The hospital was stuck with a dead old man in its morgue and a dementia-ridden widow.
They left messages at the number on his file, and one day they got a text back with an address to send the body to.
It turned out to be the local zoo’s service entrance.
“They preyed on me for years,” an angry voice said. “Let the animals prey on him.”
The hospital said that was unethical.
“So was he. Put an ad in the paper for necrophiliacs. Ten bucks a fuck. When you have enough, burn him.”
After that, the number was disconnected.
Punch a Nazi in the face
The problem with “Punch a Nazi in the face” is that I think by now, nearly all of them are dead.
And when there were a few alive, the fucking ALCU was defending them in court, lying about them having been Nazis, and so forth.
“Demjanjuk was a kindly sweet old retired autoworker.”
Uh huh.
“Rudolph Hess was just following orders!”
Erm… he was giving them, too, asshole.
Fucking lawyers.
Maybe it should be “Punch fucking lawyers in the face.”
Lawyers, you know who they are.
They have degrees and law licenses.
And in England, they have silly white wigs.
It’s not racist
It’s not racist to use math.
It’s not racist to be on time.
It’s not racist to follow driving rules.
It’s not racist to use proper spelling. Or grammar.
It’s not racist to read and get good grades, and to graduate.
It’s not racist to eat healthy meals.
It’s not racist to go to the doctor. And dentist.
To pay your bills on time, to save money.
To say thank you, and say you’re welcome.
To listen to classical music.
To go outside to talk on the phone.
And it’s not racist to smile and be grateful to be alive.
Natural causes
The ambulance rolled the stretcher in, but the patient was already gone.
An attendant wrapped a barcoded band on the guy’s wrist, and a doctor tapped NEW PATIENT on his pad before tapping the red icon.
Ten hours later, the pathologist looked over the body.
NO PENICILLIN was tattooed on the guy’s ass.
He looked over the chart. Nothing about penicillin. Or anything.
No next of kin. Just his workplace listed as an emergency contact.
“Natural causes” he wrote on the form, and he cut open the chest cavity, weighed some organs, made some other measurements, and closed it up.
Pride about pride
I’m not impressed with a lot of forms of pride.
Especially when it’s pride in an attribute and not an accomplishment.
In the end, most “pride” is about genital attributes.
Their color, their size.
Where your ancestors’ genitals came from.
Or if you’ve had them surgically altered for whatever reason, including an edict from God.
Unless you did it yourself. Then, okay… that’s impressive.
Pride in who or what you like to stick your genitals in or in your genitals is your business, really.
Done it with a few thousand people?
Then you should get checked for herpes right now.
Weekly Challenge #964 – Banana Split
The next topic is Classical music
RICHARD
Rocky’s
Years ago, whenever we had something to celebrate at work, whether a birthday, retirement or any other excuse we could concoct for having a bit of a get-together, there was one go-to place we’d always book for a night out.
An ‘American diner’: a bit of a novelty before the days of ubiquitous burger chains. And it was awesome!
From the plastic tablecloths, to the black and white movie photos on the walls; the top-notch burgers and Red Stripe beer.
Then there was their signature dessert – A banana split, for two.
I always had one to myself!
LIZZIE
“A banana split, please.”
The two witches looked at each other, puzzled.
“We don’t have banana splits.”
“What do you have?”
“We have the Death Cap.”
The customer laughed.
“Autumn Skullcap.”
The customer laughed again.
“And the Destroying Angels special.”
“Fascinating! OK, let’s have the special then.”
“Are you sure?”
The customer nodded.
“I feel adventurous!”
They prepared the potion and watched him trot off, sipping from his bottle of Destroying Angels.
“Did we tell him the mushrooms were poisonous?”
“I don’t think we did and I don’t think he read the sign.”
“We can’t fight stupid, can we?”
“Nope.”
SERENDIPIDY
Take one banana. Peel, and slice lengthways, between which, place three scoops of your favourite ice-cream, top with whipped cream, your sauce of choice, and any toppings you fancy.
