Tag: silly

Muppets

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It’s been a while since you heard anything out of the Muppets, right?
Oh, sure. Jim Henson’s Workshop carries on, but when you ask about the Muppets, they hush up quick.
It turns out they tried to make a movie about the Sicilian Mafia: The Godfrogger.
After watching a preview copy, a boss named Don Music wasn’t amused at his portrayal as a failed songwriter bashing his head against a piano.
Fozzie ended up as a bearskin rug on his floor.
Kermit got skinned and stretched over a pool table.
Poor Gonzo. Tasted like the chickens he loved so much.

The Big Guns

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Whenever he’s cornered in an argument, Louis always threatens to get out “The Big Guns.”
I’m not sure what he’s got up his sleeve, but then it’s Louis, and he’s a little crazy. There’s no telling what he’s capable of when backed into a corner.
So, we just let Louis off the hook and shake hands and go have a beer together.
No sense in pushing the guy on it. It’s just not worth it.
Sure, I’d love to see these big guns Louis talks about. I collect guns and have an appreciate for fine weapons.
Maybe I’ll buy them.

Batsignal

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I think we need to talk about the Batsignal again, Gordon.
There’s the issue with what merits a Batsignal.
Two Face threatening to blow up a building is a Yes.
Goons robbing a bank is a No. You have SWAT for that, right?
Your crazy daughter Barbara wanting me to read a bedtime story is a Hell No.
And I can’t see it during the day. The Joker and Penguin have changed their capering schedules.
Can’t you just SMS my BatPhone, dude?
Now nod your head like you understand what I said or I’m throwing you off the fucking roof.

Codex

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We came across The Codex during our excavation.
It is a stone obelisk with three sides, a different language on each side.
Unlike the Rosetta Stone, we have no idea what these languages are.
We post photographs to JonesNet and wait for answers, but none of the wired archaeologists and researchers in the world have any clue, either.
The shapes and lines and dots resemble no other written language ever encountered.
So, we keep digging, but find no other writing resembling it.
We come to the conclusion that it was a prank by the ancients on future generations of researchers.

Gray Hair

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I remember when I discovered my first gray hair.
I was looking in the mirror and I saw a flash of something.
So, I stopped and looked around for a minute, and I found it.
A gray hair, tempting me to remove it.
I plucked it out.
Pretty soon, there were too many to pluck out.
Eventually, the gray hairs outnumbered the black hairs.
Now, I search and search, and only find gray hairs.
Except for one.
I look at it, and it tempts me to remove it.
So, I get the tweezers, and pluck it out of my nose.

Typing

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I’m tired, and I’m out of ideas for stories.
So, I head to the writer’s group and sit at a typewriter.
Other writers are there, typing away.
The sound of the typewriters, humming and clacking, makes me relax, and I feel a little drowsy.
So I fold my arms on the desk and rest my head for a bit.
Sleep takes me, and I dream of The Woman With Typewriter Keys For Eyes.
I pull the ribbons from her hair, my hands come away stained with ink.
And…
I wake up, and my tongue is caught in the typewriter’s strikers.

Retraining

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I’ve tried to diet before, but it never worked.
I’d get back into the habit of eating junk food and it would all fall apart.
So, I trained myself to dislike junk food.
Now, instead of craving potato chips, I hate them.
When I see someone with a bag, I grab it out of their hands, throw it to the ground, and stomp them to bits.
This is rather violent and destructive, but it’s better than people who train themselves to fear foods.
After all, how do you think vampires got that way about garlic?
Stink-breath is bad for neck-biters.

The Grim Arena

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The gladiators draw their rubber chickens, salute the crowd, and begin their battle.
“What’s with the chickens?” asks the emperor.
“Budget cutbacks,” responded his page. “You said you’d rather have swordfish dinners instead of swords.”
The emperor patted his full belly and smiled. “I love swordfish.” And then he frowned. “But grown men whacking each other with rubber toys is boring. Can’t they just fight with their fists? Or tell the guards to toss them their weapons?”
“Budget cutbacks,” said the page. “They barely have enough weapons for their jobs.”
The emperor sighed and watched the pathetic spectacle drag on.

The Last Piece Of Pie

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I take the pie out of the oven and put it out on the counter to cool.
Everybody is so polite here, so nobody’s willing to take the last piece of pie.
Or the second-to-last piece of pie.
Same with the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth-to-last pieces of pie.
In fact, nobody’s willing to take a piece of pie at all.
Just to start the process will cause that last-piece-of-pie situation to come about.
So it sits on the counter for days.
Spoils, covered with mold, and completely inedible.
(Nobody’s willing to be the one to throw it out, either.)

The Mummy Train

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Mark Twain used to joke that the wrappings for mummies were used in pulp for newspapers and their bodies burned to run trains.
But neither was true.
Instead, mummies were employed by the newspapers in the printing presses, shambling around the massive rollers.
If one got caught up in the machinery and torn to bits, who cared, right? They were already dead, their families long gone.
Letting them don engineer caps and run trains, well, that was a lot more dangerous. Mummy brakemen tended to ignore warning signals, and only so many accidents were tolerated before they all were retired.