Hans hated tulips. He had a special pair of tulip-stomping boots he wore when he went on his tulip-stomping walks.
“Why do you do this?” said his neighbors. “Tulips are beautiful.”
“Tulips are Satan’s handiwork,” growled Hans, stomping.
Hans’ neighbors replanted the tulips.
And Hans kept stomping them.
The neighbors were worried for Hans, so they asked the mayor to pay Hans a visit.
They argued, Hans stomped the mayor (with his mayor-stomping boots), and the neighbors began to worry for themselves.
That night, an angry mob killed Hans.
I bet you can guess what flowers were at the funeral.
In a little less than three years from now, the killer will sweep away the pile of flowers on the grave, left behind after the memorial service.
He picks up his shovel and begins to dig.
The shovel strikes something. He taps. Twice.
He breaks the vault, leans up the coffin, and rips it open.
“Hello darling,” he croaks. “Missed me?”
Then, he lights a candle, sticks it in a cupcake, and places it in her rotting hands.
A gravely “Happy Birthday” echoes across the moonlit graveyard.
He checks his watch. Then the headstone.
“You’re legal now,” he grins.
You won’t find Mohowuku on a map. It doesn’t exist yet.
Well, it exists, but not as an independent country.
The ink is still drying on their constitution. The thatching on the Parliament Hut is fresh and tight. The god-totems have been polished to a luscious shine. Even the flag has that new-flag smell to it.
Minor problem with the anthem, though.
Oh, it’s breathtaking. Majestic strings, soaring flutes… to hear it is to know the angels’ laughter.
Sadly, the Mohowuku only know how to play steel drums.
The composer was absolutely furious.
And, according to the Mohowuku, delicious.
Scrooge looked at the anonymous headstone and laughed.
“Is this what you brought me here for, Spirit?” he cackled. “Who in blazes is this?”
Death’s skeletal hand reached into his robe, pulled out a dusty ledger, and shrugged.
“Ummmmmmmm,” it said. “Dunno. Sorry.”
“This means nothing,” said Scrooge. “I can afford the best doctors. The best of the best. I’ve got plenty of sand in my hourglass, asshole.”
When Scrooge woke up, he hired a few men from the docks to pay Cratchitt’s family a visit.
Let’s just say that Tiny Tim wasn’t the only one who needed crutches.
In his hideout, Ayman Al-Zarqawi pouted.
“They love the Hezbollah and Hamas,” he grumbled. “The parades. The diplomacy. The material support. Why not me and my resistance fighters?”
That’s when Wheel of Fortune came on the television, and the idea hit Zaraquawi like a flying brick.
It’s a blend of People’s Court and Wheel of Fortune. Collaborators and sinners confess their crimes against Islam, the Sharia judge finds them guilty, and they spin The Wheel.
Most of it says “BEHEADING.”
Know what’s sick? “AMPUTATION” actually brings relief and joy to the condemned.
And even sicker, it’ll be on CBS soon.
Lincoln’s stovepipe hat knocked into yet another doorway, but he reached up to keep it from falling at the last minute.
“Why do you wear that ridiculous hat?” asked Mary Todd. “You’re tall enough as it is, dear.”
Abe smiled, took off the hat, and pulled out a white rabbit.
“Oh, what a cute bunny!” said Mary Todd. “I didn’t know you were a magician.”
“I’m not,” said Abe. “I just like how his fluffy bunny feet massage my scalp.”
“Doesn’t he crap all over your head?” asked Mary Todd.
“Sure,” said Abe. “But that’s no different than anybody else.”
Malakas the Sculptor hated rush jobs.
He preferred to plan out his work, drawing up the plans and measuring out the perfect proportions for everything. Sharpening chisels and testing the material was his favorite part of the process, not the actual work.
Fat chance. The king was due back in Athens tomorrow, and the priests needed the temple frieze completed tonight.
So, Malakas worked. And he drank. Heavily.
The intricate battle scene turned into a screed mocking King Demetrius. By the time he fit the last word in, the priests saw what he was doing, screamed, and had him executed.
Want to know what’s more fun that a barrel full of monkeys? Watching the idiot trying to put them in there.
Okay, so you put a monkey in the barrel, close the lid, and grab another monkey. Sure enough, the monkey you got in there will escape the moment that lid comes off.
Frank has an easy solution to this: He kills the monkeys.
Sure, you could tranquilize them, but Frank really hates monkeys. And he really likes killing them.
By the time he fills up the barrel, well, he’s had about as much fun as he could possibly have.
Wendy rubbed her sweat-covered forehead and gritted her teeth.
It was always the same: first the pain, then the visions. Screaming. Seeing Satan in her five children. Drowning them in the tub.
And blinding, mad agony.
“Why is this shit happening to me?” she screamed, reaching for the Excedrin bottle. “I don’t have any kids!”
The pain stopped.
“No children?” said a voice in her head. “I’m sorry, is this the Yates Residence?”
“They’re next door,” whimpered Wendy.
“Oh,” said the voice. “My mistake. Sorry for bothering you.”
The demon flowed from Wendy’s nose, shrugged, and wafted out the door.
It’s a rare thing to see the president walk down the middle of the street, but people who looked out their windows on that fine April morning caught a glimpse of Abraham Lincoln slowly strutting down Pennsylvania Avenue.
“You really should head back,” said an adviser.
“Never,” said Abe. “I’m a slow walker, but I never walk back.”
“Are you sure of that?” asked the advisor. “You should really consider heading back.”
“Never,” said Abe. “Never in my life.”
“Even when you’ve forgotten your pants?” asked the adviser.
Abe looked down, blushed, and shrugged.
“Hail to the chief!” said Lincoln.