Next, force the whole thing, lengthways, down the throat of your victim. Repeat with as many additional bananas required until the recipient chokes to death.
It can get messy, but I think if you’re going to despatch someone, the least you can do is attempt to make it a fairly pleasurable experience.
No good for diabetics though.
In which case, I suggest you substitute the banana splits for hot dogs.
NORVAL JOE
When Sabrina’s sobs had ended, Billbert’s mother helped her up. “We need to get you some clothes.” She amped up her enthusiasm. “We can go to the mall, and while we’re there we can go to Farrell’s and get a banna split.”
As they got close to town, Billbert said, “I’m not really into shopping for girl’s clothes. Would you let me out here?”
Sabrina looked out the window when they pulled over. “This is Mindi’s house.”
Billbert scowled. “She calls herself Mandy, and her dad has been acting so weird, I need to check to see if she’s okay.”
TOM
Midwest Confections
Start with any topic of conversation, at some point a reference to Chicago will pop-up. Take this week’s topic Banana Split. Though it was created in Latrobe it took the drug stores giant Walgreens to put it on the National map. I actually had a Split at Walgreen’s long aluminum dinning counter. The glass dessert boat had Walgreens embossed in the bottom. My best memories of the city are wrapped in childhood confections. Cherries were redder, sweeter and plumper. Butterscotch that could drop a diabetic from 40 yards. A crust of frozen chocolate paper thin. Whipped-cream a foam of sugar
PLANET Z
Midwest Confections
Start with any topic of conversation, at some point a reference to Chicago will pop-up. Take this week’s topic Banana Split. Though it was created in Latrobe it took the drug stores giant Walgreens to put it on the National map. I actually had a Split at Walgreen’s long aluminum dinning counter. The glass dessert boat had Walgreens embossed in the bottom. My best memories of the city are wrapped in childhood confections. Cherries were redder, sweeter and plumper. Butterscotch that could drop a diabetic from 40 yards. A crust of frozen chocolate paper thin. Whipped-cream a foam of sugar
Hurricane Samson
The cyclone hit around midnight.
Winds. Lightning. Tornadoes.
Floods and fires.
A storm surge rolled across the city, smashing buildings and dragging debris out to sea.
Thousands died, thousands more missing and presumed dead.
Hospitals filled up, the bloody and broken spilled out in parking lots.
Bodies laid out in plastic, survivors walking along the rows to identify the dead.
Two couples, arguing over the smashed-up body of a child.
Both claiming it as their own. Shouting and screaming.
A nearby crewman with a chainsaw, clearing debris and fallen trees, chops it in half and orders them all to leave.
Edwin at the bar
They say that Edwin Block didn’t write any of his stories, and that’s true, to a degree.
Edwin would sit at the bar and ramble for hours about things, and Martin the Barkeep wrote everything down he heard.
He couldn’t keep up, so he got a tape recorder, handing the tapes to his wife to transcribe.
Martin got the stories published, and kept the money.
“Edwin only drinks the good stuff, and that’s not cheap.”
After Edwin died, Martin tried to groom other drunks to take his place, but it wasn’t the same.
At least they drank the cheap stuff.
Storyteller circuit
There are ten villages in the Storytellers’ Circuit, one Storyteller for each.
At the end of the year, they load up their wagons and head to the next village.
That way, their stories don’t become old, and they learn new tales from each village they visit.
Usually, the Storytellers arrive within a few days.
But if the Storyteller never arrives, or one dies during his residency, a contest is held in that village.
And a new Storyteller is appointed.
Their forehead branded with The Mark.
And they tell their stories.
Until the year is up, and they begin their journey.
Lonnie the author
Lonnie wrote books, and they were a modest success.
The movies adapted from them were a bigger success than his books.
Box office, awards…
They paid well, but it bothered Lonnie that people preferred to watch others interpretations of his stories than his actual stories.
So, he hired the writer who adapted his books for movies to polish up his next book.
It sold well, as well as the others, but the movie ruled the box office for months, swept the Golden Globes and Oscars.
Lonnie bought a bookstore and retired, signing books for fans, refusing to sign movie posters.