I knew I’d win. Inviting the jury to a party at my ranch did the trick.
Surprisingly, none of them tattled on me, despite huge rewards those nasty tabloids offered.
My fans, they love me.
It’s hard to celebrate, though. My back is killing me, but the pills they give me don’t help anymore.
They aren’t completely useless, though. Mix them right, and you get GHB. That takes care of the memories.
A nice hot shower washes away the physical evidence.
But never mind all that. Thanks for helping me with my pants, Johnny. Now help me with my shirt.
Studies have shown that playing classical music causes a plant to grow faster and stronger than if a plant is raised in an environment with rock and roll music, noise, or complete silence.
It turns out that the same goes for babies. Classical music makes them grow quickly and in good health.
And if you pump the music in directly through headphones, you block out the crying noises of other babies, which turns out to be somewhat infectious and irritating.
Nice, juicy babies.
Removing the hair and bones cleanly and rapidly through automation is something we’re still working on, however.
“Fifty billion” said Thabo, watching the telly of the G-8 press conference.
“That’s an awful lot of jack,” said Mohammed. He crushed his soda can and tossed it into the wastebasket. “Awful nice of the blokes to offer it up. So, how do we get our mitts on it?”
“We just need a name, a flag, and a big enough bag,” said Thabo.
Mohammed reached into the wastebasket.
“Daliwali,” he read from the can.
“Pretty.” Thabo smiled. “How about the flag?”
Seven hours and two suit rentals later, they were heading to Edinburgh.
All in the good name of Daliwali.
The legendary Wild Journalist was renowned for its drab plumage, tireless hunting of facts, and hard-nosed competitive nature.
Down through the ages, onlookers would stand in awe of its relentless pursuit of news, serving the public’s interests by seeking out and spearing vermin among public office and commerce with acid tongue and razor-sharp wit. No community was complete without its population of Wild Journalists serving to guard them from vicious predators.
Once common, today the Wild Journalist’s numbers have greatly declined in recent years, thinned by various domesticated breeds: Celebrity Asskissers, Empty-suited Egos, Craven Appeasers, Corporate Tools, and Agenda-Driven Propagandists.
Bond held up the gun and raised an eyebrow.
“Excuse me, R,” he said. “What does this do again?”
“Pay attention, Double Oh-Seven!” admonished R. “First, it kills a person for just ten minutes. Then, it turns their hands bright orange, enough to see from 8 kilometers away.”
“Eight kilometers?” asked Bond. “Lovely.”
“Of course, it also turns your hands blue,” said R. “And you get only one shot.”
Bond put the gun down and sighed.
He looked around Q’s old lab, tables piled with other useless creations of R.
“I miss you, Q,” he muttered. “This fucker’s a loony.”
“Welcome home, Sir” said the staff. “The Lincoln Bedroom is unavailable, but you can sleep here.”
Bill held up the sweat-soaked pillow, sniffed it, and tossed it back on the stained lumpy mattress.
Oh, the indignity.
First, he had to sleep on the floor when he was off touring the tsunami-stricken areas of the Indian Ocean.
But now, after all those years of sleeping in the master bedroom of the White House, he was consigned to this disgusting closet.
The Millard Fillmore “Suite.”
Eight years of lousy tips, back to haunt him.
Time to find an intern and a cigar.
It’s morning in Guantanamo Bay Prison. Wakey wakey, everyone.
Normally the guards yank a detainee out of their cell, strip them, put a frilly dress on them, and parade them around the camp.
However, it’s the Fourth Of July, and things get a little patriotic.
“Open 157!” shouts a voice.
Mohammed rips another page out of his Koran, sighing. He’s used to the drill.
“Forget the beard,” says a corporal.
Mohammed goes limp, letting them clothe him in the red, white, and blue suit.
“Now get on the stilts, Uncle Sam,” said the lieutenant. “And mind the hat. It’s windy.”
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
It’s not easy for a strand of spaghetti to confess his sins, let alone sin.
But somewhere between the pasta factory and the boiling salted water, I engaged in horrific, lewd, and perverted acts in my box with the stockgirl whilst on the grocer’s shelf that I dare not mention.
I thought that the tomato sauce and grated Parmesan would cover all of this up, but I realize now that I cannot hide my transgressions in the eyes of The Lord.
Please put that fork down and take a moment to forgive me.
Other kids had Christmas Trees.
I had a Menorah.
No, I didn’t have a Hannukah Bush. We never had a Hannukah Bush.
What’s the origins of that stupid Hannukah Bush anyway? The Menorah represents the Burning Bush, so what is this other bush for?
Next thing you know, they’ll dress some jackass in a blue suit and call him Rabbi Goldstein or something.
Can we look forward to Ramadan Ralph putting presents by an ivy-covered trellis?
How about a Buddhist Bob passing out Zen Candy in an algae-covered dish?
Whatever happened to Holiday Spirit? Good Will? All that Jazz?
Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be, thought Abe, and he sat in his chair and smiled.
“I am very happy,” he said to his wife.
“Any particular reason why you’re happy?” asked Mary Todd.
“Because I have decided to be happy,” said Abe. “I have made my mind up, and I will be happy.”
Mary Todd smiled.
“Why are you smiling?” asked Abe.
“The voices in my head have stopped screaming,” said Mary Todd. “They’re now reading the newspaper aloud.”
“Let me know when you get to the sports section,” said Abe.