When Bacon Man
Has no bacon
He grabs a bottle
Of bacon-flavored syrup
Made by Torani
The syrup experts
And with his
Mighty fist
Twists off the cap
While cursing the world
For the lack
Of real
God’s-honest bacon
Within reach
“Where is my bacon?”
Shouts Bacon Man
“What is Bacon Man
Without bacon?”
Nobody answers
He stares
Angrily
At the bottle
Raises it
To his lips
And drinks
It’s not bacon
But it’s bacon enough
For Bacon Man
He drinks
And drinks
And drinks
Until the bottle
Is empty
Bacon Man belches
Drops the bottle
And sits there
Scowling
Tag: silly
Mr. Eight Ball
Captain Infinity signed for the package, closed the door, and went into the kitchen for a boxcutter.
When he finally pulled out his new costume, he was horrified.
Black jumpsuit, white circle on the chest, and a golden 8 in the circle.
He dialed the customer service number on the invoice, and wasted the next 2 hours getting the run-around with the costume manufacturer and his credit card company.
The replacement wouldn’t arrive for two weeks.
He sighed, put on the costume, and met with the Avengers.
“Are we behind the Eight Ball today?” Iron Man sneered.
Captain Infinity fumed.
The Killing Stone
Ever kill two birds with one stone?
It’s not that hard to do, really.
Especially if they’re chickens. Bashing in their heads with a stone is really easy.
In fact, if you’ve got them trapped in the coop, you can pretty much wipe out the whole flock with one stone.
Dropping a large paving stone on a bamboo cage full of finches or parakeets will take out half a dozen easily.
Ostriches are another case entirely. Those, you have to wait until they’re asleep, and take really careful aim before hitting them.
Otherwise, they’ll kill one human with one kick.
The Gallery
Art thieves hit the gallery last night, stealing every painting out of their frames.
The owner of the gallery called the police, and then called the insurance company.
No answer.
The cops looked at the insurance policy.
“Oh, it’s from that company,” they said. “We busted them last month. It’s worthless.”
The gallery owner panicked and looked around…
The frames! The frames are still there!
He called his engraver and worked up new signage that showcased the ornate frames the thieves left behind.
Their avant-garde show “Focus On The Frame” was a success.
Until the dastardly frame thieves showed up.
Generous With Words
The fool is most generous with his words, a flood of nonsense and spittle spills from his lips.
I pull out a handkerchief, wipe my face, and try to maintain my smile.
Thankfully, he does not test my comprehension of his prattle, but merely asks if I understand.
“Yes,” I say. “Do go on.”
Sadly, he does, and I am subjected to more nonsense, more unwelcome moisture, and occasional stray bits of gristle.
“Try fainting,” whispers Duchess Morgan in my ear.
I roll my eyes and go limp.
Servants “revive” me as the fool moves on to his next victim.
It’s Winter somewhere
Doris opens a beer, puts it in front of me.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” she says, and she opens one for herself.
I drink, and wonder if it’s Winter somewhere.
“Well, it’s Summer here, so maybe in Australia?”
I nod, pick up the phone, and try to remember if I know someone in Australia.
I check my contacts, look through my email, searched my Facebook friends…
It used to be you used phones to call people.
I put down the phone and drink my beer.
Somewhere, it’s Winter. And somewhere, it’s five o’clock.
But right here, my beer’s getting warm.
A sticky situation
You heard about Joe?
Joe spends all day sniffing glue.
It all started when he was trying to glue two things together and they didn’t stick.
“Does glue go bad?” he asked his wife. “You know, like milk.”
“Does it have an expiration date?” his wife replied.
He looked for an expiration date on the bottle, but there wasn’t one.
“Nope. Maybe if I smell it…”
And that’s when the glue-sniffing started.
“No, really,” he’d say, as high as a kite. “I’m just checking to see if it’s still good.”
Then he’d sniff and let out a long, slow “Yessssssssssssssssssss.”
They call me Mister Spiffy
They call me Mr. Spiffy.
Not because I’m anything special or anything.
It’s my name. My name is Walter Spiffy.
Oh, sure, I think people are talking to Dad when they say “Mr. Spiffy” but Dad’s been gone for years.
Not dead. Gone.
Not very spiffy at all, really.
Left when I was twelve.
I guess things weren’t all that spiffy in the Spiffy Family.
Never gave a reason, just walked out the door and never came back.
He left his bowling shoes, too. He never went anywhere without those. Even the shower.
Check ’em out. Don’t they look spiffy?
The Sports Of The Bored
Bobby’s mother didn’t like how he just sat outside, watching grass grow.
“I’m in training,” mumbled Bobby. “I want to make Varsity this year.”
She got him books, but they sat in a pile while Bobby stared at the grass.
“Oh well,” she said. “At least he’s getting some sun. It sure is saving on the Vitamin D bills.”
Bobby kept watching the grass grow all Summer.
But when it came time for tryouts, Bobby didn’t make the cut.
“Joey got picked!” he cried. “And he’s already getting a letter for watching paint dry!”
“Good. Now mow the lawn, dammit.”
Who gives a damn?
Excuse me, but may I interrupt you for a moment?
Thank you.
I’m sorry, but why are you telling me all this?
Obviously, you have me confused with someone who gives a damn.
Me, I only have damns for sale. Three bucks a damn, thirty bucks for a dozen.
Quality damns, too. Mint condition, right from the factory.
No refurbished or recycled damns here.
Unless you’re paying for a damn, I’m not going to just give you one.
I mean, what would happen to my business?
I think you want the church next door.
Unlike me, they give a damn.