When the angry voices in his head came back, Harry checked himself into the hospital.
The doctors tried a variety of medicines, but they made the voices angry.
So, the doctors took Harry to an amusement park. And the voices had a good time.
Then, they had Harry try out for Jeopardy as a contestant. The voices helped him with the answers, and he won match after match.
Harry should have become rich on the winnings, but the show found out about the voices and claimed he was cheating.
Harry checked himself into the hospital, soaked in Alex Trebek’s blood.
Tag: sick
Play With Fire
Other kids played with action figures and board games.
I played with fire.
Fire was fun and cheap. And it was so much more fun than action figures and board games.
And it was great for ending arguments.
Paper beats rock, rock beats scissors, scissors beat paper, and fire beats them all.
Water beats fire?
No! Fire boils water and turns it to steam. Fire beats water.
I’ve heard people say that children shouldn’t play with fire, but fire has no warning labels on it.
That must mean that fire is safe for all ages, right?
Here’s some fire… enjoy!
Peaches
Peaches. Peaches.
Fucking peaches.
Motherfucking peaches.
Mother-fucking peaches.
Goddamned motherfucking peaches.
Goddamned, piece of shit, motherfucking peaches.
Goddamned, piece of shit, mother-fucking peaches.
Fucking peaches.
Mother-fucking peaches.
Goddamned, worthless, piece of shit, motherfucking peaches.
Goddamned, worthless, piece of shit, cocksucking motherfucking peaches.
Peaches. Peaches.
Fucking peaches.
Motherfucking peaches.
Mother-fucking 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
With you
Up your ass.
Up motherfucking ass.
Shoved up your motherfucking ass.
Crazy One
My sister has severe brain damage.
The surgeries to keep her condition from getting worse have made her unstable.
And the medicine makes her even more unstable.
So when she calls someone fucking crazy, they’re really fucking crazy.
Or are they?
The fact that she’s unstable, brain damaged, and perpetually drugged to the gills casts doubt on her credibility, right?
She can’t even identify colors. Or order anything other than a Big Mac and fries without freaking out.
No, she is the crazy one. Not me.
The voices agree with me, too. I’m not crazy at all.
Not one bit.
Term Limits
Every Thursday afternoon, Congress empties out, and races to Reagan National for flights to their home districts.
Some would say this is to get the hell back home, but it’s really so that they can get back for an early start on weekend campaign fundraising.
I did a little fundraising of my own, too. On Kickstarter.
The project was to create medical nanobots, but there are so many other uses for these little buggers.
Project Term Limits: nanobots in the fuel supply for all these jet planes. To crash them.
When the last plane takes off, I send the signal.
Camus and Sisyphus
Sisyphus groaned as he leaned into the boulder.
The stone bit into his scarred flesh, blood welling from ancient wounds.
Just when he thought he couldn’t push any more, the boulder finally began to move uphill.
Every inch of motion was agony to Sisyphus’s soul, but he could not stop.
The Gods had stripped him of reason and logic, leaving him with just compulsion and suffering.
When he got to the top, Albert Camus slapped him on the back.
“Well done!” he said, and he pushed the boulder back down the hill.
Sisyphus screamed and chased it.
Camus laughed, jealously.
Elf Cookies
Keebler would have you believe that elves make the best cookies.
And they’re right. Just not in the way they think.
You see, Santa Claus runs a massive elven eugenics program up there at his North Pole workshop.
He’s managed the toymaking bloodlines for centuries, breeding the best toymakers and weeding out the clumsy elves.
Clumsy elves are ground up to make elf flour for cookie dough.
They make the best cookies.
So, next Christmas Day, when you unwrap a present to reveal a broken toy or a lousy knit sweater, don’t cry.
Have yourself a cookie.
Isn’t failure delicious?
Radical Feminist Christmas Joke
The pastor asked the kids why God made Mary pregnant and had her give birth to Jesus.
One boy said it was to give His son to the world.
Another said it was so Jesus could heal the sick.
One girl said it was so Jesus could die for our sins.
The last girl said it was because God was too much of a chickenshit to go through nine months of pregnancy and ten hours of labor Himself.
“Goddamned feminists,” mumbled the preacher.
The kid kicked and screamed as a pair of burly rectors dragged the kid to “Time Out.”
The knockout reindeer game
The other reindeer made fun of Rudolph and wouldn’t let him play in their reindeer games.
So, Rudolph hung out with ghetto elves on the South side of the North Pole.
Which, if you know your geography, is all around the North Pole.
They had the North Pole surrounded.
When the other reindeer went into the ghetto to get the drugs that let them fly, Rudolph and the ghetto elves played The Knockout Game with them.
Down went Donner. And Cupid. And Comet. And Vixen.
The gang took their fancy harnesses and shiny silver bells.
Silver bells. Ting a ling.
No such thing
There is no such thing as Santa.
Well, not anymore.
The real Santa died centuries ago.
Ever since then, a series of impostors took his place, dressing up and playing the part.
Some did it well. Others did it just for the thrill. Or to escape justice.
The elves covered for the bad ones. They pretty much run the show, these days.
Santa’s a symbol. A figurehead. A patsy.
It’s the elves you need to keep a watch for.
Santa, you see everywhere.
“Helpers” you see too.
But true elves?
Never. Nobody sees them.
And lives to talk about it.