Tag: tragedy

Johnny comes marching home…

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When Johnny comes marching home again, we won’t be singing Hurrah Hurrah.
No, we’ll be waiting behind the woodshed with knives.
Johnny may think he’s a big hot-shot war hero, but his brothers who went to the front with him sent back letters saying otherwise.
A lousy shot.
A worthless coward.
A loose-lipped traitor.
He may think he made the explosion look like an artillery shell accident, but Tomkins saw it. And he sent the letter before Johnny finished him off, too.
We hear his horse come up the path, draw our knives, and his whistling grows louder.
STAB HIM!

Money

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I know one guy who’s just rolling in money
No, I’m not rolling in money. And even if I were, I don’t think rolling in money is a very productive thing to do.
Invest it. Spend it. Save it.
But roll in it?
That’s just weird.
Then there’s the guy with money to burn.
That’s just fucking crazy. Burning money.
Sometimes, he dangles the money over the flame to tease me.
Once these two guys got together, and they ended up rolling in burning money.
I grabbed what I could, buried the charred corpses, and bought a ticket to Reno.

Easter Aftermath

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Easter is not a holiday I look forward to.
The kids want baby chicks and bunnies, but that the dog might not get along with them.
The dog I walk. And feed.
They cry. I tell them to shut up and go to their rooms.
This year, Joey got special candy, being diabetic and all, but his sister Sally shared some of hers with him.
Instead of hunting for eggs, we rushed to the Emergency Room.
When we got home, the dog had eaten all the chocolate and was lying on the carpet, dead.
Better him that Joey, I thought.

Clown Fights

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Billy and Bobby live next door to each other. They have the same birthday, too.
That’s caused problems.
You see, Billy and Bobby hate each other. And those feelings boil over when they have their birthday parties.
One year, they each got a pony. Cute, right?
Wrong. It ended up in a jousting duel.
This year, they’ve each got clowns. Bobby slashing Billy’s clown’s tires got things off on the wrong floppy-shoed foot.
The rubber chickens and balloon animals are flying. I’ve seen a few clods of dirt and bricks.
Better bring the cake inside. And get me my shotgun.

Olympic Medalist

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Sally trained hard for years, dreaming of the day that she’d win the gold at the Olympics.
Her family sacrificed so much for her, giving up so much so she’d have the best trainer and the best equipment.
They paid off the Board Of Education so that her training would count as school credits.
No need for math and science when there’s a medal to be won, right?
Which, that summer, she won.
And promptly then fell off the medal podium, shattering her leg.
No endorsements. No career.
Nothing.
For years, she used that medal to scratch off lottery tickets.

The Right Religion

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After thousands of years of praying, sacrificing, killing, maiming, and suffering through gospel music, mankind had finally determined which of all religions was the right one.
The Global Address System, normally reserved for planetwide emergencies, was turned on as the researchers revealed their findings.
“We have determined that the Supreme Being is the 2917k5b Asteroid,” they said. “This mighty rock may not be the creator of our universe, but it will certainly be our destruction.”
Riots and chaos spread across the globe, and billions of people died.
“Nice joke there, Dr. Walters,” said a scientist. “Solved that pesky population problem.”

The Orange Hair

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While I’m at work, the cat sleeps on my pillow all day.
I know this, because his long orange hair is all over the pillow when I get home.
I brush it off, roll up the clumps, and put them in the trash.
I go through this every day, going to work and coming back to find that my pillow had been shed on.
Beats having cat piss or cat shit on the pillow, right?
So I called an exorcist.
You see, the cat died three years ago, and as much as I miss him, I want this to stop.

Fuzzy Cheese

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Robert’s in his eighties, so you can’t blame him for having his share of “senior moments.”
The other day, he was carrying around a small wheel of moldy cheese, petting it and calling it “Mister Whiskers.”
Seems he was remembering an orange cat from his from his childhood, he forgot to put on his glasses, and the hairy hunk of Cheddar just got his broken imagination going again.
Still, it’s not as bad as when he tried to French the stove or hump the dishwasher.
We’d put him in a rest home, but we’re a little worried about the appliances.

The Overcoat

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For a century, Danny O’Bannon’s overcoat hung on a hook in O’Bannon’s Bar.
His great-grandson Timothy stared at it and then the contract on his desk.
Danny also liked to gamble, but Danny picked winners.
“Just sign it, Tim,” said the lawyers for the development company. “We’ll take care of the rest.”
Tim picked up the pen and wrote his name at the bottom of the contract.
When the lawyers left, Timothy put on the overcoat and looked for the old hurricane lantern.
One flick of the lighter, and the old bar was in flames.
And O’Bannon’s was no more.

The Voter

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The moron holds a ballot in his hand, looking down the list of names.
It doesn’t make a lick of difference. The moron does not know how to read.
He refuses to admit it, though. He’s too proud to admit it.
He also doesn’t watch the news on television. He likes to watch sports and movies.
As long as they don’t require much thinking, he’s fine. Never did like thinking much.
He steps into an open booth next to yours and begins to punch out his choices.
And in the end, his vote counts as much as yours.
Tragic, no?