Tag: cliche

The Purple Light District

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Hey, tourist.
I know you’ve been to the red light district, but have you seen the purple light district?
Strictly for the locals, but it doesn’t require more than a false beard and twenty zlotys to get past security and have yourself a good time.
One word of caution – one pair of underwear isn’t enough. You should wear two or three.
Me, I’m wearing five. These folks play rough when the lights go purple.
Real rough.
What? Purple light district isn’t your thing?
Then we’ll go to the ball pit at McDonalds… go play with the kids… YOU CHICKENSHIT PANSY!

Like A Cat

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Sometimes, life is like trying to find a black cat outside in the dark.
You wander around, looking everywhere, poking through all the bushes and looking under tables.
Bang a can of cat food with a fork a few times. Call out its name and whistle and meow.
Nothing.
And now, the neighbors think you’ve gone crazy.
All the while, it’s looking down at you from the fence, eyes glowing bright in the night.
You give up, turn out the porch light, and head back inside.
Life’s right there, sitting in your chair. And won’t budge.
Yeah. Just like that.

Measure

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They say Helen Thomas has been in the White House Press Corps for the past 9 presidents, but measuring things in terms of presidents is a horrible idea.
How often do you have presidents around.
“Hey, someone wake the president… we need to measure this piece of string.”
They did that back in Ancient Egypt. A cubit was the length of pharaoh’s arm.
Every five minutes, someone asking him “stick out your arm!” Like he’s a common junkie.
Got a house to build, gotta measure out the two by fours.
No wonder why he buried himself under tons of rock.

Donor

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Cheryl had put “Imagination and fingernails” on her organ donor card
It wasn’t easy to find, but tucked away, hidden behind her nightmares and dreams, there was her imagination.
“So fragile,” said the surgeon, and she gently lifted it out and put it on a ceramic dish.
Her assistant checked the national registry and found a match – an artist, skilled with a brush but without inspiration or the creative spark.
“Call them,” said the surgeon. “And have them ready by ten.”
The assistant nodded. “Anything else?” he asked.
“No,” said the surgeon, and she put the fingernails in her pocket.

Jealous Aquaman

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Aquaman lays back in his tub, watching the Olympics on a portable television.
The announcer says Michael Phelps’ name, and the superhero winces.
A twinge of jealousy. A scowl. A clenched fist.
He looks at his costume folded up on the toilet seat.
Orange, green, black, and yellow… sure, the colors are ugly, but it’s a classic.
And functional, too, he reminds himself. That technological suit they wear in the Olympics still can’t produce race times like a true superhero.
Or let them talk to fish.
“Give it up, dude,” says his pet goldfish.
Aquaman sighs, and changes the channel.

Shoelaces

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“Your shoelace is untied,” says a voice.
I stop and look back.
Nobody’s there.
I hear this kind of thing all the time. Especially since the accident.
I was always bad about tying my shoelaces when I was little. Sure, I tripped a few times, but I learned to just tuck the laces in.
I liked loose shoes. Nice and relaxed.
So, when one came loose on the railway platform and I tripped over it, I was really surprised.
Train ran over my legs.
Yeah, there’s nobody behind me.
I turn back around and roll my wheelchair to the elevator.

I was a pirate

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I had a dream I was a pirate.
We sailed the seven seas, although I think we may have sailed one sea twice. And that last one may have been a municipal pool.
I’m not that good with maps and charts. And I tend to look down the wrong end of a spyglass. Oh, and I get seasick in the bathtub.
But this is my dream, okay? And I was a pirate in my dream.
I didn’t have a hook for a hand. Or a pegleg. Or even an eyepatch.
Just a pirate, sailing the seven seas of my dreams.

Sinterklaas

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We put bandages on the wounds, but you can clearly read “Sinterklaas” in bloody red slashes through the gauze.
The wounds were deep, but not severe enough to kill him.
His breathing was ragged, moans of pain.
“Did you see who did this to you?” I asked the man.
His eyes remained dull and fixed as he coughed through his confession: “I did it to myself.”
He pulled a knife from his boot, dropping the bloody blade on the floor.
“Why?” I asked him.
“I’m bad,” said the man, “and he’s out of coal.”
Be good, little children.
Or else.

Homesick

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Professor Rickhoff pulled down the map and shouted “WE’RE HAVING AN ADVENTURE TODAY!”
The class jumped from their seats and cheered.
“WHERE SHALL WE GO?” shouted the Professor.
The class responded with all sorts of exotic places.
“Home,” said a voice.
“QUIET!” shouted Rickhoff, and the class lay still.
He walked up to the homesick student and stared into her eyes.
“This is your home now,” he said. “When you are here, you are home.”
The student smiled, curled up in a ball on the floor, and went to sleep.
The Professor rolled up the map and dismissed the class.

Passing The Rose

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In a land without tears, the tearmaster goes from home to home, selling his sadness.
“What good is joy without its opposite?” he tells everyone. “If you cannot feel the deep lows, what will you feel of the highs? Nothing!”
The people stood and stared, confused.
“You cannot feel good without at some point feeling bad!” he shouted.
A child picked up a rock and threw it at the tearmaster, who yelped at the pain.
His hand came away from his forehead bloody.
More townspeople threw rocks. The blood flowed down the tearmaster’s face.
“Are those tears?” asked a child.