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.
Patty? Yeah, I knew her. She was always a bit dyke-y.
Her parents were so in denial. They were always joking about her being a tomboy.
She’d grow out of the sandals and flannel shirts some day. Despite always running him down, that Chuck kid would make a good boyfriend, perhaps?
Instead, she turned to me. And heroin.
God, she was fun, but I swear I tried to get her to go clean. I really did.
I was the one who found her body, the needle still hanging out of her arm.
I wonder what Velma’s doing tonight.
“The circus is coming to town!” the kids shouted.
It was nice to hear that sort of thing these days. With videogames and the Internet, wholesomeness like kids getting excited by the circus coming to town was refreshing.
Of course, nobody was looking forward to the circus itself, but what happened while the circus was in town.
Stampeding elephants down Main Street.
Murder-suicides among the sideshow freaks.
Food poisoning scares on the Midway.
And just because you can stuff twenty drunk clowns into a sedan, it doesn’t mean everybody gets a seatbelt.
You can’t fault the EMTs for laughing, though.
Suzy wasn’t cheap, but the Boosters were picking up the tab.
Every year, the same thing. Sort of a graduation ceremony for the football team.
She still had a scar on her lip from last year, thanks to a quarterback with a piercing and a thing for slapping.
They paid her double to keep her mouth shut, so to speak.
This time, it was behind the Science Building. Suzy found it funny that some didn’t even know where it was despite getting A’s and B’s from there.
She heard a zipper.
“Showtime,” she sighed, as the line started to move.