Tag: sick

Comes earlier

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Christmas comes earlier every year.

Stores put the displays and trees before Halloween.

That’s why the elves went on strike.

You see, they’ve been working without a contract for over a century now.

While the reindeer still only work one night, the elves still have to ramp up production faster and faster for these earlier holiday sales.

Faster turnaround means less time for maintenance, too.
More work accidents, drinking on the job – that kind of thing.

Santa didn’t pay attention to the growing discontent in the workshop.

The elves are building a bonfire.

Santa’s tied to a stake, screaming.

Wands

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The White Mage volunteered at the local school as the band instructor. A welcome break from experiments with potions and wands.
He put away his projects, picked up his baton, and headed out the door to make the trip to the school.
Servants follow the children of the nobility into the recital hall, bearing instruments of all sizes.
They find their seats while the Mage tapped his baton on the lectern for attention.
Fireballs flew out the end, incinerating the strings section.
“No wonder why that wand wouldn’t hold a charge,” he said, servants attacking the flames with water buckets.

Poseidon

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None of the other Poseidon The Sea Gods at water parks had problems, but then, they were just actors.
The One True Poseidon lay on the couch, shaking.
“The pills aren’t working,” he tells his analyst. “Neptune came out during my act at Sea World again.”
“What happened?” asked Dr. Moggs.
“I speared a kid with my trident. The lawyers are erasing the tape and blaming the kid for leaning on the rail.”
The doctor made notes as the once-mighty sea god moaned in agony, mumbling “Get out of my head” and rocking back and forth like a terrified child.

Life Hands You Lemons

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When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.
So, I did.
Death handed me lemons, too.
I made lemonade with them.
Karma gave me lemons. More lemonade.
Then, Fate handed me a bag.
“More lemons?” I asked. “Please, not more lemons.”
Fate nodded yes.
So here I am, sitting on an island of lemons in a lake of lemonade.
Instead of a boat to rescue me, everybody’s bringing me lemons.
They ask lemon advice, when to plant, when to pick.
They want me to write a book.
ENOUGH!
If life hands you lemons, yell GET THESE FUCKING LEMONS AWAY FROM ME!

Cinder block

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As I hug this cinder block, I ponder our long relationship together.
We’ve been through a lot.
I made a bookshelf out of cinder blocks and slats in college.
The only thing that kept me from being blown away by the hurricane last year was hugging this cinder block.
I take it with me everywhere now as a good luck charm: the movies, the bank, grocery shopping.
I guess bringing it skydiving was a bad idea. I’ll just let it go and meet it on the ground when I land.
That playground down there doesn’t look too full, does it?

Miss November

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In the old days, you ran out of film.
Now, with these digital cameras, your battery is always dying.
Miss November passes out, her nose bleeding from snorting enough lines of cocaine to line Ebbets Field.
They got enough pictures to last her shelf life, every angle, every expression.
Everything uploaded, scanned, rendered, and ready with a single click of the mouse.
Backdrops and shadows are her passport, just lay her over, matte, and print.
“What were her dislikes?” asks the publisher, lighting his pipe.
The coroner suggests hard linoleum, shaking his head at the corpse on the bathroom floor.

Deathface

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The law says three days.
The machines can do five.
With modifications, seven.
That’s how long Spencer wants.
He’s got Deathface. Sunken eyes and cheeks, grey skin, eyebrows gone, raspy breathing.
The law says not to send a Deathface down. Notify the police if one comes to your Coma Center. Or if someone asks for a week.
It can’t be called an accident because the wastebag has to be changed and the
morphine refilled. The inspectors will know.
No, I say. I can do five. Not seven.
Spence left and I never saw him again.
Nobody saw him. Just vanished.

Roadkill

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Usually, we see dead possums and armadillos by the side of the road, but this was the first time I’ve seen a panda.
Turning it over with my shovel, sure enough, it was a panda.
Big bastard. I couldn’t lift it. So, I had to call for help.
The county cut back to one-man crews a few months back to save on costs.
Instead of jabbering in the truck cab, we jabber over the two-way.
Joe pulled up, and looked at it.
“Can you eat panda?” he asked.
“Let’s find out,” I said, and we loaded it into the truck.

Orders

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Why did I put a .223 into the chest of a six year-old on a swingset.
It was a justified kill. My orders say so.
Of course, orders are getting weird these days. You hear stories of agents standing naked in the mall shouting “Syrup!” and not bathing for a week.
If you question the orders, someone else gets orders to kill you.
If you know what’s best for you, you just read them and carry them out.
What? You don’t understand these orders? Not sure what flavor cake to bake?
Hold on… there’s new orders coming in for me…

My Medicine

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My medicine is running out.
Just three more pills left in the bottle.
The insurance company says they no longer cover it – they say it’s an experimental treatment.
The pills are too expensive. I cannot afford them on my own.
I beg, but they ignore me.
Fools.
So, I will run out, and when the full moon returns, I will be howling at it while on the hunt.
Thank you for the address of the claims agent who rejected my appeal. I plan on going through The Change outside his home.
There will be no appeal from my claws, either.