Tag: tragedy

Praise Jesus and pass the ammunition

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Around here, a crash in the middle of the night is usually a cat or my wife.
I roll over. She’s still asleep. And all three cats are on the bed.
Another noise.
Great.
I pull my gun from the nightstand, flick off the safety, and walk down the hall.
I see a shadow. It moves, and I empty the clip.
A body falls.
I reach for the light switch, flip it on, and discover I’ve just blown away Jesus Christ.
“Maybe they’ll blame Texans this time?” I grumble.
“Not a chance, Christ Killer,” says my wife. “Nice grouping, though.”

Prometheus Frustrated

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Prometheus looked down Olympus and smirked.
“Those people look really cold,” he grumbled. “I guess I’d better help them.”
Apollo’s chariot set the torch ablaze. Prometheus then cradled it as he stumbled down to the valley.
“Behold!” he shouted to a passing human.
“What’s that?” asked the human. “Is it magic?”
“It’s fire,” said Prometheus, passing him the torch. “See?”
“Ah,” said the human.
He shrugged, stuffed the torch in his mouth, and screamed in agony.
“At least he didn’t shove it up his ass like the last one,” Prometheus sighed as he climbed back up Olympus for more fire.

That’s the way

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“Honestly, I have no idea what this means,” said Foster, running the tickertape through his hands. “I just like the feel of the paper and I look good doing it.”
“How about a graph?” said Duke. He flicked on the overhead projector light, and a black line wiggled down… down… down…
“We’re broke!” screamed Foster.
“No we’re not,” said Duke.
“The market’s crashed!” yelled Foster. “It’s all over!”
Foster jumped out the window, pulling a tickertape trail all the way down.
Duke looked up at the graph and said “oops.”
He reached for the transparency and flipped it back around.

Greasing the windmills of your mind with the blood of the guilty

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Hans hated tulips. He had a special pair of tulip-stomping boots he wore when he went on his tulip-stomping walks.
“Why do you do this?” said his neighbors. “Tulips are beautiful.”
“Tulips are Satan’s handiwork,” growled Hans, stomping.
Hans’ neighbors replanted the tulips.
And Hans kept stomping them.
The neighbors were worried for Hans, so they asked the mayor to pay Hans a visit.
They argued, Hans stomped the mayor (with his mayor-stomping boots), and the neighbors began to worry for themselves.
That night, an angry mob killed Hans.
I bet you can guess what flowers were at the funeral.

Rush job

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Malakas the Sculptor hated rush jobs.
He preferred to plan out his work, drawing up the plans and measuring out the perfect proportions for everything. Sharpening chisels and testing the material was his favorite part of the process, not the actual work.
Fat chance. The king was due back in Athens tomorrow, and the priests needed the temple frieze completed tonight.
So, Malakas worked. And he drank. Heavily.
The intricate battle scene turned into a screed mocking King Demetrius. By the time he fit the last word in, the priests saw what he was doing, screamed, and had him executed.

Bath Time

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Wendy rubbed her sweat-covered forehead and gritted her teeth.
It was always the same: first the pain, then the visions. Screaming. Seeing Satan in her five children. Drowning them in the tub.
And blinding, mad agony.
“Why is this shit happening to me?” she screamed, reaching for the Excedrin bottle. “I don’t have any kids!”
The pain stopped.
“No children?” said a voice in her head. “I’m sorry, is this the Yates Residence?”
“They’re next door,” whimpered Wendy.
“Oh,” said the voice. “My mistake. Sorry for bothering you.”
The demon flowed from Wendy’s nose, shrugged, and wafted out the door.

Empty Collars

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There are three kinds of empty cat collars in this world.
All those collars at the pet store. So hard to choose. Will it look good? Does it have a bell? Is it a safe collar for them to wear if they get tangled in something? How long will they take to get used to it?
Sometimes, a collar wears out. Or it breaks. They just get thrown out with the rest of the garbage. Once again, you buy another.
But every now and then, an empty collar means something else:
A dear, beloved friend is gone.
Those, you keep.

The tale of Sir Vapid

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Sir Vapid paid for musicians to accompany him on his adventures. He thought he’d be more impressive with some kind of theme music.
So a deal was struck, and off they went.
They climbed mountains, crossed swamps, went on holy pilgrimages, and even negotiated a treaty between some farmers and an ogre.
“Impressive,” said King Richard. “You’ll go far, Vapid.”
But the moment he got into a fight, the other knight ran him through with a sword.
“Perhaps I should have bought some armor instead of minstrels,” were his final words.
They played at his funeral for no additional charge.

The off-season

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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.”

Get down off the cross, we can see your wood

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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.
“Help!”
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.
Wonderful.
“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.