Tag: cliche

Arrows

605013

All of the members of the tribe are expert archers.
Except one.
No matter how much he practices, he misses. Or he breaks the string on his bow.
He falls off of his horse a lot.
Don’t stand behind him when he’s got his tomahawk. His grip’s much too loose.
When asked to scalp an enemy, he merely takes a little bit off of the top and gives an excellent shave.
In fact, he’s got a business on the side. A barber shop in the white man’s settlement.
As for the gambling tables in back, well, that’ll never catch on.

The Three Wise Men

605025

After the Three Wise Men dropped off their gifts for the Baby Jesus, they headed to a brothel for some whoring.
“Did you have to give them all the gold,” said the one who had brought myrrh.
“Do I look stupid?” said the gold-bearer. “I’m a wise man, just like you, but I don’t reek of herbs and funerary resins.”
“Maybe a little,” said the third one.
All three enjoyed a bath together with some of the finest ass Jerusalem had to offer, fucking anything with a price tag on it.
Then they got on their camels and went home.

Wth Daddy

639160

Little Terry was only five, but when mommy asked her what she wanted to do, she said “Go to the moon with Daddy.”
Her mommy smiled, made sure her daughter’s wig was on straight, and checked the IV.
Terminal cancer, while Joe was training.
Two years later, he was wrestling with the controls of the lander.
The retrorockets weren’t firing.
The vessel was falling.
Alarms screaming in his ears, lights flashing everywhere.
Everyone watched on TV.
Except for his wife and daughter.
She’d been cured of the cancer, his wife had divorced him.
She still would get the life insurance.

Everyone’s dying

639166

On the first night of Christmas, my true love gave to me… a cough.
By the fourth night, the virus had spread throughout the neighborhood.
And on the twelfth night, the CDC put the city under quarantine.
Men in Hazmat suits go door to door, picking up bodies and handing out drugs that we know won’t do a damned thing to cure this superbug.
The news says that it’s in Boston, Chicago, Moscow, Tokyo…
The Chinese deny making it. The Arabs blame “Zionist scientists.”
Everyone’s dying.
So is the fire. We put the suicide capsules in egg nog, and drink.

Wigs

639154

I know a man who flips people’s wigs.
Figuratively and literally.
It’s not easy to do these days, considering the complexity of hair weaves and the strength of organic glues, but he’s had a lot of practice and never fails to cause sufficient stupefaction and hairpiece inversion.
Sy Sperling, the hairpiece magnate, and the wig-flipping man are arch-rivals. When Sy creates an unflappable wig, the man stays up nights working out how to flip it.
And he does.
Upon hearing of his latest failure, sure enough, Sy feels a brief rush of air on his scalp.
He’s flipped his wig!

Regifting

639159

Santa slides down the chimney, opens his sack, and puts the presents under the tree.
Then he picks up the presents sitting by the fireplace and stuffs those into his sack.
Back up the chimney, into the sleigh, and the helper-elf double-checks the inventory and flight plans.
“I know that business is bad, Boss, but did you have to add regifting to your services?” asked Twinky.
“Shut up,” said Santa, watching the GPS flash a new destination. The time display next to it flashes an unjolly red. “Fucking eBay.”
He cracks his whip, and the eight miserable reindeer take flight.

Pennies from Heaven

639169

Every time it rains, it rains pennies from Heaven.
Falling like bullets, they pierce umbrellas and shatter car windshields.
Dozens of people don’t make it to shelter and lay in the streets, bleeding or dead.
Birds, too.
After the storm passes, ambulances pick up the injured and dead, and we sweep up the broken glass, tow away wrecked cars, and bag dead animals.
We used to gather up the pennies and head to the bank, but now we bring them to the foundry.
They melt them down for the zinc and copper.
One day, they’ll finish the giant protective dome.

Turning Blue

639162

Tracey shouts that she’s going to hold her breath until she turns blue if she doesn’t get her way.
Fine, I say. Go ahead and do that.
So, she does. She holds her breath and after five minutes she turns a bright shade of blue.
She stares at me, her eyes bulging.
I stare back, sticking my tongue out at her and breathing normally.
“This air sure is delicious,” I say. “Since you’re not using any, all the more for me.”
I walk around, taking deep breaths, sighing with satisfaction.
Tracey’s passed out on the floor, turning pink again.
Dumbass.

The Death of Walter

639169

Walter ran with a tough crowd.
They were the Boston Mafia, jogging through their Framingham neighborhood in the morning, bodyguards forming a protective cloud.
Once, Walter was out jogging on his own, and he crossed paths with that Mafia group.
The bodyguards checked him for weapons, recognized him from the travel agency, and invited him along.
Now, in an era of online airline reservations, Walter still got steady business from this group. Cruises and extended vacations, a little something extra for a private villa for a week.
And Walter never testified against them.
They killed him anyway.
It’s only business.

High-Five

639159

Grampa only had one last bit of advice for me before he died: “Never high-five a pirate.”
Then, he died.
Grampa was always good for stupid, useless advice.
According to him, you should never cook sea urchins on a Thursday. As if I’d cook them on any day of the week? They’re disgusting!
He also said that Van Gogh was smart. Cutting off your ear to impress a chick is a lot smarter than cutting off his balls like Picasso did.
“But Picasso never castrated himself,” I said.
Grampa just lit his pipe, blew a cloud of smoke, and winked.