Tag: cliche

I’ve Got Spurs

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I’ve got spurs that jingle jangle jingle.
I wish I didn’t. Damn things are a dead giveaway for a cattle rustler.
They used to belong to a rancher, but he tried to catch me rustling his cattle and-
That’s right. I heard the spurs from a mile off.
They looked so nice, couldn’t leave them behind.
I should have sold them off, or dug a hole and buried them.
The Rangers have me pinned in this canyon. It’s night, but I can’t escape.
Bullet in my shoulder, bleeding slow.
I’ll die with my boots on.
And these damn, noisy spurs.

Blue Ear Wax

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Everybody knows you’re not supposed to stick a cotton swab down in your ear canal to dig stuff out, but we all do it anyway.
You gently swirl it around in there, even though eardrums will rip no matter how gentle you are.
The cotton swab comes out and…
It’s blue.
Usually, you can expect some yellow or tan ear-wax, but blue?
What could you have stuck in your ear that was blue?
Why don’t you remember?
Do you dig in there deeper?
Do you call the doctor?
Or…
This is why there’s cotton at either end of the swab.

Sleep Like A Baby

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I’ve been having trouble sleeping recently.
I used to get seven or eight hours of sleep, but now… well, none at all.
While watching television one night – or was it morning – I saw a commercial.
It was for a new sleeping pill. It promised me that I could sleep like a baby.
So, I talked to my doctor, and I started taking the pills.
I’ve been sleeping like a baby. Quite literally, sleeping like a baby.
I wake up three times a night, call my parents on the phone, and cry for no reason.
Oh, and I’m constantly shitting myself.

Pancakes

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The Oracle of Omaha breakfasts at the same diner I go to every day.
There’s always a crowd there because folks are always wanting to ask him for advice.
Me, I’ve never asked him anything.
Why? Because everybody asks the same things over and over.
And nothing about how he’s doing and such. It’s always folks looking to get rich.
So, one day, he gets fed up and tells everyone: “Buy waffles, sell high.”
Weird, huh?
Problem is, the media got hold of this advice, and the entire economy collapsed overnight.
Me, I didn’t fall for it.
I bought pancakes.

Baby Elephant Wank

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Little Susie wanted to learn about the birds and the bees, but Daddy liked elephants.
“When a mommy elephant and a daddy elephant love each other very much,” said Daddy, “they do something special at night and make a baby elephant.”
“What if a mommy elephant loves a mommy elephant?” asked Susie.
Daddy looked down at his hand. The ring was gone, but its impression was still fresh on his finger.
“Then the daddy elephant hires a lawyer,” he said. “And then he moves away to Pittsburgh.”
To this day, Susie always gets a bit turned on at the circus.

Burning Camel

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Some days, I feel like I am burning my camel at both ends.
No, I don’t burn my candle at both ends. I burn my camel at both ends.
Back in college, I had a wooden footstool shaped like a camel.
One day, I got mad and stomped it. The footstool broke in half.
So, we tossed it on the barbecue pit and lit it on fire.
I said “Some days, I feel like I’m burning my candle at both ends.”
Charlie replied “No, you’re burning your camel at both ends.”
Okay, I guess you just had to be there.

Cookie Crumbles

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“That’s the way the cookie crumbles,” said Doctor Odd’s mother.
“Why?” asked the Child Odd.
He was eight. Young, but still the sapling that would grow into the mad scientist the world would fear.
“I don’t know,” said his mother.
From that point on, Doctor Odd begged for cookies – demanded them.
Mother Odd gladly provided, watching her son meticulously test each batch, suggest adjustments to the recipe, and come up with various cookie-crumbling techniques.
On her deathbed, Mother Odd asked her son what he’d discovered from all this research.
Doctor Odd smiled and patted her hand. “I prefer brownies.”

Dancing in the Drunk

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Australians call it Waltzing Matilda.
Japanese call it Saki Hop Susie.
And the Jews call it Horah With Hierschel.
Let’s face it: you’re drunk, and you want to dance.
Feel the dance inside you. Let it rise through your pores and take control.
Good. Now you’re dancing.
If you feel your stomach gurgling, you can take a break. Just bend over and let it flow.
Until then, dance… dance like you’ve never done it before.
Just do me a favor, okay?
Dance over here in the parking lot. You’re holding up traffic out there in the middle of the road.

Message in a Bottle

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I watched as the waves carried the bottle to the beach.
I picked it up, popped the cork, and pulled out some scraps of paper.
They were coupons for herbal medications to make my breasts bigger and my penis longer and thicker.
Then there was a letter from the widow of some oil executive who didn’t know me, but they blessed me and said they’d be dead soon.
Oh, and apparently I’d won a big lottery or something.
Looking out on the water, I saw the glitter of a million more bottles.
“Goddamned Spam,” I mumbled, crumpling up the notes.

You wimp!

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There’s no shame in losing.
You know you’ve tried your best, but it just wasn’t good enough.
However, there is shame in losing to a little girl.
Especially when it’s a little girl in a pink frilly dress and a sailor’s cap.
Sure, you can claim that she only dresses that way to throw off her opponents, but that’s what you said about the guy in the wheelchair, too.
The man had to speak out commands to roll his motorized chair to get his foot to kick your ass, for crying out loud.
Oh, please.
Stop crying already.
You… wimp.