I don’t remember dreams. I wish I could, but I can’t.
You see, Symantec was beta-testing a firewall product, and I fell asleep with my face on the keyboard. Somehow, my brain downloaded the firewall, and I blocked my dreams out with an iptables rule.
Oh, they’re still there. Just blocked.
So I called Symantec, and forty minutes later I’m talking to some Indian:
“How am be helping you?” he says.
“I firewalled my brain,” I said. “I’m blocking my dreams now.”
“My dreams dot com?” he asks. “Dot net? Dot org?”
In the end, I was told to reboot.
Prometheus looked down Olympus and smirked.
“Those people look really cold,” he grumbled. “I guess I’d better help them.”
Apollo’s chariot set the torch ablaze. Prometheus then cradled it as he stumbled down to the valley.
“Behold!” he shouted to a passing human.
“What’s that?” asked the human. “Is it magic?”
“It’s fire,” said Prometheus, passing him the torch. “See?”
“Ah,” said the human.
He shrugged, stuffed the torch in his mouth, and screamed in agony.
“At least he didn’t shove it up his ass like the last one,” Prometheus sighed as he climbed back up Olympus for more fire.
One upon a time, there was a blind man who needed a job.
So, Major League Baseball hired him and dressed him in a black shirt and pads.
“When you hear the announcer say Greg Maddux is pitching, call strikes,” said the league official. “And when you hear that Andy Pettitte is pitching, call balls”
“What if someone hits the ball?” said the umpire.
“Just listen to the crowd and you’ll figure out of it’s foul, a popout, or a home run,” said the league official.
And the Cubs lived happily ever after, even though they didn’t fucking deserve it.
“Honestly, I have no idea what this means,” said Foster, running the tickertape through his hands. “I just like the feel of the paper and I look good doing it.”
“How about a graph?” said Duke. He flicked on the overhead projector light, and a black line wiggled down… down… down…
“We’re broke!” screamed Foster.
“No we’re not,” said Duke.
“The market’s crashed!” yelled Foster. “It’s all over!”
Foster jumped out the window, pulling a tickertape trail all the way down.
Duke looked up at the graph and said “oops.”
He reached for the transparency and flipped it back around.
School was done, and it was time to go home.
Sam and Joe dropped off their bags, took off their masks, and went back to Old Man Jasper’s.
The trees groaned in the breeze.
“I don’t like this,” said Sam. “Let’s go.”
“He gave out crappy candy,” said Joe. “He has to pay for it.”
Joe tossed a roll of toilet paper over a tree branch.
“See?” said Joe.
Suddenly, the tree reached down and hauled Joe up by the leg.
“HELP!” Sam screamed. “HELP!”
The tree shook him like a ragdoll.
The old man looked out the window, laughing.
Abe woke up, rubbed his eyes, and stared at the words written in blood on the ceiling:
A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF CANNOT STAND
Abe leaned over and shook his wife.
“Wake up! Wake up!”
“What is it, Abe?” asked Mary Todd. “The words again?”
“Yes!” shouted Abe. “Look at them! Omens!”
Mary Todd looked up.
“I know what you’re up to,” she said. “We’re not putting a mirror up there.”
She rolled over and went back to sleep.
Abe, on the other hand, stared at the words until the blood began to rain down from the ceiling.
Mary Todd looked out the kitchen window. Abe was crawling around the lawn again.
Mary Todd shoved open the window and yelled: “Are you plucking weeds again?”
“I most certainly am,” Abe yelled back. “And I’m planting flowers to replace them, too.”
“Well, I wish you wouldn’t crawl around in your best suit while doing it, you crazy old fart,” said Mary Todd. “The cleaning bill is killing us. Grant says we need every penny for the troops.”
“Grant,” muttered Abe. “Stupid drunk bastard.”
So the next time Abe went weeding, he did it naked.
“Much better,” yelled Mary Todd.
“Barbaras! You’re free!”
The soldiers cut Jesus down.
“But I’m not Barbaras,” said Jesus.
“Get lost, Barbaras,” said the soldiers.
“GO!” they shouted.
Jesus ran for the hills.
“I’m Barbaras!” shouted the thief from his cross.
“Liar, Nazarene!” said a soldier, spearing him in the gut.
“I guess they got us mixed up,” Jesus mumbled, rubbing his aching palms.
Jesus looked at his reflection in the pond. What a bloody mess.
“The guys are never going to believe this one,” he said. “It’ll be as if… as if…”
“I came back from the dead!”
Ever seen the monk?
He looks like a burlap-wrapped lump with darkness in the openings of his dirty robe.
However, if you offer paper to the monk, he’ll twist and shudder for a few moments before placing an intricate origami sculpture on the sidewalk.
These aren’t just swans and horses and crabs. No, these are amazing things he folds into existence, like merry-go-rounds and jugglers – they actually move.
Unfold them, and they’re just sheets of paper. No magic at all.
Once, I reached in his robe. It stung, and my hand came away bloody.
Just like a paper cut.
Dr. Benway held his face in his bloody hands and moaned. Another surgery was over.
The patient was in recovery, still unconscious.
Sadly, that wouldn’t last. And then…
“This is going to be expensive,” said the hospital administrator. “Very expensive.”
“You know, I used to get angry when patients marked their healthy arm with DO NOT AMPUTATE in magic marker,” said Benway. “Where was the magic marker on this one?”
“On his left arm,” said the administrator. “But you cut off his left leg.”
“So I should have cut off his right leg?” asked Benway.
“Go home,” said the administrator.