Tag: history

Kerkopedes

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A long time ago, I remember my father showing me the place mat at the Chinese restaurant, printed with the stylized depictions of various animals, and saying that the Chinese Zodiac was how the Chinese government was run.
“Since they’re Communists,” he said, “the people run the country. When your year in the Zodiac comes up, you take office.”
“Sort of like jury duty?” I asked.
“In a way,” he said.
I looked at the animals… roosters, dragons, sheep, monkeys…
“Monkeys ruling China?” I asked. “What about the worl-”
That’s when our order arrived.
I never did get an answer.

The Old Man and the Sea of Tranquility

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Everybody’s familiar with the movies showing astronauts moon-golfing, but you’ll never any of Luke “Studs” Morgan casting his fishing reel.
In the lesser lunar gravity. he could cast a mile.
Reeling it back in with those thick gloves was hard, Luke said, but the worst part was spearing a vacuum-exposed, subzero-frozen worm on the hook.
His crewmate “Tank” Washington hid behind a boulder and planned on sticking a frozen salmon on the hook, but there’s a scream and that’s where the tape ends.
He came back as cargo and got buried at Arlington.
Hence the tape label: “Fishing Tank Accident.”

Crosseyed Joe

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Crosseyed Joe’s work was done. Black Bart and his gang of cattle rustlers were dead.
So was the sheriff.
And the barber.
For that matter, everyone else with the bad luck to be in the Last Chance Saloon this afternoon with Joe firing wildly.
Joe tipped his hat and rode off into the sunset, despite the horse’s protests. He spurred the horse harder and harder until the thing just gave up and ran for all it was worth.
That was yesterday.
This morning, vultures are circling over the canyon.
So much for Crosseyed Joe.
I feel bad for his horse.

The Life Of A Messiah Is Always Insense

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Would you like to know why I’m so tense?
I turn water into wine, but wedding guests complain that it’s not a good year.
I multiplied the loaves and fishes, but people whine about carbohydrates and mercury levels.
The leper I cured didn’t grow back any of the appendages that rotted off, so he’s saying I did a half-assed job.
After that, Lazarus whines that his terminal cancer wasn’t cured, but he can’t die from it now. So he suffers constantly.
Bitch bitch bitch.
Finally, I come back from the dead, and I miss the weekend.
What a goddamned crock.

Sic Semper Jesus

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“Why hast thou forsaken me?” mumbled Jesus, twisting in agony.
God looked down on his son and smirked.
“You want to know why?” asked God. “You were showing off, kid.”
“Showing off?” groaned Jesus. “I was performing miracles. For your glory. To demonstrate your awesome power.”
“No,” said God. “To demonstrate yours, not mine.”
“Who is he talking to?” mumbled a soldier.
“I thought he was talking to you,” said another soldier.
“Oh, just spear him and let’s go home,” said the first soldier.
“You do it,” said the other soldier.
So, they rolled dice to decide.
Obviously, Jesus lost.

Names

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Adam ran out of names by the time he got to the last three animals.
“What will you call this one?” asked Eve, holding up a furry, lumpy creature.
“I’m not sure,” said Adam. “Goat?”
“No, you’ve already used that one,” said Eve.
“Urchin?” he said.
“That’s the prickly thing over in the lagoon,” said Eve. “How about… platypus? Wait. You’ve use that one, too.”
“Screw it,” said Adam. He built a fire, and then cooked and ate the three creatures.
“I dub thee Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner,” he announced. “Now where is Rabbit? I need to wipe my ass.”

The Fraud of Turin

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Pausing a moment during his weekly trip to the market to sell the abbey’s wine, Brother Antwelm watched as the lights descended from the sky.
BOOM! Every bottle in the donkey cart shattered!
Then, a roaring dusty whirlwind surrounded him. When it stopped, a glowing dome appeared on the grass nearby.
With a hum, the dome split and a tall figure emerged.
Radiant… magnificent… perfect…
And on fire!
Brother Antwelm grabbed the donkey’s cloth blanket and slapped out the fire.
Sadly, the magnificent figure was crisped. But his image was fused on the blanket.
Antwelm shrugged and continued to Turin.

Fostering Ill Will

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Xavier was the last of the Fosters of Foster, Iowa. He owned the local mill, railway, branch of the Iowa National Bank, and pretty much everything in town.
As editor and publisher of the local paper, he sang his praises daily. When that was not enough, he appointed himself grand marshal of a parade in his honor with an open air touring car lent from his dealership.
When he fell ill, the hospital that bore his name could not revive him, and Xavier was the final piece of the Foster jigsaw in the town’s cemetery.
“Good riddance,” sighed the town.

The taste was not so sweet

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Like Monaco and Andorra, the pocket state of Vinodulce has sat peacefully in the mountains of Europe for centuries, retaining its own local culture and charm.
Count Vinodulce’s descendants have been excellent, wise rulers in all aspects save one: punctuality.
They are notoriously late for everything. Even their own funerals.
So, to keep up appearances, the Count vainly adjusts clock and calendar.
As a result, the ruling family always arrives on time. Hours, days, weeks, and even whole years are simply cast aside and ignored.
For all its modern amenities, Vinodulce is still quite literally living in the Seventeenth Century.

A face no mother could love

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All of John’s men were dead, so he hid underneath them for cover.
Strange shadows lurched along shattered walls. Something was walking towards John, but it was with a step neither robot nor man.
John tried to remember what Mother said his father had told her about the robots. Something about…
The something wandered close to a burning barrel. Its twisted, laughing face silently peered in all directions before it shambled off.
“The 600 series had rubber skin,” he mumbled to himself. “We spotted them easy.”
No mother could love that face, not that the thing ever had a mother.