Batting zero in the year 3000

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So pretty, he had to try.
“Never in a thousand years” she answered when he asked for a date.
Travis didn’t hear rejection. Instead, he saw a challenge.
And success.
Thanks to his research in Cryostasic Neuromedicine, Travis defeated Death and opened a bridge to eternity for mankind.
He scanned the databases and looked her up.
“Have the centuries thawed your heart to me?” he asked when the last of the ice crystals melted away from her brainjar.
“Absolutely not,” her electrovoder answered. “Go away.”
Travis didn’t wait for the system to finish clonareplicating a cerebral implantation vessel for confirmation.

The Old Man and the Sea of Tranquility

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Everybody’s familiar with the movies showing astronauts moon-golfing, but you’ll never any of Luke “Studs” Morgan casting his fishing reel.
In the lesser lunar gravity. he could cast a mile.
Reeling it back in with those thick gloves was hard, Luke said, but the worst part was spearing a vacuum-exposed, subzero-frozen worm on the hook.
His crewmate “Tank” Washington hid behind a boulder and planned on sticking a frozen salmon on the hook, but there’s a scream and that’s where the tape ends.
He came back as cargo and got buried at Arlington.
Hence the tape label: “Fishing Tank Accident.”

Send in the clowns!

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The 101st Clown Brigade may be the laughingstock of our armed forces, but this doesn’t bother them.
Every division has its Special Comedy Operations component, from the sappers disarming dangerous banana peels to cream pie chefs in the mess hall.
Some say that the Pentagon is full of them.
The most important aspect of the 101st by far is the team of rapid-deployment medical specialists.
After all, isn’t laughter the best medicine?
If you thought that a dozen heavily-armed Marines popping out of an APC was an impressive sight, try a few hundred of the 101st coming out of one.

Reality blows

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The show is called Weathering The Storm.
The producers own homes all along the Gulf Coast.
Once they know a hurricane is heading towards one of them, we’re dropped into the nearest house.
Well, actually, they’re just run-down shacks. No better than a house of cards.
Cameras… canned food… bandages…
Body bags.
Survivors share five million bucks. Less survivors means split fewer ways.
It’s a big storm. Maybe even too big. Category two… three…
The producers are banging on the door, telling us we have to get out.
Everyone flees with them.
Except me. I know it’s a trick.
Suckers.

Crosseyed Joe

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Crosseyed Joe’s work was done. Black Bart and his gang of cattle rustlers were dead.
So was the sheriff.
And the barber.
For that matter, everyone else with the bad luck to be in the Last Chance Saloon this afternoon with Joe firing wildly.
Joe tipped his hat and rode off into the sunset, despite the horse’s protests. He spurred the horse harder and harder until the thing just gave up and ran for all it was worth.
That was yesterday.
This morning, vultures are circling over the canyon.
So much for Crosseyed Joe.
I feel bad for his horse.

Trampled Leaf

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This one’s real, that’s for certain.
Usually, it’s a corn or wheat field near a high school or college that’s been trampled.
For the publicity. The “Hi Mom” factor.
Complexity means fraud, since I know they like to keep things simple.
Besides, why would students or farmers draw attention to a huge marijuana patch like this?
The Feds want to burn it, but not before I get a few photos and… ahem.. samples.
Now now now… they’re for purely academic reasons.
But I have to admit, some of these flasks make radical bongs.
What the heck – pass the burner.

100 Word Friday Catblogging

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Ned put down his briefcase and looked at the note pinned to the front door again:
“Did you fix the charcoal?” it said.
Ned shrugged, got out the cat-carrier, and went looking for the cat.
“Here, Charcoal!” he shouted. “Here, kitty-kitty!”
He waited.
No sign of the cat.
He went to the cupboard, pulled out a can of food, and tapped it repeatedly with a spoon.
“Who wants din-din?” said Ned.
Again, he waited.
Still no sign of the cat.
“Well, you’ve got to come out sometime,” he said to the empty room.
Under the bed, Charcoal cleaned his claws.

DIY

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Home Of The Future! they called it.
Every Convenience Imaginable! they claimed.
We moved into our H.O.T.F. and instantly fell in love with it. Everything was voice-control, from breakfast to bed and back again.
I could even control the house by telephone. Just phone Home and tell it “make dinner” or “bubble bath” or “walk dog” and it’s taken care of.
One day, I was running late, so I called Home to delay-record the game.
But I keep getting a busy signal.
I thought it was my wife whispering “Do it yourself” last night, but now I’m not so sure.

The Life Of A Messiah Is Always Insense

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Would you like to know why I’m so tense?
I turn water into wine, but wedding guests complain that it’s not a good year.
I multiplied the loaves and fishes, but people whine about carbohydrates and mercury levels.
The leper I cured didn’t grow back any of the appendages that rotted off, so he’s saying I did a half-assed job.
After that, Lazarus whines that his terminal cancer wasn’t cured, but he can’t die from it now. So he suffers constantly.
Bitch bitch bitch.
Finally, I come back from the dead, and I miss the weekend.
What a goddamned crock.

Sic Semper Jesus

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“Why hast thou forsaken me?” mumbled Jesus, twisting in agony.
God looked down on his son and smirked.
“You want to know why?” asked God. “You were showing off, kid.”
“Showing off?” groaned Jesus. “I was performing miracles. For your glory. To demonstrate your awesome power.”
“No,” said God. “To demonstrate yours, not mine.”
“Who is he talking to?” mumbled a soldier.
“I thought he was talking to you,” said another soldier.
“Oh, just spear him and let’s go home,” said the first soldier.
“You do it,” said the other soldier.
So, they rolled dice to decide.
Obviously, Jesus lost.