Bobby’s mother didn’t like how he just sat outside, watching grass grow.
“I’m in training,” mumbled Bobby. “I want to make Varsity this year.”
She got him books, but they sat in a pile while Bobby stared at the grass.
“Oh well,” she said. “At least he’s getting some sun. It sure is saving on the Vitamin D bills.”
Bobby kept watching the grass grow all Summer.
But when it came time for tryouts, Bobby didn’t make the cut.
“Joey got picked!” he cried. “And he’s already getting a letter for watching paint dry!”
“Good. Now mow the lawn, dammit.”
Tag: cliche
Who gives a damn?
Excuse me, but may I interrupt you for a moment?
Thank you.
I’m sorry, but why are you telling me all this?
Obviously, you have me confused with someone who gives a damn.
Me, I only have damns for sale. Three bucks a damn, thirty bucks for a dozen.
Quality damns, too. Mint condition, right from the factory.
No refurbished or recycled damns here.
Unless you’re paying for a damn, I’m not going to just give you one.
I mean, what would happen to my business?
I think you want the church next door.
Unlike me, they give a damn.
Which came first?
Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
Does it matter? Do we need to go over this again?
Fine. It was neither.
That’s right. Neither the chicken nor the egg came first.
It was the flying saucers.
They landed, aliens came out, and then looked around for a while.
The flying saucers took off, but they left a bunch of stuff, like crystal skulls, eggs, and chickens.
The crystal skulls mutated the eggs so they hatched all the different forms of life, like horses and monkeys and people.
There’s your answer.
Oh, and I’ll take my horse eggs scrambled.
Sense Of Home
The difference between house and home.
Home is where you feel safe. Home is where you belong.
The moment you no longer feel safe or feel you belong, it no longer feels like home.
Afraid. Hurt. Breathing quickly.
Violated.
Add locks, add alarms.
There’s nothing you can add to bring back that sense of home.
So, you go somewhere else. You search for some place safe.
Where you feel like you belong.
It takes time.
Cuts scar over. Bruises vanish.
You stop jumping at every noise.
Eventually, you forget to be afraid, and the worry slowly goes away.
Welcome home.
We Talk
I know it’s impolite to do so, but we talk about you behind your back.
Literally. We stand right behind you and talk about you behind your back.
Oh, you can hear us back here?
What if we whisper. Like this?
Still hear us?
Well, I guess that defeats the purpose of talking about you behind your back if you can hear it.
Maybe if you would lean against a wall and we can talk about you on the other side of the wall?
That’s not the same?
Well, at least our conversation puts your back up against the wall.
Jif Skippy
Girls are not made of sugar and spice and everything nice.
They are made of peanut butter.
You know, If I made a daughter out of peanut butter, I’d name her Jif Skippy.
Because if I made a son out of peanut butter, I’d name him Tom.
No, I wouldn’t name him Peter Pan. Because everyone else making boys out of peanut butter name their boys Peter Pan.
Some use chunky, others use smooth.
I don’t have a preference, as long as it isn’t low-cost generic.
If you’re going to make a daughter out of peanut butter, use quality ingredients.
Feathers
She carries the sack full of feathers.
I carry the fan, dragging a long extension cord behind me.
When we get to the Henderson’s, I set down the fan
She opens up the sack.
I turn on the fan.
It’s loud. Really loud.
The strongest one I could find that I could still carry.
She knocks on the door.
But I can’t hear it. The fan is that loud.
I can’t hear the deadbolt turning and the door opening, either.
But I hear the yelling when she dumps the feathers on the fan.
That’s when the feathers start to fly.
You may now kiss the… WHAT?
I got married in Vegas eleven years ago.
It was a small ceremony. Friends and family.
And a preacher who was drunk out of his fucking mind.
He stumbled and slurred his way through the ceremony, and he couldn’t stop staring down the Maid Of Honor’s dress.
Then, at the end, he said “You may now kiss the bridge.”
“Don’t you mean bride?” I asked.
But by then, he was passed out, and I thought I smelled gas, so we all ran for it before a spark could blow us all to Kingdom Come.
What about the bridge?
Tasted… rusty.
Unfolding
Lao Tsu is a master of the art of Unorigami.
What is Unorigami?
It is the opposite of Origami, the Japanese art of paper-folding.
He can unfold folded paper in a way that you never see a crease. It’s as if the paper was never folded.
He’s so quick, you can toss a paper airplane past him and the next thing you know, a flat sheet of paper wafts slowly to the ground.
For his birthday, I gave him a sweater.
He puts it on and thanks me.
Then he hands back the gift-wrap, spooled around the cardboard tube again.
Eight Weddings And A Funeral
Elizabeth Taylor’s publicist announced that the Academy Award-winning actress died at the age of 79.
What does she do now?
No, not Elizabeth. Her job’s done.
Sure, there will be endorsements, licensing, and re-releases of her movies until the end of time, but that’s for her estate to do. The woman has a funeral or two to attend, and that’s it.
I’m thinking about the publicist. Unless she’s got other clients, her gig’s done.
Some folks are praying for the soul of Elizabeth Taylor.
Me, I’m praying for the publicist. I hope they get work soon in this awful economy.