I look up, and I see the Face Of God in the angry, boiling skies.
I look down, and there’s piles of clothes everywhere. A few unguided cars roll into streetlamps or bushes.
Rapture? Well, isn’t that nice. Bye bye, fundamentalists.
I’m sure that a few houses will start to burn because ovens have been left on. Or planes will crash because pilots have vanished and cockpit doors are locked these days.
My next-door neighbor’s empty Armani suit in a pile. In his driveway.
Next to his lovely, perfect Ferrari.
I may not be Saved, but I am truly blessed.
“My home is a what?” yelled General Lee.
“A cemetery, sir,” said the messenger.
“This means war!” shouted Lee. He then looked in the mirror.
“Wait. Hold on. I’m already at war. Damn you, Lincoln!”
Lee sent a squadron of Confederate spies to the backwoods of Kentucky. They found the log cabin, and Lee had it rendered into toothpicks.
“Excellent party, Miss Scarlett,” said Rhett Butler. “These cocktail weenies are most excellent.”
“It’s the quality toothpick spears that make them good,” said Scarlett O’Hara. “Lincoln’s finest.”
Both laughed until they smelled the smoke.
Sure enough, General Sherman crashed the party.
Yes, I’m on call, but there is no Mustard Signal.
All I have is a numeric pager. No cell. No alpha. Just a callback number.
When they need me, they page me. Usually, I get a day or two advance warning, but there’s been emergency gigs.
Those pay double, and they usually involve Dijon Lad, too.
By the way, that porn video you’ve seen around the Internet? Hoax. Not only is that guy fat, but a mustard packet condom?
That’s way too small for the real Mustard Man.
Also, Mustard Man wouldn’t touch Paris Hilton with a ten-foot sausage, either.
So, you want to know the truth?
Fine. I don’t like mustard on my hot dogs. There. I said it. I’m a sauerkraut and relish kind of guy.
On hamburgers, give me ketchup, grilled onions, and maybe those bean sprouts they like in California. Or perhaps some guacamole.
After watching Pulp Fiction, I started dipping my fries in mayo. Before that, I’d drown them in nacho cheese.
The last Mustard Man put mustard on everything. And when I say everything, I mean everything.
However, the three teenagers they arrested him with in Bangkok looked more red than yellow.
I have no idea why anybody would kidnap Dijon Lad. Maybe if his parents were divorced and one of them wanted custody, sure, but the guy who they hired to play Dijon Lad is 23 or 24.
As for the 30 million dollars they want, there’s no way the company will pay. Sure, it’s a huge company that owns Mustard Man Mustard, but they can always hire another actor to play that role. Or they’ll just go with a CGI character mascot.
Maybe they’ll kidnap me too.
I have no illusions. Life is brutal and short.
Care for some mustard?
Let’s go over this one more time.
Mustard Man looks like a superhero, but he’s just a mascot.
There are two key differences between a superhero and a mascot:
So, when you run out of mustard, call Mustard Man. In a real emergency, scream for Superman or use the Batsignal or dial 911.
Yes, Bobby, both can have sidekicks. But Dijon Lad doesn’t have super powers either.
Don’t you feel silly now?
Now do your pal Mustard Man a favor and get help. This girder is really heavy and I can’t feel my legs.
Things are hard all over, but especially in Europe.
In Rome, taxis have been replaced by rickshaws pulled by starving pensioners.
You can’t walk in London without tripping over three people shining your shoes.
Have problems folding a map in Berlin? Not any more – every petrol station features map-folders for hire.
It’s easy to mistake the purse-snatchers of Paris for the porters and bearers.
But of all the fallen, pity Prague the most. The poor are stripped, painted like statuary, tangled in vines and daisies, and displayed in eight hour shifts.
Sad beasts, lining the grand avenues of yesterday.
Nigel tapped Middle C again.
He lifted the green piano’s lid and checked the striker and the wire. Everything worked fine.
But he didn’t hear anything when he hit Middle C.
B played. D played. Every other note played.
But not Middle C.
Nigel blew out the candelabra and hit Middle C again.
Of course it wasn’t that, he thought. That would have been silly.
Nigel tried another piano. Middle C worked just fine.
He went back to the green piano, lifted the lid, and plucked Middle C.
He hit the key again.
Nothing at all.
She once had legs, but over time she let herself go. Varicose veins, a deep hacking cough, and stints in rehab for a heroin problem finished off her partying days.
The dream guy she hooked with the help of ZZ Top’s gang of gals had long slipped the line and swam back for deeper waters.
Rags filled her closets.
Still, she kept the car in the driveway. The paint faded, the tires rotted, the engine seized up, and rust spread like brown cancer and covered everything.
Sometimes, she’d go out front and snap her nicotine-stained fingers, wave the keys.
“When you see the color red, you will experience so much hate that you will kill the Senator. It is your destiny.”
Arthur heard this phrase six hundred and forty-eight thousand, seven hundred and nine times before they stopped the recording and wiped the drool from his chin.
It used to be that you had to loop a recording with a razor and cellophane tape. Now you just hit “REPEAT” on an MP3.
They gave him a gun and a bus ticket. Two days later, he shot four seals at the Boston Zoo.
Hey, nobody said this stuff was perfect.