Tag: cliche

Volcano

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The tribal chief was perplexed by the crop failures and dwindling animal stocks.
“The only thing we have that’s worth anything is the volcano,” he said.
“Hey, let’s try sacrificing things in it,” I suggested.
Everybody agreed.
We started to sacrifice virgins in the volcano, but it turned out that the moment a virgin was selected, she’d bang the chief’s son.
So, we changed to animal sacrifices. Those, the chief’s son would steal from the offering pen to make a feast for all his girlfriends.
In the end, we sacrificed the chief’s son.
Kicking and screamed all the way down.

De-inspiration

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Inspiration means to breathe life into a creation.
But what happens when you want to take that part of your life back?
Especially when your creation wants more, and is sucking the life out of you?
Always waking up breathless, needing to do more.
No more.
You step back, close your mouth, and hold your breath.
Your creation begins to turn blue and suffocate.
It begs for air. It begs for life.
“I need it more than you do,” you think to yourself.
It’s hard to watch your creation die.
And once you kill it, you feel empty yet again.

Spaceship

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Last night, a spaceship fell from the sky and landed on my driveway.
A small green man climbed out a hatch, waved hello, and asked me if he could borrow my tools.
At least I thought that was what he was asking.
“Sure,” I said. “Do you need English or Metric?”
The alien shrugged. “Grobnick blasdo,” he said, and he grabbed a few things from the garage before working on his engine.
It took him an hour before the ship was pulsing a greenish glow.
“Grobnick bladso,” he said, waved, and flew off into space.
Little fucker stole my tools.

Errors

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The error messages this system spits out are frustrating.
They are just a bunch of meaningless code.
“Can I get some meaningful error message that tells me what I did wrong?” I ask.
The developers say no. They are too busy getting rid of the bugs that cause the errors.
“In the meantime, I’d like to know what the errors mean.”
They shake their heads.
“How about some error messages that are even more meaningless, filled with profanity and racial epithets?”
The developers think I’m being silly.
So I grab one by the throat and give him a few examples.

Old School

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We’re at the bar, watching the ball drop in Times Square.
“I still write last year on my checks,” I say. “I always do stupid shit like that. What about you?”
She puts her drink down. “You still write checks?” she asks. “No online bill payment?”
“I like the feel of writing a check,” I said. “Pointing and clicking doesn’t feel the same.”
“What about using credit cards?”
“Nope. I’m really, really old school.”
She laughed, signed for her tab, and left.
I asked for my tab.
“Two chickens, Bill,” said the bartender.
I handed over the cage.
Old school.

The Menorah

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“The sun’s almost down.”
“That’s nice. Where’s the cat?”
“He’s outside. It’s time to light the menorah.”
“Where’s the candles?”
“I’m using an oil menorah this year.”
“An oil menorah?”
“Yes. Uses olive oil. More authentic than candles.”
“What?”
“More authentic.”
“You’re gonna burn the fucking place down.”
“No I won’t.”
“Yes you will.”
“We’ve got a smoke detector this year.”
“Test it recently?”
“Um… no… errr…”
“Well, isn’t that a hoot?”
“You put the battery in the TV remote.”
“I did not.”
“Yes you did.”
“No I didn’t. I put it in the Blu-Ray remote.”
“What?”
“You’re a moron.”

Silent Night

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Santa got stuck in my chimney.
He’s yelling for help.
I called the sheriff.
He told me to lay off the egg nog.
That’s how life goes in a small town sometimes.
It’s a nice place, though. Quiet and peaceful.
Until some old fat guy gets stuck in your chimney.
I turned on a flashlight and looked up.
Two black boots. Gigantic red ass.
“What am I getting this year?” I asked.
“A lump of coal if you don’t get me out of here,” he yelled.
Fuck him. Mr. Santa Fatty can wait.
I turned up my headphones.
Silent night.

McKinney

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McKinney. Leader of the pack.
I grew up watching him on late night specials, learning his voice, his gestures, his jokes.
The unknotted bowtie hangs around my neck just like his.
Martini glass in hand, one olive on a glass spear.
I do his routine at retirement homes, people old enough to remember, too old to put up with the new stuff out there.
Keep it familiar.
McKinney’s fame was wider than I’d thought.
Broadcasts, deep in space.
That audience came for him.
They found me.
Now I’m touring the galaxy. Rich as hell.
But no olives to be found.

My Spot

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There are five booths in Bill’s Diner.
This is my spot.
Second to last booth, seat facing the door.
Nobody takes my spot. If someone does, Bill tells them to sit somewhere else.
If they don’t move, he puts their coffee down at the counter.
Even the mailman knows this is my spot. He doesn’t even bother to deliver my mail to my apartment or my office.
He puts it down at my spot.
Same with the paperboy.
Bill asked if I wanted like a metal plaque or something to mark my spot
There’s no point, really.
Everybody already knows.

Guards

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The brothers stand at either side of the door, wearing their finest red military parade jackets.
Even though they each had a musket on their shoulder, the guns hadn’t been fired in years.
When had they been fired? Let’s see…
I know. I remember.
That day, the brothers had challenged each other to a duel.
After walking ten paces, they turned, and fired.
Both brothers fell over, dead.
I had them both stuffed, dressed, and propped up at either side of the door.
They are pretty useless as guards now, but then they were pretty useless as guards back then.