Tag: mystery

Cheese Bunnies

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Maybe down there in Florida or Texas you have your chocolate bunnies for Easter, but up here in Wisconsin, we have our cheese bunnies.
Yep. Cheese bunnies.
We didn’t get the idea for them from chocolate bunnies. You got that idea from us.
Long ago, some guy made cheddar Jesuses and called them “Cheesus.” Got lynched as a blasphemer.
His son thinks “I’ll make them into bunnies.”
Now, not everyone has as good cheese as us, but they make good chocolate.
So, they make chocolate bunnies.
I hear someone makes them out of ranch dressing.
That’s kinda stupid, isn’t it?

Caulk

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I stood over the sheriff with my caulking gun, a ribbon of white goo still swinging from the nozzle.
The sheriff was confused. “Do you know how hard it’s going to be to get this crap out of my shirt?”
Not hard at all if you know what you’re doing.
You see, I run the town’s drycleaning shop.
Caulk is easy to get out of a shirt. Easier than blood.
That’s why I gunfight with a caulking gun.
He gets up, draws his gun, and shoots me.
Great. A huge bloodstain on my shirt.
This’ll be a bitch to fix.

Let’s all thank Finland

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The meeting went long, so I asked who was responsible for that.
“Finland,” said Joe. “The meeting went long because of Finland.”
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s thank Finland.”
We tried to open the windows so we could shout THANK YOU FINLAND at the same time, but like all office buildings, the windows were sealed shut.
It took just three hits with a heavy chair to shatter the glass.
“THANK YOU FINLAND!” we all shouted at once.
Except for Joe. He was laughing.
“You’re all morons,” he said. “Finland can’t hear you. Those windows face South. Finland is to the East.”

So hard to believe

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It’s hard to believe that Macy is gone.
Nobody in the room can believe it. Not even Sarah, who still believes in the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus.
“Someone needs to believe this,” I say, and I dial 1-800-BEL-IEVE.
It rings twice, and then: “What don’t you believe?”
“Macy is gone,” I say.
“MACY IS GONE????” shrieks the voice. “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”
The shrieking subsides after a minute, and I hold out a cell phone emitting sobs and whimpers.
“Now do you believe that Macy is gone?” I asked the group.
“No,” said Sarah. “In fact, that voice… it sounds like Macy.”

The Chicken Channel

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The cable is out.
Ever since the conversion to digital signals, the cable has been rock-solid. And…
It’s back? That was pretty quick.
Usually, it takes hours. That was just a few seconds.
For a moment, I swear I saw…
A chicken?
We have a digital recorder, so I rewind the tape… Hah, all these anachronistic terms.
Anyway, I go back and…
A chicken. Staring out from the screen.
It is a powerful, bold chicken. It is a majestic, God-like chicken. I am ready to do as it commands.
And I am filled with the overwhelming urge to eat… BEEF!

Sunday Brunch

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I was cleaning the litterbox when I came across a human skull.
I’m pretty sure it’s human, unlike the past three skulls, which turned out to be chimpanzees.
My kitten is asleep on a chair.
Should I have stopped him after finding the first skull?
It was only a chimpanzee, right? Where’s the harm in that?
I haven’t seen any posters about missing chimpanzee skulls. Or, now, human skulls.
I tried to put a camera on the litterbox, but the power cord had been chewed on and pulled out.
The kitten is awake. I smile, and cautiously wiggle a ribbon.

Squeaky Wheel

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The squeaky wheel gets the grease, but what do the other wheels get?
Nothing. That’s why all the wheels squeak at the same time.
One squeaks loudly, and the others think “Hey, we don’t want that wheel getting all the grease! We want grease, too!”
Yes, wheels think. They go round and round with this stuff in their little wheel heads.
They all start to squeak, even though they’re fine.
Pretty soon, all the wheels are squeaking as loud as they can.
Never mind that they’re sitting perfectly still, not moving.
Yeah, that creeps the shit out of me, too.

When you wish upon a shotgun

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I was rubbing the barrel of an old shotgun when a genie came out of it.
“Shouldn’t you be in a lamp or a bottle?” I asked.
“I was drunk,” he said.
He’s offered me three wishes, but would you accept wishes from a genie who can’t find a decent lamp to live in?
Especially one who’s a drunk.
And, boy, does this genie drink.
“I thought you cleaned the shotgun,” he slurs. “Man does this place stink!”
“You’re not in the shotgun,” I say. “You’re up my dog’s ass.”
So, once again, I’ll trade you for that monkey’s paw.

Zaleski

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There is a package on my desk.
Inside rests the most unusual trophy I’ve ever seen.
Silver loving cup, red marble base, and a odd figurine mounted on the top. Two javelins pierce its chest, and it holds what looks like an electric coffeepot in its left hand, right fist to the sky in triumph.
Engraved on the base is the word “ZALESKI.”
Is this a name?
Is this a sport?
What have I done to earn this?
I place it on my desk, raise a fist, and shout “ZALESKI!”
My officemates shout “ZALESKI!” and we go back to work.

Dustsucker

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We used to clean these buildings by hanging a scaffold for guiding men with powerwashers and squeegies.
Now, we release Dustsucker Beasts on the ground, and they slide up the building to the top floor, leaving a streak of clean windows and bricks.
The trainer then leashes each beast, rides the elevator back down, and starts again.
It takes a third of the time and, when you consider insurance costs, much cheaper.
Until some idiot left a window open and wanted to pet a Beast.
So furry, so cute.
So acidic.
Inside rubber gloves, the trainer’s burnt, scarred fingers clench.