Pablo Picasso’s last words were “Drink to me!”
But his caretakers misheard him, and thought he’d said “Drink me!”
So, they put him in the bathtub, chopped him into pieces, and ran him through the blender, toasting their friend Picasso with every bloody glass of the liquefied artist.
His bones posed a serious problem, since they were too difficult for the kitchen blender to pulverize, no matter how small they cut them up with the woodshed axe.
One of them suggested melting them with acid.
“How are we going to drink the acid?”
They tried anyway.
(Nobody drank to them.)
Tag: cliche
The Magic Bell
Every street-corner Santa has a magical pot and a magical bell.
The pot is a gateway to another dimension full of evil and demons that can only be blocked with a large volume of money.
The bell is used for driving off any evil beings that manage to make it through the pile of money and into our world.
Demons can’t stand the sound of bells. Hurts their ears.
What? It hurts your ears, too?
Maybe… you’re a demon!
Santa! Santa! I caught one!
Help me stuff this guy into your pot to send him back to his evil dimension!
Roughing It
When I was young, we’d go camping.
Well, almost.
It was more of a log cabin-themed motel with pine trees planted in the field by the parking lot.
A bed as uncomfortable as a sleeping bag.
There was a lake, but we never went to it.
Which was good, since I don’t like boats. Or fishing.
Or camping.
There were bugs, though. Lots of them.
I don’t remember any roasting marshmallows or hot dogs, but I do remember a fire.
I think everybody got out in time. I don’t think anybody got hurt.
We drove home.
My bed felt wonderful.
The Whales All Vanished
One day, the whales all vanished.
So did the dolphins.
And pandas.
And Tasmanian Devils.
And every other species on the planet.
Besides humans.
Then, the lights went out.
Things got really nasty right around then.
You’d think there’d be
A voice
Or something
Telling the human race
“What the fuck?”
A dramatic pause
For emphasis
And then:
“I turn my back
For a few centuries
And this is what you come up with?”
Followed by
A long
Heavy
Sigh.
There’s no point telling
What came after that
Because the
Whales
Pandas
Dolphins
Devils
Really don’t give a shit, Man.
Earworm
Earworms are songs you can’t get out of your head.
Usually, they’re bad songs.
But this one is good. Better than good. A reminder that not all is lost. And there’s hope.
It’s like an angel on my shoulder, whispering in my ear. Don’t despair. Don’t give up hope.
You can make a miracle happen.
On my other shoulder, the devil there tries to convince me otherwise. Tells me that things can will get worse, horrifying, it’ll never end.
The music drowns out his babble and chatter, and he screams for me to fear, for sweat and terror to drink.
Rest Home
It’s been quiet at home ever since we took Grampa to the rest home and his horse Old Paint to the glue factory.
He rode that horse everywhere… to the store… to the mailbox… to the bathroom…
We’re supposed to let him get his bearings for a few days at the retirement community, but the next day we missed him something fierce, so we all got in the truck and headed over.
I opened the door and…
Saw Old Paint standing in his room.
“Where’s Grampa?” I said.
We got back in the truck and raced to the glue factory.
No Squid Left Behind
Due to a mixup, Fillmore High School enacted a No Squid Left Behind policy during the Bush Administration, and sure enough, the entire Senior class ended up being a swimming pool full of squid.
Which, was a shame, since the pool was filled with chlorinated fresh water, and it killed all the saltwater squid.
They weren’t bad squid at all. Well-behaved on the whole.
None of the cheerleading squad got knocked up, no fights in the hallways.
Oh, sure, academics suffered greatly. So did athletics.
You’d think they’d win State in swimming, but as I said, the pool was lethal.
Occam
Occam The Philosopher had a face that was as smooth as a baby’s butt, and he was quite proud of it.
“I have a very sharp razor,” said Occam. “I also have very expensive shaving cream, a soft lathering brush, a silver mirror, and a rare herbal aftershave.”
“Isn’t that horribly complicated?” I replied. “Wouldn’t it be simpler to use a depilatory cream?”
“Sometimes the simplest solution isn’t the best one,” Occam said.
Many years later, I saw him hawking an all-in-one shaving contraption on television.
“Just one button!” he shouted. “What could be simpler?”
Growing a beard, I thought.
The Third Ghost
The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come never said anything to Scrooge.
Just did a lot of pointing and menacing.
Thank God that plan worked.
Why? Well, you remember that Mike Tyson guy?
Yeah, the boxer who bit off that other boxer’s ear and went to jail.
Remember his squeaky boyish voice?
The Ghost has the same problem.
Instead of a scary rasp or thundering growl, he talks in a high squeaky voice like a midget having his balls squeezed.
What? When have I heard a midget with his balls squeezed?
Um, ask The Ghost Of Christmases We’d Rather Forget.
Last Call
Joe’s retirement “party” is at the corner bar.
Years of experience catching serial killers, gone to budget cuts.
It was either retire or get fired.
Everybody’s here. Even the goddamned beancounters.
“There was one I never caught,” says Joe. “The Lifetime Supply Killer.”
I remember that case. Guy would send his victims a box of poisoned chocolate bars, telling them they won a lifetime supply of chocolate.
“Kinda funny, really,” said Joe.
The Director calls for a toast. We raise our glasses.
Joe stops me. “It’s a lifetime supply of champagne,” he whispers.
“To Joe!” everyone says.
And he drinks.