I was walking to the pool when my mother yelled “You just ate, so don’t go swimming.”
Oh. Right.
Don’t swim within half an hour of eating or you’ll get cramps.
So, instead of swimming, I ran around the pool.
“No running around the pool!” my mother yelled.
So, I stopped running around the pool.
Instead, I ran around the house with scissors.
“Are you crazy?” my mother shouted. “Never run around the house with scissors!”
So I went outside and ran around the pool with scissors for thirty minutes.
And dove into the shallow end, scissors firmly in hand.
Tag: silly
I, Monster
When Sesame Street shut down, nobody knew what to do with the Muppets.
Some adapted quickly. Grover headed for The Castro with Bert and Ernie.
Guy Smiley’s on Oprah’s network. And Count Von Count is riding the vampire craze.
Others, well… they failed.
Sherlock Hemlock got killed working a case. Snuffleupagus ended up in a circus cage.
And Cookie Monster?
We shaved him and tried to teach him good grammar.
“Me want cookie,” the wild-eyed flabby midget growled.
“No,” I say. “I would like a cookie.”
“Me too!” he shouts, flailing his arms.
Hopeless. We’ll just sell him to Nabisco.
Coming Down The Pike
The word “turnpike” got its name from guardsmen standing at either side of a road and lowering their poleaxes to block the road until a toll was paid or a pass was shown.
These days, the pike has been replaced by a mechanical barrier or by cameras which scan for an electronic toll-paying device and capture the license plate numbers of violators.
Still, somewhere in that tollbooth, there’s a fierce-looking halberd leaning against the wall.
When the machines fail. Society breaks down, and the zombies win.
The tolls must be paid, and they certainly don’t collect themselves.
One brain please.
Hello, Friend!
When I run into a friend I haven’t run into for a very long time, I find myself subconsciously rolling down my sleeves and raising my collar in a misguided attempt to conceal the scars and skin grafts.
Thank heavens I have the sense to always wear gloves, a low-brimmed hat, and sunglasses to block any view of what my thick beard and mustache doesn’t already obscure.
Underneath the layers of clothes, hair, and palm fronds strategically held by my manservant Richard, I ponder how to address this long-lost friend properly.
“Hello,” I shout, tip my hat, and I run.
Phone Game
I grew up playing Scrabble.
We used to play on a board with little wooden tiles. The board went on a turntable so it could be turned to face each player.
Now, we’re playing Scrabble over our phones.
She plays GAIN, I build on it by adding an A to make it AGAIN.
We go back and forth like this, game to game.
It’s kinda like chess in a way.
Unlike chess, where all the pieces are out in the open, you need to track the tiles secretly for Scrabble to work.
I peek at her phone when she’s asleep.
Bored? Have an exorcism!
I asked my wife what she wanted for her birthday.
She said “Oh, just get me something crazy and expensive that I don’t need.”
Emo Philips once said the perfect gift for such an occasion is radiation treatment.
But that’s dangerous. Makes people sick.
So, instead of radiation treatment, I got her an exorcism.
Tying her to the bed was easy, but she started screaming and swearing the moment the priest came into the room.
“Happy Birthday,” I whispered into her ear.
She screamed and swore louder, so I told the priest “That’s the Devil talking.” before leaving the room.
Peach
What did you just say?
My hearing’s not so good, and I need new batteries in my hearing aids.
“Peach on earth, and good will to all men?”
Oh, you said peace, not peach.
Although, now that I think of it, peach makes a lot more sense.
I mean, have you ever been angry when eating a peach?
I haven’t. And you haven’t either.
Nobody ever has.
So maybe if we give peaches to everybody, there will be goodwill to all men?
What? You’re allergic to peaches?
Well, I guess there goes my whole “Good will” idea.
(You oversensitive jerk!)
Clown Juice
Here. Have a drink.
What is it?
Clown juice.
Yeah, it tastes a little funny.
Freshly squeezed, too. None of that frozen concentrate junk or powdered “Clown Drink” crap.
Pure clown juice, straight from the clown.
Squeezed their squirting flowers myself this morning.
What kind of clown?
Circus clown. Only the best Barnum and Bailey label.
Rodeo clowns are just too gritty and bitter. Nobody wants to drink that rot.
And don’t get me started on mimes. Weak as water and sappy sweet.
Hospital clowns, well, they’re too salty.
From the tears they cry after visiting the kids.
Sad stuff.
They Walk No More
Things have been crazy here in Middle Earth.
There was a war. Lots of people and orcs and things got killed.
Some midgets and their friends chickened out and fled. They claimed they had to go off and destroy a ring.
Yeah. Right.
The noise died down, the fires got put out, we buried the bodies and repaired the damage to our homes and businesses.
Those ring-destroying heroes? Too hoity-toity for honest hard work.
They said “We’re sailing off to the West.”
Yeah, we got stuck building the boats. Them walking trees really yell when you mill them for planks.
Biography
I woke up this morning to discover I had an exact duplicate.
We quickly confirmed similar memory and appearance, but had no idea when or how the duplication took place.
Also, we both insist we are the original me, even though I know it’s me.
We reach for my wallet at the same time.
It’s a fair fight. We’ve evenly matched, reach and strength, and then everything goes black as my lights are punched out.
I’m sure I clocked him hard, too.
When I wake up, he’s gone.
My wallet’s still here.
And that’s how I got this black eye.