They say that meat is murder.
It’s just as much murder as using too much paper in the printer is.
You’re not killing trees, you’re just desecrating their corpses with a dozen useless cover pages and Hewlett-Packard test patterns.
If meat were murder, then wearing leather is like that weird serial-killer guy from Silence of the Lambs.
Instead of shouting “MOO!” out the window as you drive past cows in a pasture, you should shout “IT PUTS THE LOTION IN THE BASKET OR IT GETS THE HOSE!”
Then kill the cows, cook them, and enjoy a nice steak dinner.
Delicious!
The Cow Says Moo
“The cow says moo,” said the toy.
Timmy smiled, turned the arrow in the center of the toy, and pulled the string again.
“The cow says moo,” said the toy again.
Timmy clapped and laughed, and he made the toy repeat itself for an hour.
Then, when Timmy pulled the string, the toy said, “The cow says stop it, or she’ll go to the barn for an axe to hack you into little pieces.”
Timmy didn’t smile. Or clap. Or laugh.
He put down the toy and watched the door.
When his mother came home from shopping, Timmy pissed himself.
Drink to
So, Cinco de Mayo is an excuse to eat Mexican food and drink.
And St. Patrick’s Day is an excuse to… is there Irish food?
Potatoes? Corned Beef?
But there’s a lot of drinking, I know that for certain.
Are there other days where we make excuses to drink to celebrate some other national culture?
Russians? Italians? French? Germans?
I sure there are, but they’re not marketed like Cinco de Mayo, St. Patrick’s Day, and Independence Day.
The day we eat American food and drink. And blow things up.
Sadly, we don’t blow up the lame and weak American beer.
Weekly Challenge #743 – Soar
- Lizzie
- Richard
- Serendipidy
- Rick Thomas
- Norval Joe
- Tom
- Planet Z
LIZZIE
At the top of the mountain, all we could hear was the fire, burning the logs. And we waited. For a sign. One day and another. Time went by. No sign. Our children waited and their children. And when there was no hope left, I stood up.
“I’ve been here since the beginning. I’m tired. I’m leaving.”
Everyone protested.
I raised my hand. Silence.
“We have burned everything around here. Look! It’s ridiculous. Enough is enough. We don’t even have a twig to burn, a twig.”
Someone at the back whispered “What was the sign all about again? I forgot.”
RICHARD
Interviews
I used to be hopeless at interviews.
I never knew how to project confidence or show myself in a good light, and I always struggled to answer questions in a meaningful way.
That was until I discovered the SOAR technique: Situation, Obstacle, Action, Result!
It’s been a huge boost to my confidence, allowing me to take the initiative at interview, demonstrate my talents to the utmost, and to deliver responses of the highest calibre.
Unfortunately, it hasn’t resulted in me getting any job offers.
So, if you can point me towards any techniques to nail that part, let me know!
SERENDIPIDY
Isn’t this incredible?
Being able to soar like eagles, so far above the earth: Everything spread out beneath us, far below.
They say that after you’ve done your first skydive, you’ll come back time and time again.
It’s certainly held true for me, I’ve lost count of how many jumps I’ve made, and it’s a safe bet that I’ll be coming back for more.
However, I’m afraid you won’t be coming back for another jump.
You forgot the golden rule: ‘Always pack your own parachute’.
Never trust someone like me to do it for you!
See you on the ground!
RICK
The Briefest Moment
He never saw it coming …
“The Circus Life”
Shocking even to him.
Sore feet, bad knees, and the never-ending stench of gunpowder embedded deeply in his sinuses.
Good money with very little work, a trailer to himself, store-bought liquor, and surprisingly … women seem drawn to a human cannonball.
But, that’s not why he does it.
There is a brief moment where the cannon no longer propels … and gravity has yet to claim you …
Floating, weightless, omnipotent … EXULTANT!
A perfect landing, a bow and a flourish …
He exited the big top like a god who walked amongst the sheep!
NORVAL JOE
Billbert told his father, “If the superheros are at the office, working together, maybe I should go there, too. Lend a hand.”
His dad shook his head. “You’re young, Billbert. I wouldn’t want to put you in danger.”
“I woulnd’t be in danger, Dad. I could soar high above them all and give reports of the enemy’s movements. They wouldn’t even see me.”
