Hansel and Gretel’s parents couldn’t afford to feed them, so they took the kids deep into the woods to abandon them.
However, the kids left a trail of breadcrumbs, and they followed it back to their home.
“Where did you get that bread?” shouted their parents. “We’re starving, and you waste bread like that?”
I stopped my mother and said “Don’t they use pebbles first? And shouldn’t the birds eat the breadcrumbs?”
My mother put the book down. “Fine, Little Mister Know-It-All. The birds ate the breadcrumbs. Then they caught and ate the birds. The end.”
My stomach rumbled painfully.
Tag: book
Spiterella or Swallowerella?
The prince held the glass slipper in his hands and smiled.
Sure, he could roam the kingdom, letting women try it on, but feet can be so disgusting.
Instead, what if it were something else that would identify the mystery woman?
Something he actually enjoyed.
The next day, he announced that a mystery woman at the ball had given him the best blowjob ever, and he’d marry the woman who could prove she was the one who did it.
Among the thousands was a scullery maid.
Pretty, but really… a prince with a commoner?
“Swallow and leave,” he said, laughing.
Itsy Bitsy
I’ve spent the last ten years trying to breed itsy and bitsy spiders together to make an itsy bitsy spider.
The problem is that itsy spiders don’t want to breed with bitsy ones, and bitsy spiders will have nothing to do with the itsy ones.
I’d use artificial insemination, but have you ever tried to artificially inseminate a spider?
You have?
Well, dang! You know how hard it is.
Imagine how hard it is when their bits are itsy!
Teeny-weeny… literally!
Once, I thought I had an itsy-bitsy spider, but down came the rain, and…
Well, you know the rest.
Tink
Tinkerbell flew around the dinner table of the Lost Boys, trailing her pixie dust and laughing.
But none of the boys raised their heads to laugh along. All just moaned and held their aching bellies.
Tinkerbell landed on the table and walked from boy to boy.
Red flushed faces.
Never-food vomiting.
Sunken eyes.
Bleeding sores.
Thinning hair.
Even her beloved Peter was looking haggard, unable to raise himself to crow.
One by one, the Lost Boys died of radiation sickness, not that Tinkerbell ever figured that out.
She flew away, trailing her sparkling deadly Radium trail… I mean pixie dust.
The Dead Writer
Mark’s parents made a shrine out of his room.
All of his writing awards and achievements were framed on the wall.
They put his favorite pen on the shelf. He stopped using it when his hands shook too much to write with it.
His last keyboard was next to it.
He switched to voice recognition, but he lost his power of speech soon after.
Next to his microphone was the NeuroCap which picked up his thoughts and translated them into his final two novels.
The last words of the novel were: I love you.
But they might not have been.
That’s Super
Remember when Superman would hear someone shout “HELP,” and he’d run into a phone booth, and then run back out as Superman to save the day?
Well, there are no phone booths anymore.
So, how does Superman change?
Potable toilets.
Which, if you think about it, is what he should have been using all along.
Unlike glass phone booths, portable toilets have opaque walls, and no matter how fast Superman is when he changes, there’s still the possibility that someone’s going to catch a subliminal dose of Supercock or Superass.
I assume that’s how Lex Luthor became such an asshole.
Puss In Boots
I never understood the story Puss In Boots.
I’ve never seen a cat walking around in boots.
However, I’ve owned a cat that pissed on my boots.
Maybe whoever wrote Puss In Boots had a cat that pissed on their boots, and they rubbed the cat’s nose in the pissed-on boots until the idea came to them for a Puss In Boots.
Probably not.
When my cat pissed on my boots, I came up with the idea for a boot rack in my closet, and closing the closet so the cat couldn’t get in there to piss on them again.
A Time
Ecclesiastes 3 tells us that there is a time for everything.
To die.
To weep.
To mourn.
Every time I look at the shelf I put your box of ashes on, these are the only three I can remember.
So, I put down the empty bottle of vodka, pick up a Bible, and read it to remind myself that there are other times.
To laugh.
To mend.
To heal.
And for a moment, I smile.
Then, a twenty-dollar bill falls out.
I put down the Bible, pick up the twenty, and think:
Oh good. I can get more vodka now.
Amiri Baraka
Amiri Baraka is dead.
Good riddance, I say.
But that’s not enough.
I don’t just want to piss on his grave.
I want to dig up his coffin,
Pry open his mouth,
And piss into his throat.
And I don’t just want to dance on his grave.
I want to start a kickstarter campaign,
To hire the Rockettes
And dress them up like rabbis
Beautiful, long-legged rabbis
And they’ll dance a whole chorus line on his grave.
Amiri Baraka was buried in New Jersey.
Land of chemical plants and Superfund sites.
A fitting place: a toxic creature in poisoned earth.
Cinderell-huh?
If Cinderella’s glass slipper fit, why did it fall off?
And when it fell off, why didn’t it turn back into her ragged ordinary slipper when the clock struck midnight?
The horses turned back into mice.
The carriage turned back into a pumpkin.
Her ball gown turned back into the clothes she was wearing the day before.
So why not that slipper?
It’s because of the Fairy Godmother.
Why she didn’t just blast the wicked stepmother and the two sisters with her magic wand and make the prince her undying love slave, well, that’s because she was a manipulative bitch.