Tag: cliche

Exile

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Forget cruises or eco-hikes.
This summer, going into exile is all the rage.
A good travel agent can put the whole package together.
A military coup.
The Swiss bank accounts.
That midnight flight to… where?
Well, whatever country will take you. Bribes and allies go a long way, you know.
Just make sure you can trust them. Otherwise, you may find your deposit turned over to the new regime or stolen by your travel agent.
And who wants to spend their exile on a godforsaken rock like Napoleon did on St. Helena?
If only he had a better travel agent.

The Customer

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You know the phrase The Customer Is Always Right?
Bullshit. This guy is an asshole.
For years, he’s been plaguing me with stupid questions, begging for me to help him, screaming that he’s losing thousands of dollars because of me.
It’s because he’s a stubborn jackass. It doesn’t matter what instructions I give to him – he ignores them.
When I read the paper this morning, I saw his name on the front page.
Seems his house burned down and he died in the fire.
I guess he didn’t follow the instructions again.
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Diapers

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Kids. They’re so confusing.
All the things you have to do to babyproof your house are they sick are they not sick and so on.
It’s enough to drive a guy crazy.
I mean, for instance – take diapers.
Cloth vs. disposable, I’m not getting into that mess.
The manufacturers have all these commercials with pouring pitchers of water into diapers, sealing the wetness away.
They’re all a bunch of crooks.
I picked up some diapers that said “up to sixteen pounds” on them.
I swear, you can’t even come close to leaving just a pound of baby shit in them.

The Magic Touch

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Dumped. Again.
“I’m a lesbian,” she said.
Dan looked back at his past few girlfriends and realized that each and every one of them was now a lesbian.
A few phone calls confirmed the truth: every one of them was a lesbian, all the way back to his first kiss.
“You’ve got the magic touch,” said his newest ex-girlfriend. She finished packing her stuff and walked out the door.
They’d met on a blind date set up by… the ex-girlfriend before her.
He checked his messages. His friend set up another blind date.
“And make it quick,” his ex said.

The Island

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The island isn’t on any maps.
Well, okay. It appears on one map: mine.
It’s off the trade routes. I only found it because of a freak storm that blew me ashore here.
It doesn’t even have a name.
Want to name it?
No rush. We won’t be here long, anyway.
Just long enough to bury the treasure and the prisoners.
That’s right – bury them.
Remember when I gave orders to take no prisoners?
This is why.
Just be sure to give ’em each a sip of whiskey before… you know.
I may be a pirate, but I’m no Savage.

Back In The Bottle

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They say you can’t put the genie back in the bottle.
This is not true.
First, you have to club the genie in the back of the head, knocking them unconscious.
Then, slit their throat with a knife.
Cut them up into smallish pieces that will fit in an industrial blender.
Finally, with the blender set on Liquefy, render the genie into a slurry.
Oh, and you might need a plastic kitchen funnel so you don”t spill any.
I used to dissolve genies with acid in my bathtub, but it’s so much easier to pour them straight from the blender.

Wash Your Hands

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The sign on the bathroom door says: All employees must wash their hands before returning to work.
Lefty McGinty just looks at the sign, clacks his hooks together, and goes back to his desk.
He writes up memoes using speech recognition software, you know.
Talks into a microphone and the words appear on the screen.
He’s got a special mouse for doing edits and that kind of stuff. He’s gotten really good with those hooks.
But I keep thinking of him in the bathroom. Those hooks. And his… his…
Scary stuff.
I guess he’s gotten really good with those hooks.

Yorick

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The old jester imagined that he would be telling jokes in court to laughing royalty, screwing maids in the barn, and dining on the best of what the castle’s kitchen had to offer.
Instead, he had a mouth full of mud and his back ached from the weight of the young prince.
“Horsey!’ shouted Hamlet.
Yorick groaned with each kick to his ribs.
At first, it was a delight. But with each passing week of being a plaything, Yorick grew weary.
Yorick never did get the laughter, maids, or feasts.
He died a broken man, a feast for the worms.

Beautiful Teeth

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I have the most beautiful teeth.
White, smooth, and perfectly even.
They are marvelous and precise, a wonder to behold.
My gums, however, are disgusting.
Bloody and ragged, like a horrendously ugly frame around an exquisite work of art.
“How can this be?” I ask my dentist. “What kind of cruel joke is it to have such beautiful teeth held prisoner within this putrid mouth?”
This dentist is no different than the others. He has no answers.
I wish I were the Cheshire Cat.
I’d vanish from the world, along with my gums, leaving this most wondrous, precious, beautiful smile.

For The Birds

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Ever sit down in a restaurant, and you hear people babbling in another language, and you just know it’s about you?
I’m that way with birds. I think among the chirps and tweets and caws and trills, they’re talking about me.
I grabbed a bird off of a clothesline and demanded to know what it was saying about me.
It kept cawing and scratching madly, so I asked it slower and louder.
That always works with people, right?
But no matter how hard you try, it doesn’t work with birds.
So, I threw it against a wall and walked home.