Mr. Wienerheimer raised his eyebrows. “That might not be a bad idea.”
Linoliamanda tugged at Billbert. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” Billbert asked her.
“You concentrate on flying. I’ll do the reporting.”
TOM
An Elusive Thought
Flap Flap. Higher Higher. Push, yes push. So tired, so far. What did he tell me, flap, what was it. Tears only tears are left. Higher. Below me sea, above me sky. What did he tell me, flap, something in the sky. A line of fuzzy green, what is did he tell me about green. Higher Higher. The green is full of brown. Blue, green, brown. Flap. Keep flapping he didn’t need to tell me that. Higher, hot, higher. Not good. What did he tell me, hot not good. Why am I soaring towards the sun. Yes that what he said.
PLANET Z
Hummingbirds flap their wings at eye-blurring speed to stay in the air.
While vultures and eagles and other birds spread their wings and soar, circling thermal currents to rise higher and higher.
And then there’s the penguins, who use their wings to glide under the water.
What of the ostrich? The emu? The kiwi?
Well, the first two run with their powerful long legs.
But the kiwi, squat little thing, just roots around and pecks at bugs and other tiny treats.
Then there’s Bill.
So foolish, with the cardboard flats duct-taped to his arms.
Always getting trapped in revolving doors.
A ride
I took my car to the dealership for an oil change, tire rotation, and other minor regular maintenance.
I sat in a waiting room for a while before a shuttle bus took a group of other customers home.
I met some very nice people on the bus, including a researcher at the university I went to.
I looked out the window to the campus, the old familiar buildings and trees and the new construction.
Then, as the driver headed to my home, I got a text message.
My car was ready.
I laughed, and told him to take me back.
Plays with grace
After they turn up the lights, cash out everyone’s tabs, turn off the jukebox, and put up the chairs… she gets out her guitar and walks to the stage.
Just a corner of the bar, big enough for one table.
She puts one of the chairs back down on the floor, pushes the table out of the way, and she sits down.
And she plays. She plays so beautifully.
Not like the old days, when she filled the bar, and the line went around the block.
No. Even better.
A tree falls in the forest.
And she hears it fall.
Turn Eighty
The robot served as my mother for years.
Then, when I was older, she served as my wife.
After that, she served as my daughter.
And then, she served as my nurse.
For eighty years, I was never without her.
Nor was she ever without me.
“You turn eighty tomorrow,” she said. “I have enjoyed being with you.”
As she mixed the government-supplied chemicals, I thought about her.
How she’d call for the service to pick up my body.
And whether they’d pick her up for termination.
Or recycling. To become a mother again.
Then a wife. And a daughter.
The Human Touch
They say that the human brain is the most powerful computer.
But they’re wrong. The most powerful computer is in the sub-basement of the university.
It’s a massive array of computing units, networked together at the speed of light.
Surprisingly, it doesn’t take much power.
Just food and water, and some waste disposal.
Because it’s made out of human brains.
No, they’re not brains in jars. They’re still in their bodies.
We tried using homeless people and convicts, but we get better results with normal people.
Just lie on this table and relax. Breathe normally.
It won’t hurt a bit.
How sweet
After every terrorist attack, they’d dance in the streets and hand out candy.
Usually, the bombmakers or the gunmen or bombers in training would stay away from the celebrations.
But every now and then, we’d pick a few up.
Two, four. Always in pairs.
I put two in a room, strapped to chairs that had elevated armrests.
Their fingers forced into the others mouth.
Fingers, covered with cupcake frosting.
“You’re so fond of handing out sweets,” we said. “How sweet are your hands?”
When one finally bit, the other would scream, and they’d bite, too.
Over. And over. And over.
The camera doesn’t lie
They say that the camera doesn’t lie.
And it’s true. The camera doesn’t lie.
It’s the asshole holding it who lies, framing the shot to show what he wants it to show, and leaving out what he doesn’t want to show.
It’s the editor who lies, leaving the truth on the cutting room floor and stitching together their own version of reality.
It’s the producer, choosing what to broadcast and what to leave on the shelf.
It’s the reporter and anchor, with their tone of voice, their body language, wrapping the lie in a package you’ll believe.
But you shouldn’t.