Tag: sick

A Swinging Bad Time

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You’ll have to forgive me for not replying to your email.
You see, I’ve got one of those laptops with a fingerprint reader.
The problem is, I cut my finger in the kitchen while chopping up lettuce for salad.
Now the laptop doesn’t know who I am.
There’s an option to use the password, but it’s been so long since I’ve used a password for my laptop, I can’t remember my password.
So I went to a hypnotist, and he swung a watch in front of my eyes for an hour.
But all I could recall was “A swinging watch.”

Phantom Pain

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As a kid, I compulsively bit my fingernails.
I chewed them ragged and bloody.
Nothing could get me to stop.
After years of suffering, I finally went to a hypnotist.
He convinced me that they weren’t there to bite.
It worked.
On the way home, I was walking through Sears when I noticed the Craftsman display.
I mounted a blade into a circular saw and plugged it in.
The first finger was the hardest to cut off.
The rest were much, much easier.
They call it phantom pain. I still feel them there.
But I don’t want to bite them.

Mister Thimble

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When I was little, I’d play Monopoly with my family.
They took the cool pieces, like the dog and the shoe.
All that was left was the hat and the thimble.
So, I put the hat on top of the thimble and called it Mister Thimble.
We were a team, Mister Thimble and I. Best of friends.
He still is my friend. I carry him everywhere.
Late at night, we talk about things.
Sometimes, we talk about you.
I like you, but Mister Thimble doesn’t like you.
Don’t say that Mister Thimble isn’t real.
He’s right here, watching you sleep.

Commando

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A ghost ate my underwear.
That’s right. A ghost ate my underwear.
I cannot imagine my underwear being appetizing to any living or nonliving creature, but I woke up to the sight of a spectral entity eating my underwear.
I was too tired to be scared, so I just came out with it: “Why are you’re eating my underwear?”
“I don’t know,” said the ghost. “Got any more?”
I wanted to ask the ghost what the Afterlife was like, but he finished the last of my boxers and vanished.
So, can you exorcise my underwear drawer for me, Father O’Malley?

Volunteered

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Let’s not bullshit.
My kid needs your heart. Soon. We’re not sure how long he can hold on.
We’re not sure how long you can hold on, either.
Doctor says that you signed your organ donor card and didn’t want to be kept on life support, but your family trumped your wishes.
I’ve offered them money. They won’t take it.
Do I need to kill them, or just one to set an example and make them sign the forms?
I wish we could have met under better circumstances.
But for my kid’s sake, I’m still glad I ran you over.

The Passion of the Bullfrog

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In church, Arthur tries to behave.
It’s not easy, though.
He watches a woman in the next pew. She is holding a box, and sweating bullets. A green, webbed foot pokes out of the box, and the woman quickly snaps the lid back down.
“Ribbit,” says the box. “Ribbit ribbit.”
No time to lose!
“Bullfrog!” he shouts, and he grabs for the box. The entire congregation heads for the exits, and the priest ducks behind the pulpit.
For the next five minutes, he stomps the box flat.
When the police finally arrive, he tips his hat and walks out proudly.

Keepaway

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Arthur is home.
His two kids, Jenny and Jack, play Keep Away with the dog. The dog runs back and forth between them, panting heavily. Eventually, the dog clutches his furry little chest and drops dead from a heart attack.
The kids keep playing Keep Away, because they so rarely get to do it with a severed human head.
Arthur watches them through his front window. He takes it with him everywhere, just for these moments.
He wishes their mother could be here, but then, in a way, she is.
He wonders where the rest of her body is stashed.

The Heeling Power Of Prayer

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A few months ago, Wally lost his arm in a car crash.
The doctors tried to sew it back on, but it turned gangrenous and they had to cut it off again.
Since medicine wouldn’t give him his arm back, he turned to religion.
So Wally prayed for a miracle, but his arm never grew back.
Frustrated, he went to his church and asked his priest.
“Why won’t my arm grow back?” yelled Wally. “I keep praying, but God doesn’t answer.”
“God can’t hear you because you’re doing it wrong,” said the priest. “It takes two hands to pray, stupid.”

Party Time

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First, it was the rope. Damn thing was dry as dust and broke clean in half. We ended up using that bungee cord stuff.
Then there were the crosses. Nails kept falling out of the wood and all we had was sticks.
They wouldn’t burn, either. Wood was wet all the way through, so the kerosene wouldn’t catch.
We did manage to start a fire, though. Some kerosene got splashed Grand Kleagle’s robe at some point, and that bastard is in the burn ward now.
I gotta tell you, it was the worst goddamned lynching party I’ve ever been too.

Christmas Trolls

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The day after Christmas, Santa’s elves partied and celebrated another year’s work finished.
On the other side of the North Pole, Santa’s trolls were dealing with returns, damaged toys, injury claims, technical support, and instruction booklets in the wrong language.
“Fucking elves!” growled the Head Troll. “Those twerps get the credit for shipping crap, but we’re the ones having to clean up after them.”
“Let’s strike,” said a few of the trolls, and they grumbled agreement.
At first sign of revolt, Santa stomped into the Troll Barn with a bullwhip and a bullhorn.
“Back to work, you sonsabitches!” he shouted.