The Second Disaster


As the shelters filled up, FEMA Director Michael Brown challenged his team to come up with alternative housing arrangements.
Strategic placement of hurricane survivors on television talk shows absorbed 2,000 of them. Green room sofas sure are comfy.
Golf courses became Brownville shanty towns. Nothing wrong with camping. People love to camp.
Best idea of all was shipping them out to zoos.
“It works for the Chinese and those damn pandas, right?” said Brown.
Two problems: hurricane survivors don’t live on bamboo like pandas, and they tend to fuck more often than pandas.
“Zoos can charge extra then,” said Brown.

And the Paris shall burn


Wynn put another zero on the check.
“It’s tacky,” said the mayor. “No.”
“Tacky?” said Wynn. “This town was founded on tacky.”
Wynn put yet another zero on the check.
“One more, please,” said the mayor.

The eleventh finally arrived.
“Have they said how they’re going to demolish it?” asked the tourist, standing behind a fence a block away from the New York, New York.
“It’s a secret,” said the cop. “They told us to keep you behind the barrier, that’s all.”
“Look!” shouted another tourist, pointing up.
That’s when they saw the pair of airliners.
“Tacky,” mumbled the cop.

The Parasite


Lighter than a feather, a buzzing mosquito follows the scent trail and lands.
It smells its surroundings, sniffing for blood.
The jagged proboscis digs, ripping through flesh for rich red blood. The mosquito drinks. Its belly quickly fills…SMACK!
“Goddamned parasite,” yells the news cameraman. “Suck someone else’s blood for a change.”
“You’re live in thirty seconds,” the producer buzzes in his earpiece. “Live in thirty seconds.”
The cameraman heaves the camera up on his shoulder and flicks on the power.
The thousands of exhausted survivors just sit and stare. The cameraman licks his dry lips and thinks Pulitzer.

File Not Found


Laurence grabbed the monitor and howled.
“My story is not gone, dammit!” he yelled. “Give it back, you motherfucking motherfucker!”
“I worked for hours on that goddamned thing! I looked up tons of pages on Wikipedia and IMDB, for crying out loud!”
“Auuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh!” screamed Laurence.
A cat ran out from behind the monitor.
“Did you break it, you furry little shit?” yelled Laurence at the cat.
The cat leapt off of the table and out the door.
“Shit,” said Laurence. “oh well.”
He pulled out a pen and began to write.



You won’t find Mohowuku on a map. It doesn’t exist yet.
Well, it exists, but not as an independent country.
The ink is still drying on their constitution. The thatching on the Parliament Hut is fresh and tight. The god-totems have been polished to a luscious shine. Even the flag has that new-flag smell to it.
Minor problem with the anthem, though.
Oh, it’s breathtaking. Majestic strings, soaring flutes… to hear it is to know the angels’ laughter.
Sadly, the Mohowuku only know how to play steel drums.
The composer was absolutely furious.
And, according to the Mohowuku, delicious.

Bath Time


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.

Cart Before The Horse


So, this jackass from Turkey writes an email asking to get the files off of his webserver. I look up his account.
He cancelled his service a few days ago.
Wouldn’t any rational human being download all their files first, then cancel the service? Or are things that different in Turkey? Do they do everything ass-backwards, like eating the cone before the ice cream, slipping on the condom after having sex, or dropping trou after taking a dump?
Man, no wonder why the EU doesn’t want those crazy bastards in their club. Europe is messed up enough as it is.

Empty Collars


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 Economic Dimension


Unregulated currency flow can be a dangerous thing.
First, they started with banks. They seemed innocent enough.
Then came ATMs, advertised as “Where you need them” but actually positioned along lines of economic-force that Mayan astrologers calculated centuries ago.
Finally, cathedrals to The Almighty Dollar appeared at convergence points.
That’s when they began to pull.
Tensioned lines of economic-force buckled the fabric of reality. Time-space twisted worldwide.
In some places, it tore.
It’s been centuries since Wall Street exploded with vicious Keynesian Multipliers. Since then, man has slowly returned to barter and trade.
Simple supply and demand. Back to basics.

Beta Testing


Dear Microsoft,
We are returning your test unit from the Microsoft OfficeAndroid Bob beta program.
Yes, we were impressed with Bob’s diligence and endurance, but there are problems with the verbal interface:
* When told to “Bounce this off of Dick,” Bob cracked three of the Vice President’s ribs.
* “Light a fire under Mueller’s ass” resulted in second-degree burns to the FBI Director that required skin grafts.
* Finally, “Help me wrap my head around this” caused the tragic death of our Transportation Secretary.
So, we’ll wait for Version 2.0.
Thank you,
Andrew Card
White House Chief of Staff