Tag: cliche

Rocketman

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“My power is infinite!” cackled Dr. Demonic, rubbing his hands together and throwing switches on a complicated console, the highlight of his dark, evil fortress. “The world will bow at my feet!”
“Infinite?” I shook my wrists. “Then why am I handcuffed to your Doomsday Missile?”
The villain growled. “Okay, so the chairs from Ikea didn’t have arms. And they had wheels. My finest moment, ruined by a hostage rolling around the floor? My powers of improvisation are infinite!”
He hit the launch button, and was incinerated by the rocket’s exhaust.
I didn’t have long to chuckle at his stupidity.

Kim

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Kim never wears orange now.
The last time she did, she looked like a pumpkin.
“PumpKim,” they called her.
That got her mad.
Everyone who called her PumpKim, she punched in the face.
Sure, she was fat, but in all the years she exercised to try to work off the weight, she got strong, too.
Lots of broken noses later, she ended up in jail for a year. It was supposed to be 30 days, but someone called her PumpKim in jail and got shivved.
I hope she’s not listening to this podcast. I don’t want my nose broken again.

The Brick

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I know a man who can shit bricks.
He eats three pounds of clay daily.
Then, he squats down on the ground and shits a brick.
He’s been doing this shit for years. Behind his house is a brick wall.
He’s shit every one of those bricks himself.
I asked him why he does this when he can just go down to the Home Depot and get bricks.
“There’s something about making something with your own two hands,” he said. “Or, in this case, your ass-cheeks.”
The other night, his wall fell over.
The dumbass didn’t think to use mortar.

Last Dance

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All the time, folks say they can’t wait for me to up and die.
My funeral’s gonna be one hell of a party.
Clowns and dancers and musicians and fire-eaters.
Hell, I got the perfect spot for it.
There’s this dancehall I grew up around.
Everybody there, they know me.
They’re the folks who wanna see me croak.
So, when I go, they’ll have a big party there.
And bury me under the dancefloor.
That way, for the rest of their days, they don’t have to travel to dance on my grave.
Hey, it’s the least I can do.

Rape Is Never Funny

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There is a rule of comedy that rape is never funny.
But then, how many comedians are from Easter Island?
Yes, the place with the big stone heads.
I was raped there by the natives.
But they made if funny.
It started with a few jokes and light molestation, but by the end of the sex crime, they had me roaring with laughter as they thrust into me against my will.
I was left on the curb, half-naked and aching from both the assault and how hard I had laughed.
I was left shamed, but also saying “Never say never.”

The Night Of A Thousand Stars

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“Make a wish, Daddy.”
A tiny finger points to the night sky, silver streaks crisscrossing over each other.
“Those aren’t shooting stars,” I said.
No, they were satellites.
And it was my fault.
After the Russians hit one of ours, we agreed to hand over orbits and frequencies to each other.
I wrote the database.
Everything worked beautifully in the tests.
But the moment the tracker went online, every satellite with propulsion went into controlled deorbit. The rest shut down or exploded.
My daughter pinched me. “Make a wish.”
So, I did.
I wish I had checked my code again.

Store

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In the middle of the afternoon storm, a man came into my store wanting cigarettes.
“This is a smoke-free town,” I said. “We don’t have cigarettes.”
So, he asked for some beef jerky.
“Meat-free town too. We’re all vegetarians.”
“Beer?”
“No alcohol at all,” I said. “We’re a dry county.”
Everything he asked for, we’d given up or made illegal.
“Is there anything for sale here?” he asked.
I was about to answer him, but by then the sheriff had arrived.
The silent alarm under the counter worked beautifully.
The man left, grumbling angrily.
The sheriff arrested him for swearing.

Alphabet Soup

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My daughter loves it when I make her alphabet soup.
But every now and then, she complains that a letter is backwards or upside-down.
“Just turn the damn bowl,” I say. “It all tastes the same.”
No, she won’t. She will stare at it and whine loudly.
“There is nothing wrong with this soup,” I say, and I eat a spoon of it. “See?”
She still won’t eat it.
I offer to make her a different soup, but she wants alphabet soup.
I blindfold her and slide the bowl in front of her.
Shut up and eat it, or starve!

Invulnerable

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Lord Bragdor’s armor stands in the Hall Of Heroes, as shiny as the day he was speared through the face in a jousting tournament.
“It was enchanted with an invulnerability spell,” said the Hall’s custodian, The Blue Wizard. “But, his visor was loose and his opponent very lucky.”
“Wouldn’t the lance have been knocked aside by the spell?” asked his apprentice Morstrawl.
“If the invulnerability had been meant for Lord Bragdor, yes,” said Blue. “But due to my misreading the spellbook, it was the armor that was invulnerable.”
The apprentice nodded, realizing why he had never had to polish it.

Thud

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Ricky had been shouting about sparkly unicorns and butterflies before his eyes crossed and he dropped like a stone.
For the next thirty years, we’d visit him in the hospital.
The nurses always cleaned him up nicely before visits.
We’d hold his hand, tell him that we missed him, and then ask him what he meant by unicorns and butterflies.
He never did wake up.
One day, we came to visit, and he wasn’t there.
Someone else was there.
So we started visiting them.
To tell you the truth, we liked them better than Ricky.
Ricky was such an asshole.