Tag: cliche

Miracle Season

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Another Opening Day at Wrigley Field, which means another disastrous season for the Cubs.
Ball after ball sails over the brick wall, and fans are booing and leaving before the inning is through.
It was halfway through another losing season that The Miracle happened.
The outfielder with the bloated multiyear contract and batting two hundred chased a fly ball into the ivy… and never emerged.
He was gone.
The umpire stopped the game, and the crew searched.
No sign of the player.
The game was called, and the FBI searched.
They never found him, and his replacement played much better.

Fear itself

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If the only thing we have to fear is fear itself, what about the other emotions?
Is the only thing for us to hate is hate itself?
What about love? Is the only thing we have to love is love itself?
What is the point of an emotion is the only thing you use it for is to use it on itself?
I mean, this kind of thing makes sense when you’re talking about magnets. I love watching magnets flip each other. Or drag them around through glass tables.
But fear, hate, and love?
I’ll hate fear, and love it.

April showers

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“April showers bring May flowers, and May flowers bring pilgrims” says the sampler on my wall.
As I look through this telescope into April’s bathroom, yeah, now you know why I named my cock “Mayflower.”
It used to be named “Norman Goldberg.”
I’m not sure why I named it that.
I don’t know anyone named Norman Goldberg, but a long time ago when I was looking at it, the name just jumped into my head.
I’m glad I changed its name. Would have been embarrassing to meet Norman in the street and say “Hey, that’s what I named my cock!”

Gold sinks

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Remember: Gold sinks and shit floats.
This bit of information will be most helpful when you swallow some gold and wait for it to pass.
My favorite prank is to tell people that I hid some gold bits in their dinner.
For the next few days, they’re all combing through their turds looking for it.
When they accuse me of pulling a prank on them, I say they must have missed the gold bits somehow.
Now, when they all come over for dinner, they pick through their dinner carefully and take tiny bites.
Just in case I do it again.

Why do Mondays suck?

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Why do Mondays suck?
Well, in the old days, when there weren’t many people, God used to make everyone line up single-file every Sunday night.
Then, he’d walk along the line with his Sack Full of Mondays and make everyone pull their Monday out of the bag.
Some were bright and shiny, while others were squelchy and stank like a dead possum.
Over time, the line got too long, and the wait was longer than the rest of the week, so God gave up the practice. Made everyone’s Monday suck.
By the way, Joe, this coffee tastes like dead possum.

Patrick

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Patrick hated St. Patrick’s Day.
Every March, people would start calling him “Saint Patrick” and expect him to wear green.
They’d call him “Paddy” in a really bad Irish brogue, rub their hands through his red hair, and pinch his rosy cheeks.
This year, he caught wind that he was going to be paid in pennies in a pot.
“A pot of gold!” the payroll specialist chirped.
“Pennies are zinc and copper, you idiot!” Patrick shouted.
That’s when he snapped.
That night, carrying a thick sack into the office, Patrick loosened the rope around the end and released the snakes.

Despise

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I despise you now, but one day, I will stop despising you.
You see, I plan on living forever, and once you meet your doom, there’s not much point in despising you, is there?
There will be so many new people, young and fresh, that will need despising and there’s no sense in wasting despise on the dead.
They’re, like, dead, you know? What’s the point in despising a dead person? It’s not like they can feel your despise.
I just wanted you to know.
Here’s your cheeseburger and fries.
Would you like some ketchup and salt for the fries?

The Milk of The Storm

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Why do people rush to buy milk before a snowstorm?
This, we do not know. The invaders stole and destroyed many historical tapestries, and the oral tradition is lost.
Still, when the weather gets cold and the radio says it will blizzard, we rush to buy milk.
Even the lactose intolerant. The urge is deep in our blood. It is second-nature, like sneezing or smiling at babies.
When the snowdrifts rise against windows, we sit in the dark, starting at the milk.
It just sits there… until we pour in cereal…
Like firecrackers! Gunshots!
FIESTA TIME!
Viva la breakfast resolution!

The Clock Struck

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Commissioner Gordon handed Batman the note.
“At half-past twelve, the clock stuck three,” said The Caped Crusader.
“What does that mean?” growled Chief O’Hara.
“I don’t know,” said Batman. “But it’s almost twelve-thirty now.”
Across the street, an explosion rocked the First City Bank Tower.
All three ran to the window, just as the building’s massive clock broke from its moorings and crashed through the office.
Batman. O’Hara. Gordon.
Dead.
Later that evening, Riddler and Joker divvied up the loot.
“I told you it would work,” said the Clown Prince Of Crime. ”Hey, let’s go kill Superman.”
They both laughed.

The Shadow

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The groundhog pokes its nose out from its hole.
It sniffs the air and smells death, millions of times over.
Burning ash in all directions.
Was it an asteroid?
Was it a nuclear war?
To the groundhog, it doesn’t know. Or care.
It doesn’t matter whether it sees its shadow or if there will be six more weeks of winter.
There will be plenty to forage on when the burning storm dies down. Plenty of water in cracked pipes and cisterns to drink.
Unless there are survivors.
Then, it will be hunted.
It goes back into its hole to hide.