So I’m shopping for a new turban, minding my own business, when this American starts chasing these guys with a huge basket.
He’s lashing a bullwhip around like a five-tongued frog in a fly swarm.
Allah, how I hate tourists!
So, the crowd gets out of my way, and I pull out my scimitar.
Yeah, my Dad gave this to me. Great balance, huh?
Anyway, I wave it around a bit. I figure it’ll scare him off or something.
The crowd eats it up, and suddenly the crazy son of a bitch shoots me.
So, Allah, where’s my seventy-two virgins?
Want to know your future?
Well, some psychics read tealeaves. Others read palms.
I know a few who even still read those goofy Tarot cards.
My pal Elmo’s different. He calls himself the Whizzing Wizard. Or the Whizzard for short.
He can tell your future by drinking your urine.
Not directly, mind you. He’s got a silver bowl to drink it out of.
Other psychics think it’s awful. They call him “Trickle Me Elmo.”
But they’re just jealous, because he’s pretty damned accurate.
Elmo’s problem is he charges a bloody fortune for his services.
But, hey, can you blame him?
Les Nessman didn’t feel like he had to share an office with others, so he had tape on the floor to lay out the boundaries of his imaginary office.
Pathetic, but amusing.
What if Les Nessman had been sent to Iraq to cover Saddam’s genocidal campaign against the Marsh Arabs and had ended up in a mass grave with tens of thousands of other victims? Would he have marked out the boundaries of his own “personal grave” to set him apart from the others he was forced to share a grave with?
Of course not, stupid. Because he’d be dead.
The Librarian grabbed Abe with a slimy, long-taloned paw and dragged him to a large trap door.
“The special stacks are down there,” he said, handing the president a torch.
“Are you absolutely certain I’ve never read any of these books before?” asked Abe.
“Many of these volumes have never been read by human eyes,” said The Librarian. “Yours shall be the first, if you survive.”
“You truly are a best friend,” said Abe.
He rolled up his sleeves, pulled open the trap door, and descended the stone staircase.
Bizarre titles twisted in the flickering torchlight.
Abe giggled with glee.
I have no memory of Venice.
I’ve been told that I’ve been there. Twice. But aside from this pair of scars on my temple and two receipts from Lethe Incorporated, I really can’t tell you anything about it.
However, every time I see the Rialto or St. Marks in a movie or in an article I’m looking up, I get that odd sense of familiarity. As familiar as my own breathing.
And I want to go back. For the first time. Again.
You know, there’s that hotel in Vegas that looks like Venice.
I should go there instead.
“Voltmaster hates visitors!” The Hermit growled. “Cautions to you!”
Sir Arthur nodded. “Wear my magic helmet, Lucy.”
For hours they walked through Grimwood.
Then, they came to a clearing.
Within, Voltmaster’s Watchtower stretched into the stormy sky.
“Shall I knock?” said Arthur.
“Is it safe?” asked Lucy.
Before Arthur could respond, lightning struck the tower, shattering the battlements and raining stones on the couple.
“I guess not,” said Lucy. “Arthur?”
He lay dead on the ground, skull crushed.
Safe at home, she put a penny in the fusebox.
The Caesar Chavez Middle School Spelling Bee was drawing to a close. Twenty-three kids had left the stage, and it was down to Shirley and Humberto.
Once again, a blue card was drawn from the deck on the podium.
“The word is insomnia,” said the judge. “Insomnia”
Shirley took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Insomnia,” she shouted. “I-N-S…”
The auditorium burst into chaos. Half the audience raced to the exits. The other half drew guns and shouted various curses in Spanish.
The Spelling Bee judge sighed. “I hate holding these things in San Diego.”
Eventually, Humberto won.
I work for a winery in California, answering the calls on the 800-number.
Most of the calls are complaints, but every now and then I get a world-class weirdo.
Just this morning, someone asks, “What sort of wine goes with donkey?”
Now, I’m no expert, but a bunch of experts wrote up a list of what goes with what.
We’ve got different kids of steaks, all sorts of chicken dishes, and even suggestions for squid and octopus…
“Nothing for donkey,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Fine,” says the caller. “I’ll serve beer. Thank you.”
And he hangs up.
I need a vacation.
Most people see pink elephants when they’re drunk, but tonight I saw a pink donkey.
“What’s the deal?” I asked the pink donkey.
Ever seen a donkey shrug before? Well, now I have.
“Blame George Soros,” said the pink donkey. “He’s been buying up liquor stocks and forcing the companies to add a special secret ingredient that turns pink elephants into pink donkeys.”
“So everybody sees pink donkeys now?” I asked.
“Nope,” said the donkey. “Just the drunks in the red states.”
“Is it safe?” I asked.
“Hell no,” said the donkey. “You’ll be dead in minutes. Hillary in 2008!”
Mohammed loaded the donkey with explosives, said his final prayers, and headed for the checkpoint.
“The Zionist infidels will drown in their own blood,” he mumbled.
Mohammed was tempted to squeeze the trigger early, but Achmed had
said “At the front of the line!”
“But what of the people in line?” he had asked Achmed.
“Seventy-two virgins for each,” was the response.
“And the donkey?” he asked.
“Seventy-two virgins for him, too.”
“Next!” yelled the soldier.
Suprised, Mohammed looked around and squeezed.
The next day, soldiers surrounded Achmed.
He didn’t surrender.
“Seventy-two virgins for him,” mumbled Mohammed.