Tag: cliche

Keep it under your hat

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Whenever someone tells me to keep a secret, they tell me to keep it under my hat.
The problem is, there’s only so much room under my hat for everybody’s secrets.
I ask them if I can put it under someone else’s hat, and they tell me no. It needs to be my hat. They trust me and me alone.
Fine.
What if I get a bigger hat? Is that okay?
Yes, they say.
So I trade in my hat for a stovepipe hat.
The rest is history. I became President, and that’s when I really needed to keep secrets.

Forgetful

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Despite his many failures in all fields of Science, Dr. Odd maintains his keen sense of irony.
His greatest triumph in botany was the splicing and resequencing the DNA of forget-me-not flowers to cause them to naturally produce a compound similar to GHB.
One whiff of the flowers would prevent two to four hours of memory from sticking to the brain.
Dr. Odd forgot to wear a filter mask during his research, so even with extensive notes, it took years to complete.
And when he finished these sinister frankenflowers, he couldn’t remember that he invented them in the first place.

The bases

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Everybody knows The Bases, right?
You do? Good.
Well, this being 2010, the bases have changed, and it’s girls running the basepaths of the guys.
First base is the guy’s passwords so you can check his email and Facebook to make sure he isn’t cheating.
Second base is the guy’s credit card. He’s supposed to pay for everything anyway, right?
Third base is his car keys, because when you’re drunk you don’t want to wreck your car.
Home plate? Why on Earth would you want to fuck a wimp who gives up his passwords, credit cards, and keys so easy?

Sylvia

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On my screen, the auction timer crawled down to zero.
I won! I won!
I paid the seller, insisting on overnight delivery.
They accepted. Unlike when I offered to buy it outright for a thousand dollars.
They said they’d risk their rating.
Jerk!
I’ve wanted this all my life. I can’t wait another day.
The next day, I grab the box out of the postman’s hands, tear it open and pull out…
Sylvia Plath’s oven mitts!
I can’t wait to cook with them.
I turn on the oven… and…
Oh, what’s the use?
Goodbye, cruel world.
(And enjoy the cookies.)

The Eye

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For as long as I’ve known him, Jose’s worn a black eyepatch over his right eye.
I’ve never asked him how he lost his eye, and he’s never volunteered that information.
He just looks at me with his one eye and grins.
After fifty years, I’m looking down at him in his coffin, both eyes closed and no eyepatch.
I asked the funeral home director about the eyepatch. Did they put an artificial eye in the socket before closing it?
Nope. Eye was just as fine as the other one.
I guess he liked it, and it just looked good.

Metaphysical Therapy

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Mother was a Freudian psychiatrist.
Every time she tried to analyze me, she’d say “Tell me about your mother.”
And I’d say “Um, mom? That’s you, stupid!”
She’d nod. And then I’d be sent to bed without dinner.
Later, after I busted my knee and had surgery, I ended up with a metaphysical therapist.
Instead of building strength in my knee with exercise, we debated the nature of all existence and if it was still my knee or something entirely new.
Not only did I end up totally confused, the damn thing still hurts like a son of a bitch.

Bother The Shit

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My Uncle Leo bothers the shit out of me.
He literally bothers the shit out of everyone.
Yes, he’s a professional constipation remedy.
He’s most effective when he bothers the shit out of you in person, but he’s so bothersome, he can do it over the phone or even by email.
There’s recordings of Uncle Leo on the Internet being sold without his permission, but they’re not as effective as the real thing.
And some of them are downright dangerous, remixed to the point where he literally bothers the hell of you.
Try closing that dimensional portal in your ass!

Dragged through the mud

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I like to drag people’s names through the mud.
So, when it rains, I gather up the phonebooks and drag them through the mud.
People think I’m just playing in the mud and they point and laugh at me, but the joke is on them!
Unless they have an unlisted number, their names are being dragged through it.
I have an unlisted number, so I’m not dragging my name through the mud.
I’m as clean as a whistle.
Well, except for this mud on me. But you can’t avoid getting mud on you when you drag names through the mud.

Cheap Knives

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You can tell the class of friends you have by the quality of knife they stick in your back.
Sterling silver is the best. Those are the ones you forgive.
Stainless steel, maybe you don’t forgive them so quickly.
And plastic knives, those you should have never been friendly with in the first place.
The kind of knife matters, too.
A carving knife or a butcher’s knife lets you know they really care, while a butter knife will just slide right off no matter what it’s made of.
So that spork you stuck in my back, that’s low, man. Low.

The Brass Medusa

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I love statues.
But I always wonder about how they’re posed.
Usually, they’re just standing there, looking pompous or proud.
Or they’re on a horse. A leg or two up.
Sometimes, I envision the ancient Medusa, slithering around the early American colonies, staring at famous Founding Fathers and her gaze transforming them into brass.
Then I realize that they’d have their hands up, faces frozen in fright.
If I ever get famous to the point of earning a statue in my honor, that’s how I want to be depicted: like something horrible and scary turned me to brass or stone.