Tag: commentary

Halloween and Black Cats

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This is my first Halloween owning a black cat.
Two of them, actually.
They’re indoor-outdoor cats, and they don’t like being cooped up.
But letting them out on Halloween, well, I’ve heard stories.
Bad stories.
Teenagers killing them and mutilating them and setting them on fire and leaving the corpses on doorsteps.
No, I’d rather that not happen to these cats.
So, they’re staying inside.
The orange cat, well, he can go outside all he wants.
The black cats look out the window and whine. On the other side, the orange cat flicks his tail proudly and goes off hunting.

Heaven and Hell

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John Lennon was half-right.
There is no Hell below us. That’s actually where Heaven is.
But above us, there isn’t only sky. In the void between the stars, that’s where condemned souls wander for all eternity.
Heaven is right under our feet, safe in the dirt. That is why we bury our dead, you know. To send them to their Heavenly reward.
It doesn’t quite work out for those who have led wicked lives. Their souls rise up, up through the clouds and into the cold vastness of space.
They never return, they never arrive anywhere.
Scattered, cast away forever.

The Forgotten Birthday

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When a school is named after someone famous, the staff usually goads the students into some kind of birthday celebration to commemorate all the things that person did for society.
However, when that birthday falls on a holiday like Christmas or comes up during the summertime, it usually passes unobserved.
Not on my watch.
When I was named principal of this school, I took on a sacred oath.
Yes, he was born on the Fourth of July. Fireworks, right?
Wrong. The city hosts the fireworks display elsewhere.
I will do them here, at Yankee Doodle Dandy Elementary, do or die.

Losing Faith

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His Holiness woke up after surgery to find himself watched by his assistant.
“We prayed for your recovery,” said his secretary. “We are delighted that The Lord has seen fit to deliver you back to us.”
The Pope raised an eyebrow. “It was the doctors, not The Lord,” he said tersely.
The assistant left the room to speak to the lead surgeon. “I fear you cut too deep,” he said.
The surgeon agreed. “That region of the brain is strongly tied to Faith. Damage can result in this behavior.”
“Or death,” suggested the assistant. “Make it painless and quick, please.”

Bigfoot

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Deep in the woods, Bigfoot sits on a rock and stares at his humongous feet.
Exhausted from the constant chase by photographers and scientists, he pondered the meaning of life.
“Pedicure,” he growls.
A branch snaps.
Bigfoot crawls under a fallen tree trunk.
The leaves rustle, and then a deer approaches.
Bigfoot sighs. Is he paranoid? Is everything a potential threat now?
“Zoloft,” he grumbles.
He shakes dandruff from his fur, ponders using a sharp rock to shave it off, join a circus as a giant, or play basketball.
Do they make shoes his size?
Another branch snaps.
He hides.

Cloak And Dagger

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All she wore was a cloak and a dagger.
And nothing else.
The CIA Recruiting Officer shook his head and pointed at the door.
“What’s wrong?” the rejected candidate said with a whine.
“It’s not literally cloak-and-dagger,” said the officer. “It’s just a saying.”
“Fine,” she said. She put down the dagger and took off the cloak. “What kind of job can I get with this?”
The officer checked a telephone directory and dialed.
After a few minutes, he smiled and unfolded a map.
“The White House is marked with a red X,” he said. “Ask for Bill. Good luck.”

The Lighter

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Down in the dungeon, the witch stirs up a boiling cauldron full of jokes
“We stir to keep the lighter jokes from floating to the top and staying there,” says Hildegard the Wicked. “Only when the jokes are finished do we skim them from the top.”
I’ve asked her what she puts in the pot to make the jokes, but she never reveals her secret.
“You don’t want to know,” she says. “Just drink the potions I give you and be happy with it.”
Sure, I’ll drink it, but I won’t be happy with it.
Funny, yes. But not happy.

Poetry and Coffee

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She asks me which I would rather have: good poetry and bad coffee, or bad poetry and good coffee.
“Why not good poetry and good coffee?” I ask. “Can’t you do both?”
It turns out, not only is she the waitress but she’s also a poet. “I don’t have time for both,” she says. “I can either concentrate on the coffee or write really good poetry.”
“Coffee,” I say.
“But this coffee will last only an hour or so,” she says. “My poetry will last for generations, long after I’m dead.”
I shrug. “I guess they won’t tip you either.”

Under Observation

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We watch everything you do.
We listen to everything you say.
We read everything you write.
We know everywhere you go.
And after all this time, we’ve come to the simple conclusion that you’re the most boring person on Earth.
You don’t do anything interesting at all. We haven’t filed a single report on you in all the time you’ve been under observation.
You’re an easy assignment. Boring, but easy.
So we’re just going to ignore the fact that you’re dead and just keep filing the same reports over and over.
You won’t mind.
Because you’re dead.
That’s… our secret.

Billybob Steak

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It was the biggest steak Paul had seen in his life.
“Eat all of the Billybob Big Steak, and you get it for free,” said the waiter.
“Really?”
“Really.”
So, Paul picked up his fork and knife and went to work.
He didn’t think he could do it, but after an hour there was one bite of steak left.
He put it on his fork, stuck it in his mouth, and swallowed.
“I win!” he said, and the piece of steak caught in his throat.
As hard as the waiter tried, Paul still choked to death.
Billybob catered the funeral.