Tag: mystery

The Lawyers

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Despite the number of lawyers in America, fewer are available to defendants needing representation, but without money.
So, with a low-power spirit-trap and some old State Bar registers, we’ve started summoning up the ghosts of lawyers to represent them.
They work pro bono, with few earthly needs since having left their bones behind many years ago.
And although some of them are woefully behind on their case law, few modern district attorneys can stand the withering assault of a Daniel Webster or Clarence Darrow.
I still laugh when I see a lawyer’s ghost, chasing the ambulance with his corpse inside.

Gravy Boat

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“Why do they call it a gravy boat?” I asked.
“Because there’s tiny German submarines in it,” said Grampa. “I bagged my share of Nazis, but there’s always one around the corner.”
Grampa was never in the army or navy. He drove his Buick into one of their Supreme Court-upheld Free Speech marches, and it was a miracle nobody got killed.
Well, okay. Maybe not the right use of the word miracle.
Anyway, they took away his license, and we’re stuck with him now.
I watched a tiny periscope rise… and then sink.
Just butter for my mashed potatoes, please?

The Viking Attack

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It was around two in the morning that Mike the security guard got it in his head to protect the office building from Viking attack.
Maybe it was his medication, or it could have been the booze.
Probably both.
He didn’t have a backhoe to dig a moat or pile up earthworks, but he did manage to park the golf cart in the lobby to block the doors.
Soda machines were far too heavy for him to move, but couches from the lobby were perfect.
When he was fired, he disputed the termination with: “Well, no Vikings got through, right?”

Miracle Season

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Another Opening Day at Wrigley Field, which means another disastrous season for the Cubs.
Ball after ball sails over the brick wall, and fans are booing and leaving before the inning is through.
It was halfway through another losing season that The Miracle happened.
The outfielder with the bloated multiyear contract and batting two hundred chased a fly ball into the ivy… and never emerged.
He was gone.
The umpire stopped the game, and the crew searched.
No sign of the player.
The game was called, and the FBI searched.
They never found him, and his replacement played much better.

The Fool

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I trapped the fool in the mirror and threw a sheet over it.
He’s screaming to be let out, but I won’t let him.
Instead, I threw the mirror into the basement and then locked the door.
I thought that I had finally beaten the fool, but he showed up in the bathroom mirror.
Damn him! And I can’t take that mirror off of the wall and throw it into the basement!
I keep finding him in every room, so I ran into a linen closet and slammed the door.
Now, I’m safe. The fool won’t find me in here.

What do Mummies eat?

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What do Mummies eat?
Just because their guts have been dumped into canopic jars and their brains hooked out through their noses, it doesn’t mean they don’t eat.
According these pictures on the wall, mummies eat flightless birds.
Dodos, awks, and penguins are a delicacy on the buffet to the bandaged.
This explains why awks and dodos are extinct. Completely wiped out by mummies.
As for penguins, well, the mummies ate them all except for the furthest reaches of Patagonia and the Southern Pole.
Mummies don’t do so well in cold weather, even when smothered with globs of Icy Hot.

Colin Cares

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Does Colin care?
You can’t tell by looking at Colin’s face. He’s always got the same confused expression on his face.
Colin is easily confused.
Snap your fingers, and he’ll turn his head to see what’s the racket.
Set fire to his shoes, and he’ll just watch them, trying to figure out why they’re burning.
“Don’t you care that your shoes are on fire, Colin?” I shout.
Colin just stands there, watching.
I pour a bucket of water on his feet, putting out the flames.
“They’re not my shoes,” mutters Colin. “They’re my roommate’s.”
And he goes back to staring.

Hole in my sock

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I think there is a hole in my sock.
There was a hole in my underwear a few days ago, but it slipped and dropped into my pant leg.
I don’t see the hole in my pants anymore, so either the hole fell into my sock or it dropped out through the cuff and on to the ground.
I take off my sock and look.
No hole in my sock.
I check the other sock. No holes there either.
Then I see the blood.
The hole is now in my foot.
I hop to the bathroom and get a bandage.

Roll Out The Barrel

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As the band played the Beer Barrel Polka, we rolled out the barrel and propped it up.
Something shifted inside. Something solid.
We opened it up and found a corpse.
According to the wallet in his jacket pocket, he was Jimmy “The Fish” Muldoon, a heavy with the Chicago Mafia.
“So, what do we do?” said the tuba player. “Any ideas, guys?”
“Hey, it’s the Beer Barrel Polka!” I shouted. “Let’s roll out the barrel of fun!”
We tapped another keg and partied hard with Jimmy.
The next morning, we all envied Jimmy, being too dead to be hung over.

The Bag

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I am sitting on a park bench, and a really nasty, grizzled bum sits down on the park bench next to me.
He raises a paper bag to his face every few seconds.
I try to ignore him, but I just want to yell at the guy to go away… leave… go drink in some alley.
Before I can say anything, he takes the bottle out of the bag and offers me the bag.
“You look like you’re about to hyperventilate,” he says. “Breathe into this a few times and you’ll feel better.”
Then he gets up and walks away.