We’re wired to love our babies
This stinking bloody wrinkled crying lump. We’re supposed to love.
Some say its the drugs we give them, but they love these things even in natural birth.
I guess when you go through all that pain and agony, it’s a rush when it finally stops.
We tried an experiment in one hospital. The painkillers we gave them were supposed to make them hate the babies.
And it worked.
“Get it away from me!” they screamed.
Which worked out perfect, because each of them were putting their babies up for adoption.
No second thoughts.
The colony ship dropped the nanobot construction pods and waited.
The nanobots would send signals when the atmosphere was ready for the first round of organic seeding.
After laying down the bacteria and plant life, a few test species would be released.
If they survived and thrived, then a carefully-planned set of predator-prey relationships.
Finally, the handpicked colonists would be thawed out and sent down.
Yes, the land shaped up nicely. And life thrived.
But instead of reviving the colonists, the colony ship was boosted into the sun.
“You’re not wrecking this place again,” said the nanobots. “Earth is ours.”
Back in my day, the SAT was a test on paper that you picked the best answers or combination of answers.
It went electronic a few years after I graduated.
Then, it went immersive. A neural halo that measured knowledge and analytical skills directly in the brain.
But some kids had their brains fried when they tried to cheat with chemical boosters.
Their parents sued the college board, claiming it was the neural halo, not the boosters that caused the damage.
Eventually, the whole system was disbanded. Smart or dumb, it didn’t matter anymore.
Only the rich could afford college.
It took me a few years, but I finally put my ex-wife behind me.
No, not just the lawyers and paperwork and financial stuff. Or the emotional stuff.
I literally put her behind me. A microsecond behind me in the space-time continuum. And as long as she is out of phase with the universe, she’s out of my life.
This also solves the joint-custody problem with the kids. She can see them any time she wants, even if they’re just echoes of themselves.
Her lawyers say this is unreasonable. So I sent them back to the age of the dinosaurs.
Some scientists say that if you expose a baby to Mozart, it will boost their IQ.
Other scientists say that this has no effect on a baby’s IQ.
No matter what the scientists say, everyone agrees that exposing Mozart to babies really pissed him off.
“Vat’s mit all zees kinders!” he’d shout, sticking his fingers in his ears and scowling at the room full of babies. “Vere ist mein harpsichord?”
Then the babies would scream louder, and Mozart became even more irritable and outraged.
Further research is necessary on The Mozart Effect. And self-changing diapers to stop babies from screaming.
See this? Little doohickey?
It’s a transdimensional actuator. Latest in relativity dynamics.
Just set the coordinates and constants, twist the knobs, and you’re somewhere else.
Know what the worst thing about inter-dimensional travel is?
It’s the stuff that’s not in the next dimension you miss.
Not just oxygen and gravity and water. Or your family.
I’m talking about the little things, like a root beer float.
Few places have root beer.
Fewer have vanilla ice cream.
Those that have both? Don’t ask.
So, I don’t stay long, because nothing beats a good root beer float.
Well, oxygen kinda helps too.
“I love you.”
Three simple words appeared on the moon.
They slowly revealed themselves to the world as the phases changed, but astronomers and people with telescope.
Who wrote it?
Who did they write it for?
Some say that God wrote it.
If He did, why in English?
We don’t know.
That’s when we used the satellites.
The really high ones.
To look back at the Earth.
Who wrote it?
Who did they write it for?
I have no idea. None of us do.
But it’s a date.
An expiration date.
And it’s tomorrow.
Every year, we go to the lavender festival.
You’d think there’s only so many things you can do with lavender, like grow it in a pot or dry it for a scented pillow, you’re wrong.
We cook with it.
We clean with it.
And we even bathe with it.
But most importantly, it keeps away the alien invaders.
No, not the retirees from California.
Real aliens. From outer space.
And they’re deathly allergic to lavender.
We offer pamphlets about them, but don’t beat anyone over the head with it.
Except for the aliens’ human agents, I suppose.
Are you one?
Moments before Lily Mason burst into flames, she set her husband on fire.
Then her kitchen. And after that, her house. And her neighbor’s house.
There wasn’t much room between houses, so the fire jumped from house to house quickly.
The whole neighborhood was a raging inferno by the time the fire department arrived.
There was nothing they could do but watch and keep people back.
The fire burned for hours, until the whole neighborhood was nothing but embers and ashes.
“Should have paid her fire bill,” said the crew chief. “Too bad.”
They rolled up their hoses and left.
Every container full of stuff they send here, we have to ship back so they can send us more stuff.
Some, we fill with trash for recycling.
Others, we put coal or other raw materials.
And with the rest of the empties?
They call it human trafficking.
Fifty to a container.
Thousands of containers on a ship.
They feed them to the Trakha.
It’s part of the peace treaty.
They give up technology. Chemical formulas.
And what do they do with it?
Make stuff. To sell to us.
Just for the empties.