Our town practices the ritual of scapegoating, where our sins are loaded into an animal and then we cast it out into the wild.
The problem is, we’re a rather sinful lot, and we’re running out of animals.
Let’s see… there’s Bob’s dog. And there’s also Arthur’s horse, but Arthur needs his horse to deliver messages, and everybody really likes that dog.
The priests nixed my idea of recycling animals. Once they’re loaded up with sins, they’re useless.
Arthur packed up and rode out of town this morning.
Bob suggested we use the priests.
The dog wagged its tail happily.
Tag: silly
100 Bottles
There are a hundred bottles of beer on the wall.
But I’m not going to take one down and pass it around.
Because I paid for all this beer, and instead of keeping it in the fridge or a cooler like I suggested, my stupid roommates lined the bottles up on the wall.
A few bottles have already fallen off the wall and shattered. Who will clean up this mess?
I pick up a bottle, open it, drink the beer, and break it on the counter.
Waving it around, I shout: “STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY BEER, YOU IDIOTS!”
Summoning
I went out into the woods with my backpack full of bacon and candles, looking for the perfect spot.
Aha. A clearing.
Perfect.
I set down the heavy backpack, opened it up, and began opening up the packages of bacon.
Arranging the strips in a pentagram, I placed candles at each of the five points.
Then, I took off all of my clothes, I wove the remaining strips of bacon into a loincloth, and pulled it on.
After I lit the candles, I swayed and chanted, hoping to summon something from The Bacon Universe.
Instead, the fire department showed up.
Collapse
Everybody thought that the economy was recovering, but the biggest bank in the country collapsed.
But it wasn’t like all the other banks collapsing.
It literally collapsed.
Not financially. Those numbers were sound.
The bank itself. The building.
Collapsed.
Bricks, glass, drywall, and everything in the building collapsed into a pile, and a plume of dust filled the air for blocks around.
All the bankers showed up to work, scratched their heads, and then went to the bank next door.
That bank had collapsed financially, so the offices were empty.
It was a tight squeeze.
But they made it work.
Tax Holiday
Today is the state sales tax holiday weekend, where things that students need are sales tax-free and often set at a significant discount.
Notebooks, pens, pencils, paper, clothes, and athletic gear are what typically comes to mind.
The price per item limit is a hundred bucks, because it’s meant to help poor families with kids in school.
What’s weird is that the sales tax break isn’t just for that stuff when it’s bought for students. Anybody can buy new clothes or shoes and get the discount.
But it doesn’t apply to vodka, which is what I needed most in college.
Pluot
I like fruits and vegetables.
But when it comes to being adventurous in the produce sections of the grocery stores, I don’t go far beyond the grapes and cucumbers and onions and such.
A coworker brought in a pluot, which is some kind of blasphemous rebuke of God’s Will between a plum and an apricot.
It’s soft. It’s sweet and sour in the skin.
And it’s delicious.
I’m going to the grocery store after work.
I wonder what other marvels are waiting out there to discover, try, and…
Why am I itching?
I hope I’m not allergic to this thing.
The Needle
If you’re going to die alone in a run-down shack with a needle in your arm, it had better be a phonograph needle.
Instead, we found Joe in the alley with the Space Needle in his arm.
I took out my phone, called Seattle, and told them we’d found it.
“Can you stick it in a mailbox?” they said. “The corner of it says we’ve pre-paid the postage.”
“No can do,” I said, putting on latex gloves and sealing the Space Needle in a bag. “It’s evidence.”
It disappeared from the evidence locker last night.
I called Seattle.
No answer.
Nazi?
The leader of a Neo-Nazi group in Hungary recently discovered that he’s Jewish.
Can the reverse happen? Can someone Jewish discover that they’re a Nazi?
Angry liberal college protestors aside, I wanted to see if this were true.
Looking in my closet, I don’t see Doc Marten boots.
And my scalp isn’t just unshaven, but covered with unruly greasy curly hair.
Finally, I don’t attend any rallies or protests, nor do I go around beating the crap out of people.
Whew. Thank goodness.
I pat my teddy bear Adolf on the head, turn out the light, and go to sleep.
Ribbon
I didn’t watch any of the Olympics on TV.
Not even the women’s beach volleyball.
However, a friend of mine at NBC is scoring me a tape of all the Ribbon Gymnatics footage.
No, I’m not interested in that shit either, Those chicks wear a lot more than the volleyball chicks, and they’re usually only thirteen or fourteen.
It’s for my cats.
They love to play and jump at with twirling ribbons, so I’m going to leave the tape running while I go to work.
Forget what the Russian judge says. To the cats, every performance is a perfect ten.
Cream Of Tartar
We have a small kitchen, but apparently it’s large enough to lose things in.
So when I wanted cinnamon for my coffee, I looked on the spice rack.
Searching through cumin… tarragon… all-spice…
Ah, found it!
It was behind the Cream of Tartar, which we have never used in eleven years.
Never!
Heck, it’s still got its plastic safety seal on it.
Why does Cream Of Tartar need a plastic safety seal anyway?
In the past 11 years, have you heard of a Cream Of Tartar tampering incident?
I put the cinnamon right in front.
Where I can find it.