Owen is only a year old, but he solves puzzles.
He never puts the pieces in his mouth or tosses them into the air.
Instead, he picks out sides and corners and snaps the puzzle together quickly.
When he’s done, he moves on to the next puzzle.
No Legos.
No Tinkertoys, blocks or Lincoln Logs.
He smiles and waits for a puzzle.
I gave him an all-white puzzle, and he solved it just as quickly.
Monica left the fridge open this morning.
Owen crawled in, and started to assemble the food within.
That’s when we heard the moaning.
And screaming.
Tag: sick
Uranus
Dave’s sons were at his funeral, in chains and guarded by marshals.
Now, when I say sons, I really mean genetic clones.
Dave grew them in his twenties and raised them as his sons, but an accident at work left him crippled and sick.
His doctors told him they could replace what was damaged with donor material from his sons.
So, he invited them to dinner, drugged them, and faked signatures on consent forms.
When they awoke, they found themselves weary and mutilated.
One was dead, missing his heart and liver.
They had their savage revenge on the medical Uranus.
Conversion
Frank had told Tony and Vinny to beat the punk to within an inch of his life to teach him a lesson.
So when he heard that his goons had beaten the guy to death, he was pissed.
“What the hell did you two do that for?” he yelled.
“Sorry, boss,” said Tony. “Vinny’s trying to teach me this new Metric System they got in France, so we tried converting centermeters to inches and all that, and we kinda went too far.”
Frank hung them both in a meat locker set to minus forty degrees.
Same in Fairyheight and Celtsius.
Ghost Writer
When I was young, my guidance counselor asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up.
I said “I want to be a writer.”
The guidance counselor laughed. “Writer? Not a doctor? A lawyer?”
“No, I want to be a writer.”
“Nobody is a writer,” said the counselor.
I pointed at his bookshelf. “Then who wrote those?”
He picked one out. “Shakespeare. He’s dead.” He picked out another. “Freud. Dead.”
Every book chosen, it was by someone dead.
So, I got a typewriter, paper, and killed myself.
People assume I’m a ghostwriter.
But these days, I prefer editing.
The Road
The soldiers gather up the women and children from the village, tie them together, and drive them out into the road.
Every so often, you hear an explosion and screaming.
Then crying… and shouting from the soldiers, gunfire in the air to get them walking the road again.
The commander’s translator shouts: “If there are any mines left in the road when we move the convoy through here, we will burn the village down and kill everyone.”
Thirty minutes goes by without an explosion, and the commander gives the all-clear signal.
More gunfire, the villagers are slaughtered.
Dirt. Stones. Blood.
Strawberries
Molly didn’t bother with a lawn around her house.
Instead, she had one big strawberry patch.
She raised strawberries year-round, making jams and preserves with them, or just filling up baskets, and giving those out as gifts to everyone.
Everyone thinks the scent in the evening is wonderful.
Except for one guy: Carl.
He was allergic to strawberries, and he threatened to sue.
One day, Carl vanished. Nobody ever saw him again.
But I suspect that Molly keeps him in some of those jars in her basement.
Good. Because he was an asshole.
And nobody liked him.
Thank you, Molly.
The Second Job
It’s been a long day, but it isn’t over yet.
Going home means one job ends and another begins: Being a mother.
It’s like work, but with none of the benefits.
The kids never greet me with “Hi, Mom!” or “Welcome home!”
It’s always “What are we having for dinner tonight?”
Well…
“Hold your mouth.
Close your eyes.
Open your mouth.
And here’s the big surprise.”
And then I stick a wad of pizza coupons in one of their mouths and my cell phone in the other.
Little shits will probably order three larges with anchovies on all of them.
Easier Said Than Done
Amir was well known for speaking his mind, and his friends placed bets on when he’d lose his tongue.
It was soon after getting caught stealing. The things he shouted as his hands were cut off were so profane, the priests insisted his tongue be removed at once.
Unable to speak or write, Amir found himself on Beggar’s Row, holding out a bowl with his wrist-stumps at passers-by.
A passing soldier tossed a few coins at Amir, missing the bowl.
“Some things are more easily said than done,” he grinned, watching Amir try to pick the coins from the dirt.
Leave It All To Fluffy
The old lady wanted to be buried with her beloved poodle.
Beloved to the old lady. To everybody else, a biting and snapping menace.
Especially to her caretaker.
So, when she died, the caretaker gave the dog poison and paid the funeral home to stick the evil beast in the coffin.
When the will was read and the old lady had left everything to the caretaker, provided he took care of the poodle, he said “Yeah, I took care of the dog.”
The lawyer nodded. “Damn thing bit me when she had me update her will. Good riddance to it.”
The Real Torture
We told the Red Cross that the prisoner had died and the corpse was quarantined due to a virulent disease needing containment and decontamination.
We told the prisoner that the world thought he was dead, and we could do anything we wanted to do to him.
And we did.
It’s been nine years, but he’s still alive, still providing information.
Sure, it’s utter crap and totally worthless, but it’s highly imaginative and very interesting.
We hand the transcripts to the television producers, they punch it up, and get it filmed in a week.
And that’s how the Kardashians became famous.