Before the invention of the justice machines, people had to use lawyers, juries, and judges to determine guilt or innocence. It was messy and unreliable.
Now, all you have to do is stand in a booth and wait for the machine to turn on a light.
Green if you’re innocent, and the doors open.
Red if you’re guilty, and the doors remain shut and sealed so the poison gas won’t leak out.
This wasn’t perfect either, so newer models don’t have the lights.
Too many guilty criminals were damaging the machines trying to escape when they saw the red light.
Tag: sick
What’s the deal with the Cookie Monster?
Sometimes, I wonder about the Cookie Monster.
Why does he talk that way?
And why is he obsessed with cookies?
I did a little research, and found out that he was a foreign exchange student, but the file didn’t say where he was from.
Only that he’d never left.
He keeps saying C is for Cookie, but his permanent record says he got caught sleeping with the home economics teacher in an attempt to get that upped to an A minus.
As for his English grades, there’s no amount of fur that blue furball could shag to keep from flunking.
When I’m dead
I can’t decide.
Do I want to be buried and get a tombstone with “THIS SIDE UP” engraved on the bottom?
Do I want to be cremated with dozens of firecrackers shoved up my ass?
Do I want my lifeless corpse tossed to the carnivorous animals at the zoo?
I came up with a list of all kinds of interesting things I’d want done to my corpse.
Then, I had myself cloned.
Not so I can live on, mind you. What’s the point of that?
It’s so I can have all of these things done to me after I’m dead!
The Spice Of Lifeless
I used to like spicy and hot foods.
Adding a bit of Tabasco to the ranch dressing dip for carrots and celery kicked things up
The problem is, spicy foods don’t like me anymore.
It doesn’t take much for me to blast out half of my intestinal tract in a disgusting, bloody, and smelly mess.
So, I started a food diary, and measured my reactions to various things.
Tabasco…gone.
Picante… gone.
Vietnamese pepper sauce… gone.
The refrigerator got emptier and emptier.
Pretty soon, it was just romaine lettuce, yogurt and cottage cheese.
I think I’ll go drink drain cleaner now.
Thanksgiving Meat
Nobody in our family likes turkey, so for Thanksgiving we’ll roast different animals.
One year, we had giraffe. Plenty of neck meat to go around.
Then there was elephant, but it didn’t fit in the oven. Had to roast it on a spit and rig up a generator and motor to rotate it over the fire.
We had plenty of rattlesnake to go around. And everybody got a belt for Christmas, too.
Nobody wanted the jellyfish or slugs. Those years, we ran out of sweet potatoes and stuffing early.
This year, we’ll get a jump on shopping and do kangaroo.
Brain
If I suffer some horrific tragic accident that reduces me to becoming just a brain in a jar, I want that jar to be a cookie jar.
Because, let’s face it: the kids these days are fat.
And there’s nothing that puts a kid off of between-meal snacks like reaching for a Chips Ahoy and coming up with a handful of grey matter.
But then again, kids don’t wash their hands, either. Disgusting, nasty creatures!
Pawing around my lobes, their booger-covered fingers scrambling my neurons… ewwwwww!
They’d reduce me to a drooling, blithering idiot.
(Unlike how I am now, right?)
Poets Steal
T.S. Eliot said “Immature poets imitate, mature poets steal.”
Me, I steal, demand ransom, and threaten to cut off toes and fingers if my demands aren’t met!
He’s been tied to a chair in my kitchen for 3 days.
“My life is measured out with coffee spoons,” he says, and smiles.
I dump out the silverware drawer over his head.
“Let’s not be narrow, nasty, and negative!” He whines.
“Time’s up,” I say, pulling out my gun… and…
The damn thing misfires.
So, I pull a knife from the butcher’s block and I killed him.
Boy, did he did whimper.
Dead Switch
Roger found a service called DeadSwitch that would let him address a note to be sent after his death.
If he didn’t log in once a week, the service would assume he had died and release the note.
The problem was, he didn’t have very much to say to anyone, let alone anybody to say it to.
So, he wrote a joke note to the president, saying he wouldn’t have to pardon him for all his brutal and horrific crimes now.
A week later, the site got hacked, and all the notes were sent.
Roger never did get a pardon.
Neighborhood Watch
WHAM WHAM!
Stan nailed a NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH sign to the side of the house.
“You have it facing the wrong way, Stan,” I say.
“Shit,” says Stan, and he pries it off with the claw hammer. He sticks the bent nail into the pocket of his tool belt, pulls out another, and tries again.
WHAM WHAM!
“Now?”
“Upside-down.”
“Shit!”
He pried it loose again, got out another nail, and…
WHAM WHAM!
“Third time’s the charm, but it’s my house.”
Stan unfolded his cane and grabbed his dog’s harness.
“Of course it is. They don’t take blind people, stupid,” he said.
Fetch The Stick
The sign on the front door of Le Ho Kim says NO DOGS ALLOWED.
Under it: DELIVERIES IN BACK.
The band jokes about chow dogs being in the chow mein, puppies in the dumplings.
Benny’s been coming here since we were two years old, and he still can’t work chopsticks.
“Use a fork!” growls Damien. “I’m sick of watching you with those sticks.”
Benny’s the goddamned drummer, right? You’d think he could by now.
“Woof!” I say, holding up a dumpling, and everybody laughs.
“Fetch!” says Benny, tossing a chopstick.
I throw the dumpling after it, and everybody laughs harder.