A boot strikes the beach, then a knee, a large metal helmet with a ridiculous amount of plumage, and finally a Spanish Flag.
“I claim this land in the name of Queen Isabella,” cries the explorer.
Thirty feet down the beach, the same process is repeated for the glory of Portugal. Fifty feet beyond that, God is implored to save the British Queen.
Soon, the beach was filled with flag-waving, angry explorers.
Concealed in the tall grass, the natives laughed.
“Two bushels of maize on Birdman,” said Walks With Limp to Sneaking Weasel.
“In the end,” mumbled Shaman, “we lose.”
Atlas looked over his shoulder and saw… nothing.
“Where did the sky go?” said Atlas.
“The Universe is over,” said Zeus, appearing in a thunderblast. “The Heavens and all underneath are finished.”
Atlas looked around. He tried to jump for joy, but he could barely move.
“Cramps,” he groaned. “So, what do I do now?”
“Not sure,” said Zeus. “But just remember that you can only carry forward six weeks of vacation time annually.”
“And because you were exempt and salaried, just forget about overtime.”
And that, my friends, is how the Second War Of The Titans began.
You’ve probably seen the movies where Chicago gangsters all had Thompson machineguns in violin cases.
That couldn’t be further from the truth.
The real story is that gangsters went around with violins in Thompson machinegun cases. So when there was a dispute between rival gangs, each side would rosin up their bows and have a hootenanny.
Perhaps you’re heard of them?
At his peak, Capone went around with a whole orchestra. He’d bought out the Chicago Symphony’s string section before Elliot Ness shut his operation down.
Trying to improperly deduct replacement strings from his taxes did him in.
My loincloth’s slipping, I’ve got a splitting headache from the heat and the crown of thorns, and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.
I look down. Mom’s there, crying her eyes out.
“Quit crying, Mom,” I shout down to her. “Get me a towel or something.”
She just kneels and weeps.
“Shut up, freak!” shouts a soldier. He jabs me with a spear.
“Damn!” I yell. “Asshole!”
That’s when it starts to rain.
“Thanks, Dad,” I mumble Heavenward. “What a fucking shitty day this turned out to be.”
I should have checked my horoscope.
I knew I’d win. Inviting the jury to a party at my ranch did the trick.
Surprisingly, none of them tattled on me, despite huge rewards those nasty tabloids offered.
My fans, they love me.
It’s hard to celebrate, though. My back is killing me, but the pills they give me don’t help anymore.
They aren’t completely useless, though. Mix them right, and you get GHB. That takes care of the memories.
A nice hot shower washes away the physical evidence.
But never mind all that. Thanks for helping me with my pants, Johnny. Now help me with my shirt.
Studies have shown that playing classical music causes a plant to grow faster and stronger than if a plant is raised in an environment with rock and roll music, noise, or complete silence.
It turns out that the same goes for babies. Classical music makes them grow quickly and in good health.
And if you pump the music in directly through headphones, you block out the crying noises of other babies, which turns out to be somewhat infectious and irritating.
Nice, juicy babies.
Removing the hair and bones cleanly and rapidly through automation is something we’re still working on, however.
“Fifty billion” said Thabo, watching the telly of the G-8 press conference.
“That’s an awful lot of jack,” said Mohammed. He crushed his soda can and tossed it into the wastebasket. “Awful nice of the blokes to offer it up. So, how do we get our mitts on it?”
“We just need a name, a flag, and a big enough bag,” said Thabo.
Mohammed reached into the wastebasket.
“Daliwali,” he read from the can.
“Pretty.” Thabo smiled. “How about the flag?”
Seven hours and two suit rentals later, they were heading to Edinburgh.
All in the good name of Daliwali.
The legendary Wild Journalist was renowned for its drab plumage, tireless hunting of facts, and hard-nosed competitive nature.
Down through the ages, onlookers would stand in awe of its relentless pursuit of news, serving the public’s interests by seeking out and spearing vermin among public office and commerce with acid tongue and razor-sharp wit. No community was complete without its population of Wild Journalists serving to guard them from vicious predators.
Once common, today the Wild Journalist’s numbers have greatly declined in recent years, thinned by various domesticated breeds: Celebrity Asskissers, Empty-suited Egos, Craven Appeasers, Corporate Tools, and Agenda-Driven Propagandists.
Bond held up the gun and raised an eyebrow.
“Excuse me, R,” he said. “What does this do again?”
“Pay attention, Double Oh-Seven!” admonished R. “First, it kills a person for just ten minutes. Then, it turns their hands bright orange, enough to see from 8 kilometers away.”
“Eight kilometers?” asked Bond. “Lovely.”
“Of course, it also turns your hands blue,” said R. “And you get only one shot.”
Bond put the gun down and sighed.
He looked around Q’s old lab, tables piled with other useless creations of R.
“I miss you, Q,” he muttered. “This fucker’s a loony.”
“Welcome home, Sir” said the staff. “The Lincoln Bedroom is unavailable, but you can sleep here.”
Bill held up the sweat-soaked pillow, sniffed it, and tossed it back on the stained lumpy mattress.
Oh, the indignity.
First, he had to sleep on the floor when he was off touring the tsunami-stricken areas of the Indian Ocean.
But now, after all those years of sleeping in the master bedroom of the White House, he was consigned to this disgusting closet.
The Millard Fillmore “Suite.”
Eight years of lousy tips, back to haunt him.
Time to find an intern and a cigar.