These days, passwords can be hacked easily. If you use the same password everywhere, a thief can roll up all your accounts.
Thieves will also try to social-engineer the security questions. It’s not hard to look up your mother’s maiden name or the city you were born in.
A security expert says that you’re supposed to choose counter-intuitive answers to these questions, such as “Pizza” for your mother’s maiden name, or for where you were born.
Which means that the Indian at the call center will scratch their head in confusion as they sell your information to a Russian hacker.
She said she wanted me to take her dancing, so we put on our dancing shoes and we danced all the way to the dance hall.
By the time we got to the dance hall, we were exhausted and sweaty.
“Want to dance all the way home?” I asked her, panting heavily.
“No,” she said, fanning herself with a dance card. “Call a cab.”
So, I called a cab, and we went back home.
“That’s a wrap,” I told the jazz quartet that follows us everywhere.
“Good gig,” they said. They put their instruments away and went out for coffee.
Philosophers like to ask which came first, the chicken or the egg.
But Molly wants to know which came first, the chicken-beater or the egg-beater.
“There’s no such thing as a chicken-beater,” I say. “Who’d want liquefied chicken in a milk carton?”
“I guess that means the egg-beater came first,” says Molly, grinning.
After that, I spent thousands of dollars on chicken and blenders, trying to invent the chicken-beater.
Eventually, I came up with an odd, viscous slurry of chicken meat.
McDonalds bought the patent, which is why you’ll never see me eat their McNuggets.
(I prefer to drink them.)
Dave planted a bunch of lemon trees a few years ago.
Now, he’s got more lemons than he knows what to do with.
He gives them away to his neighbors, but there’s still a lot left over.
He can’t sell them. Otherwise, he’d have to deal with all kinda of government paperwork and crap.
So, he held a contest. How many lemons can you shove up your ass.
A few crazies showed up. So did the local news station.
And an ambulance for Dave, who was declared the winner.
If life gives you lemons, wash them before you make lemonade.
Back in the early Eighties, my family went to Legal Seafood to eat.
The place was noisy, and the seats couldn’t have been more uncomfortable if Torquemada had designed them.
The waiter came, and everybody ordered lobster.
Except for me. I ordered the swordfish.
“We’re at Legal Seafood,” my mother hissed. “They’re famous for lobster here.”
I was about to reply, but my grandfather was cursing out the waiter for bringing the bill before the food.
Everybody got sick on undercooked lobster.
Except for me.
“They famous for that too, Mom?” I asked her as she dry-heaved into the sink.
Recently, I bought one of those single cup coffee makers.
Some of the pods are good. Others are not so good.
So, I bought a few sampler boxes, and I started a notebook to track which ones I like.
First, I sip the coffee when it’s black. Then, I pour in some milk. Finally, I add some sugar.
All of this is tracked in my notebook with happyfaces and frownyfaces.
After trying every kind of coffee pod available, I looked back at my notes.
Then, I threw out the coffee maker and went back to making green tea.
Time travel machines are expensive.
So, to pay for the cost of building and maintaining a time machine, I’ve bought an abandoned mine.
In the mine, I found a cache of brandy and wine that had been left to age for a hundred years.
After I auctioned them off, I was able to build the time machine.
Then I bought the brandy and wine to send back in time.
“What about going forward in time?” said an assistant.
“Sure,” I said. And I went ahead a hundred years.
The world was a burnt-out radioactive husk.
(And the wine was spoiled.)
Time melts like ice cream.
Dripping all over.
What flavor is your time?
Is your time in a dish? A waffle-cone?
Or one of those lame, bland sugar-cones?
Do you roll your time in sprinkles?
Some call them Jimmies.
Who’s Jimmy? Did he invent these, or did he roll himself in sprinkles?
Is your time real ice cream?
Or that soft-serve crap at Dairy Queen?
Soft-serve crap they dip in the chocolate that hardens.
Or roll in nuts.
If they’re really good, they can do both.
But that’s soft-serve crap.
Like ice cream.
Goddamned motherfucking peaches.
Goddamned, piece of shit, motherfucking peaches.
Goddamned, piece of shit, mother-fucking peaches.
Goddamned, worthless, piece of shit, motherfucking peaches.
Goddamned, worthless, piece of shit, cocksucking motherfucking peaches.
Shove them up your ass.
Shove them all up your ass.
All the goddamned, worthless, piece of shit, cocksucking motherfucking peaches.
Just shut the fuck up.
And take your
Goddamned, worthless, piece of shit, cocksucking motherfucking peaches
Up your ass.
Up motherfucking ass.
Shoved up your motherfucking ass.
Hate fills my body. It oozes out through my skin like sweating garlic, and my stomach turns angrily.
I run to the bathroom.
It’s still there. And getting stronger.
Fill the tub.
Try hot first.
See if it works. Try to wash off the rage.
Scrub. Scrub hard. Scrub harder.
It’s not working. It’s only getting worse.
Maybe if I drink something?
Water? Beer? Wine?
Vodka. I’ll drink vodka.
Lots of vodka.
It won’t stop the hate. It will make me too drunk to do anything about it.
I drink, and lay back in the tub.