Girls are not made of sugar and spice and everything nice.
They are made of peanut butter.
You know, If I made a daughter out of peanut butter, I’d name her Jif Skippy.
Because if I made a son out of peanut butter, I’d name him Tom.
No, I wouldn’t name him Peter Pan. Because everyone else making boys out of peanut butter name their boys Peter Pan.
Some use chunky, others use smooth.
I don’t have a preference, as long as it isn’t low-cost generic.
If you’re going to make a daughter out of peanut butter, use quality ingredients.
Tag: silly
Hostages
Gunshots.
Screams.
Alarms.
Shouting.
Then, after a while, sirens.
The bank job went sour, so the robbers took hostages.
“We brought plenty of water and food for ourselves,” they said. “Either meet our demands or these hostages can starve.”
Pizzas and cokes arrived quickly, but the FBI refused their demands.
“Don’t you want a helicopter?” they asked. “Or a bus to the airport?”
“Nope,” the robbers said. “We want horsey-back rides out of here. We hadn’t had those in years and loved getting them as kids.”
When the situation was over, the FBI had to admit, they had fun, too.
Feathers
She carries the sack full of feathers.
I carry the fan, dragging a long extension cord behind me.
When we get to the Henderson’s, I set down the fan
She opens up the sack.
I turn on the fan.
It’s loud. Really loud.
The strongest one I could find that I could still carry.
She knocks on the door.
But I can’t hear it. The fan is that loud.
I can’t hear the deadbolt turning and the door opening, either.
But I hear the yelling when she dumps the feathers on the fan.
That’s when the feathers start to fly.
Smithereens
The kids built an airship, rigging bicycles and peach-crates to a massive solar-heated airbag with a lightweight steering and ballast system.
After a few test flights and an inspection by the county engineer, I gave them permission to take it to school.
“Check the forecast,” I said. “If there’s any chance of rain, you’re taking the bus or walking.”
They used to ride their bikes, but those were now a part of the airship.
Pedaling quickly, they rise into the air gracefully.
That’s when I see their bookbags still on the porch.
Little scamps!
I run for a dangling tether-rope.
You may now kiss the… WHAT?
I got married in Vegas eleven years ago.
It was a small ceremony. Friends and family.
And a preacher who was drunk out of his fucking mind.
He stumbled and slurred his way through the ceremony, and he couldn’t stop staring down the Maid Of Honor’s dress.
Then, at the end, he said “You may now kiss the bridge.”
“Don’t you mean bride?” I asked.
But by then, he was passed out, and I thought I smelled gas, so we all ran for it before a spark could blow us all to Kingdom Come.
What about the bridge?
Tasted… rusty.
Ring
Packed crowd at Madison Square Garden.
A boxer climbs through the ropes and steps into the ring.
The crowd roars.
Another boxer climbs in.
More cheering.
The boxers wait.
“Where’s the ref?” asks the first boxer.
“I dunno,” says the other.
They turn to their corners, but their managers and crews don’t have a clue, either.
A microphone is lowered on a cord, but there’s nobody to take it.
So, one of the boxers grabs it and begins to sing.
The other joins in as harmony.
The crowd loves it.
Beats getting the shit beaten out of you, I suppose.
Unfolding
Lao Tsu is a master of the art of Unorigami.
What is Unorigami?
It is the opposite of Origami, the Japanese art of paper-folding.
He can unfold folded paper in a way that you never see a crease. It’s as if the paper was never folded.
He’s so quick, you can toss a paper airplane past him and the next thing you know, a flat sheet of paper wafts slowly to the ground.
For his birthday, I gave him a sweater.
He puts it on and thanks me.
Then he hands back the gift-wrap, spooled around the cardboard tube again.
Bananas
I like bananas.
Twice a week, I buy bananas.
I go so often because I eat a lot of bananas and they go bad so quickly.
I’d go once a week, but by the end of the week, all that’s left are bananas I don’t want to eat.
Brown bananas. Blech.
Plus, I walk to the store, and buying so many bananas at once can be a burden. Or they get mashed up from being so heavy in the bag.
I wish someone would deliver bananas.
Maybe I can order a banana pizza and tell them to hold the pizza.
Eight Weddings And A Funeral
Elizabeth Taylor’s publicist announced that the Academy Award-winning actress died at the age of 79.
What does she do now?
No, not Elizabeth. Her job’s done.
Sure, there will be endorsements, licensing, and re-releases of her movies until the end of time, but that’s for her estate to do. The woman has a funeral or two to attend, and that’s it.
I’m thinking about the publicist. Unless she’s got other clients, her gig’s done.
Some folks are praying for the soul of Elizabeth Taylor.
Me, I’m praying for the publicist. I hope they get work soon in this awful economy.
Limits
Mom said that life is all about limits.
Some of are hard limits, like the speed of light.
Others are soft limits, like the speed limit on the highway. You can go faster than that, although you might get pulled over.
With experience, you learn which limits are hard and which are soft.
The cop isn’t impressed by my story, and he hands me a ticket for speeding.
I thank him and check the cargo.
The hyperdrive in the trailer is fine.
The boys at the lab are going to love this one, I think, and start the truck up.