Tag: cliche

Wrong Number

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She told me her number at a party, but I couldn’t remember the last number.
So, I dialed all of the numbers in the series.
One was a computer or a fax. So was two, five, seven, and eight.
Three and four were not in service.
Six could have been her. It was a generic pager number, so I gave it my number.
Nine was a kid’s personal line.
Zero was a hardware store. She said she was an art dealer, so that couldn’t have been her Must be the pager.
Unless, of course, she’s a robot with a modem.

The Happy Ending Machine

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It’s been tough times. Came home from work with a cardboard box.
You know how it is.
I try not to let my daughter hear me worry, but kids are smart. Can’t fool them at all.
So she put the cardboard box on the floor and said it’s my Happy Ending Machine. Says so on the side in Magic Marker.
All spelled right, too.
“Put anything in it, and it will get better,” she said.
Bills? They got paid.
Papercuts? They got healed.
Sick puppies? They got better.
Homework? It got done.
Because that’s what happens in happy endings, right?

I Quit

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Yeah, my job sucks. It’s sucked for a very long time.
So, I put my two weeks notice in with the boss.
“You can’t quit,” said God.
“Why not?” I said.
“You’re Satan,” said God. “You’re The Devil.”
“Well, I quit,” I said.
“You can’t quit,” God said again. “You became The Devil when you quit being one of my angels.”
“I don’t want to be one of your angels,” I said. “And I don’t want to be The Devil any more, either.”
God isn’t sure what to do with me now. But I’ve got one Hell of a resume.

Monkey Joke

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Three monkeys go into a bar.
Bartender asks the first monkey what he wants.
Monkey says he wants a banana daiquiri
So, Bartender makes one, and he goes to a corner booth
Bartender asks the second monkey what he wants.
He wants a banana daiquiri
So, Bartender makes one, and the monkey goes to the corner booth
The two monkeys in the booth are all over each other, pawing and groping.
Bartender says “So, you want a banana daiquiri like your friends?”
Third monkey shouts: “What, you think I’m some sort of faggot like those two? Gimme a beer, dammit.”

Strippers

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Old Joe was a funny man, great to be around.
Every night, he’d shuffle from strip club to strip club, peeling off five-dollar bills from a roll as thick as a cabbage.
I don’t know how long he’d been doing this, but that roll never ran out. Not to his dying day.
At his funeral, the place was packed wall-to-wall with strippers, and by the end of the service, the floor was a sea of veils and black dresses.
One final party.
There in the center, old Joe, smiling in his coffin, gripping that bundle of fives.

Hand Of Revenge

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A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, the old saying goes.
In the silvery moonlight, a severed hand crawls its way through the forest.
It’s been crawling for a while, because it’s all tangled up in vines and dead leaves. Completely covered in dirt.
Don’t ask how it performs this hideous task. To learn of the magic spells that impel this hand is to earn oneself eternal damnation.
Just stay back, let the hand pass, and know that whomever it is seeking will suffer great pain.
But not as much as the one-handed wretch who sent it out, seeking revenge.

Moment

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“Let me know when you have a moment,” said the boss.
His idea of a moment is not my idea of a moment.
A moment to me is a flash of recognition in the street, or sipping coffee that’s just a little too hot.
His idea of a moment is forty minutes at the end of the day, delaying my commute home until traffic’s at its worst.
It could be worse. I hear that the secret police of many nations tap people on the shoulder and say “Do you have a moment?” all the time.
Those people tend to vanish.

Mouse Trap

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Everybody’s trying to build a better mousetrap.
Me, I’m trying to build a worse mousetrap.
You can waste your time with engineering and materials science and physics and such, but after playing that old kids’ game, I just want to make a mess and a whole lot of noise.
Who cares if it traps a mouse or not, right? Half the fun is getting there.
And mom always said that you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.
Speaking of which, what else do you want with your omelet besides shredded mouse?
Yeah, I thought you’d want cheese.

Mr. Tambourine Man

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Hey, Mister Tambourine Man?
Get the hell out of here! Now!
No, really. Quit banging that tambourine and beat it.
You’re driving everyone nuts with that racket.
Oh, and maybe you should take a shower, too. I mean, you reek like landfill.
Then, when you’re clean, how about some music lessons?
Look, a guitar or a piano is a musical instrument. It takes skill to use.
On the other hand, a tambourine takes no skill whatsoever to use. You just smack it around and make noise.
Understand?
Good. Now put that tambourine in the trash and get out of here.

Stop The Presses

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Stop the presses!
Stop the elevators, too!
Might as well stop the air conditioning.
Oh, and the copiers. Can’t forget them, too.
Have you got a coffee machine?
Yup. Stop that sucker cold.
Stop everything right now.
Okay, now listen. Listen for a minute.
What do you hear?
You hear yourself breathing. And maybe your heart beating. Are your ears ringing, too?
That’s what’s real.
Now turn everything on.
Flip switches, one by one.
Bring it all back to life.
Make some noise.
Yell. Scream. Shout.
Just because you can’t hear your heart beating, it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.