Middle Age in the Middle Ages was younger than Middle Age here in the Modern Age.
Life expectancy has greatly increased, so Middle Age comes later.
Although for most, it’s still not in the middle. If you’re going to live to seventy or eighty, fifty is past your actual middle.
Back when I was young, I misheard someone say “Middle Age” and it sounded like “Meddle Age.”
Which, considering how much Middle Aged people meddle with young people, it sounded right.
“Don’t believe a word of it!” said the Middle Aged person. “Just do what I tell you to do.”
Tag: silly
The Winner
I am the winner. Give me a medal.
I will not accept just a plaque. Unless the plaque is used for displaying a copy of the medal I am wearing.
I do not want a trophy. I do not own a trophy case, and a trophy deserves more than just a bookshelf.
Plus, I cannot wear the trophy around like I can wear a medal.
I will not let you give me just a ribbon. If you give me a ribbon, it had better be used to hang the medal around my neck.
Ribbons can’t stop bullets like medals, either.
Pet
It’s springtime again.
I want to go down to the stream and gather rocks and pebbles.
My pet turtle likes fresh ones in his terrarium every spring.
After school, I go down to the creek and fill the bottom of my bookbag with stones.
When I get home, I put my turtle in the sink and carry his bowl to the back yard to dump out the rocks and water
Then I bring the bowl back inside, wash it out, and arrange the new rocks.
A little water, and then I put the toy plastic turtle back in his bowl.
Raising
This neighborhood is a great place to raise a family.
Especially if you want to raise them from the dead.
Yeah, this subdivision’s built on an ancient Indian burial ground.
What? You don’t want to raise an Indian family?
You’re not racists, are you?
Oh. Good. Well, then… the block over there is built on the site of a Presbyterian church. Maybe they had a cemetery along with it?
Just look for the stones marked “Infant” or “Son” or “Daughter.”
Unless you find a name you really like, because, let’s face it: the walking dead are lousy with new names.
The Knee
My left knee is a wreck. The surgeons cannot decide how best to repair it. So, delaying action, they take more X-rays.
I think they hope the radiation will cause a cancer that necessitates amputation. It would be so much easier to build a metal leg than repair this one.
Hiring a midget and giving him a samurai sword, however, was taking things too far.
The insurance company disagreed. In fact, hiring sword-waving midgets is covered by Medicare Plan A.
“Just try not to bend down,” says a surgeon. “He might try to chop off your head, despite the contract.”
Leprechauns
I’ve been doing some experiments with Leprechauns recently.
Just like werewolves, silver bullets kill them.
Just like vampires, a stake through the heart kills them.
Just like mummies, fire kills them.
Heck, pretty much everything kills a leprechaun.
Even Funyons. Those kill Leprechauns, too. Funyons!
These little green boogers are just a bunch of pussies, really.
I was just sitting there, minding my own business, when one of the leprechauns in my experiment keeled over and died.
Thank god they’re all dead. They started hoarding gold in my Caphalon pots and they scratched up the anti-stick coating.
Damn little bastards!
St. Pancake Day
Remember that crazy chick who got run over by a bulldozer in Gaza?
Truth is, she was one of those “late bloomer” girls.
Any bra she owned before she turned twenty was just wishful thinking.
She tried special diets, exercises, and even some weird gels and extracts she got from mail order catalogs.
None of them worked. Not even the hormones that transexuals use as part of their reassignment surgery.
Then one day, she woke up, and she had breasts.
Big ones.
“I’m not flat anymore!” she shouted.
Later that day, she went out to face the bulldozers.
Ironic, yes?
No Contest
I really don’t feel like eating anything.
Everyone’s telling me I’ve got to eat something.
“Here,” says a friend. “Have some pie.”
She puts a pie in front of me.
I don’t want to eat it.
So, I put my hands behind my back, imagine I’m thirteen again and I’m back at the county fair.
I’m in the pie eating contest.
My face goes down into the pie, and I slurp and chomp it up as fast as possible.
Licking the pie plate clean, I look up at my friend.
“ANOTHER!” I shout, laughing.
The funeral caterers only brought one.
Pie
Here at the Grandma Happy Pie Factory, we track our bottom line closely.
We don’t track our bottoms as closely, though, and a rash of broken chairs suggested that we were “testing” the product a little too much.
That, and the fact that the trucks left the factory a few dozen pies light every day.
Grandma called for a staff meeting.
The meeting room floor collapsed under our combined weight, and it took forklifts and cranes to pull our broken bodies out of the basement.
We take up an entire wing in the hospital… and they won’t feed us pie.
The Zombie Clown
Zombies are everywhere.
There’s nowhere left to hide.
I found a boat and made it to an island in the middle of a lake, but the zombies walked along the lake floor and started to come ashore.
So, I kept the boat at sea, which really sucks because I get seasick easily.
I have plenty of food, ammo, and fresh water. And books to read.
If I need more, I go back to shore and collect supplies.
I saw a clown zombie. A freaking clown zombie.
Sick, really, twisting his guts into the shapes of animals.
But, yeah, it’s funny.