?
Well, that happens to me all the time.
Every time.
For twenty years, I’ve driven a cab, and all I ever do is drive it in circles.
I offer to take people to bars or restaurants or hotels.
But all I ever get is “Just drive!”
I’m going to “just drive” right off of a bridge one day!
Tag: work
Descent
As I stood by the grave, there was a loud bang and the coffin’s descent halted.
The motorized winch had shorted out again.
We’ve been needing a new one for a while, but the boss is cheap.
And a drunk.
“Hand crank it,” I say to the crew, and head to the office.
“Motor blew again,” I say.
“Use the backup one,” he shouts, and he knocks over the empty bottle off of his desk. “Aw dammit.”
“This is the backup one,” I say, and, trembling, I smash in his skull with it.
No winch for him.
He’ll be cremated.
Roses Aren’t Red
I write greeting cards for a living.
Valentine’s Day is a way’s off, but it takes months to come up with new cards and get them printed in time.
Plus, stores are putting cards out earlier and earlier every year.
After sitting at my desk for a week, the best I could come up with was a heart in greyscale.
Inside the card:
Roses aren’t red.
And violets aren’t blue.
I’m colorblind, jerk.
If it gets rejected, I’ll just sell it to an online freebie greeting card company.
Sure, it’s cutting my own throat, but my art must be appreciated.
The Tip Of The Iceberg
For some reason, no matter what the circumstances, Jackson and I always end up arguing.
“This is just the tip of the iceberg!” shouted Jackson.
I ask him to show me the tip.
So, he pulls it out of his pocket.
I thought about my high school Physics: buoyancy and displacement will lift the rest of the iceberg up to replace the tip.
Then I thought of English classes: Hemingway said writing is like an iceberg: ten percent above the water while ninety percent below.
Finally, I thought of Jackson’s sister, the cheerleader.
Man, she’s hot!
I love these arguments.
Pie
Here at the Grandma Happy Pie Factory, we track our bottom line closely.
We don’t track our bottoms as closely, though, and a rash of broken chairs suggested that we were “testing” the product a little too much.
That, and the fact that the trucks left the factory a few dozen pies light every day.
Grandma called for a staff meeting.
The meeting room floor collapsed under our combined weight, and it took forklifts and cranes to pull our broken bodies out of the basement.
We take up an entire wing in the hospital… and they won’t feed us pie.
Bananas will protect you
Every morning, I grab a banana from the kitchen and head to work.
The banana is there to protect me.
From what?
I have no willpower. I cannot resist the breakfast shops along the way to work.
But the moment I catch the smell: donuts… kolaches… breakfast tacos…
I peel the banana and take a bite.
Instead of being tempted by the unhealthy fare, I eat my banana and make it into work.
As I toss the peel into the trash, I look up and see…
Someone brought in a box of donuts.
(That’s when I pull out my sledgehammer.)
Breaking hearts
She has a reputation for breaking hearts.
Which is why she got pulled off of the artificial heart assembly line and put in the product testing group.
“If you’re going to break these things, we’d rather you do it in a way that helps save lives, not kill people,” said the factory managers.
The curious thing is, when she breaks a heart, analysts look over the heart and can’t find the reason why it failed.
“She had such promise,” says a factory manager. “So much potential. It’s too painful to watch her fail like this.”
And another heart is broken.
Her Name Was Splack
Her name was Splack.
I don’t remember if that was her first or last name.
When you have a name like Splack, it doesn’t matter. You don’t remember it.
Even if she introduces herself as Jenny or Ismelda or writes it on her panties and raises her skirt to greet people, once you hear the Splack, that’s all you’ll ever know her by.
The weird thing was, she chose to go by that name.
So, I went down to Human Resources and looked up what her full name was.
Closing the file quickly, I decided Splack was fine with me.
The Captain
My title is Captain Of The Guard.
However, as I look at this week’s schedule, it’s meaningless.
Jacques and Fergusen are in training. They need to work on marching.
Oswaldo’s attending the Guard Convention, checking out new halberds.
Benoit called in sick, but he’s faking it. Didn’t schedule time off again. King doesn’t like rollover days.
Everyone’s out… except for me.
Not to worry: The same end-of-the-year staffing issues are affecting our enemy, too.
A lone attacker appears, yelling CHARGE!
I laugh, inviting him to sit down.
We shake hands, he sits. Invasion averted.
(This is why I am Captain.)
The Clown Bitches Need Oral
My life is a three ring circus.
A swarm of clowns flows from ring to ring, leering at the audience and pumping their hips in crude, suggestive ways.
Thrust thrust in your face, don’t look away, that just makes them laugh more.
The clown bitches don’t want your applause, they just need oral.
Drop your popcorn.
Drop your soda.
Drop to your knees.
The band is getting louder and you can’t hear yourself think.
Reach for the clown cock… pull it out… unwinding longer… and longer…
Tied-together handkerchiefs… then their dirty underwear.
All over your face.
(You can cry now.)