Tag: silly

Space Signals

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We’ve been waiting centuries for the signal to arrive, and now that we have it, we can’t understand any of it.
It’s just digital jibberish flowing through the vastness of space, and we have no idea what any of it means.
But it’s out there. And we’re collecting it up, storing it in a digital library until we can figure out what it all means.
Sometimes I wonder if way out there in space, strange beings are gathering up all the crap we broadcast out into the void.
I’m sure the idiots at the RIAA will sue them for it.

Vampire News

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My neighbor is a very old German vampire. His English isn’t so good, so he’s always calling me over to explain things to him.
Tonight, it’s the news that’s confusing him.
“What is this NO BLOOD FOR OIL signs they carry?” he says, pointing at a war protest on the screen.
“They think this war is not worth the lives of the soldiers fighting it,” I said. “And they think it’s being fought for cheap oil.”
“Ah,” said the vampire. “I agree. Less blood for oil, more blood for Count Victor.”
He smiles, coughs, and goes back to watching golf.

Lucy

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Lucy couldn’t wait to take the bandages off, but the doctors said she had a week to go before they thought her eyes would be safe to check.
Her eyes… her kaleidoscope eyes.
At first the colors and reflections of reality were exciting and mesmerizing, but the fascination ended quickly as she found herself completely helpless to perform the most simple tasks: reading and walking around.
Dr. Odd patted her shoulder.
“One more week,” he said. “How would you like to listen to some music, Lucy?”
“Sure,” she said.
And on cue, Billy Shears began to play out of tune.

Party Girl

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Another night, another boring party.
Josie walked out into the hall, picked up her cell phone and dialed her answering machine.
One ring.
Two rings.
Three rings.
She was already starting to sweat.
Click.
How exciting.
Her message played in her ear. Same message she’d had on there since the day she bought it.
After the beep, she whispered the filthiest, most depraved phone sex message in the history of mankind.
Hanging up, she headed back to the bar.
Drank herself stiff.
When she came to in the morning, there was a message on the machine.
She played it.
Perfect.

Malone

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Word on the street is that Malone is back in town.
Malone’s got a file on him.
It’s a big file. Really big.
Takes up a whole building. Twenty cops working around the clock on that file.
The Feds took an interest in Malone a while back, and they wanted a copy of the file.
We laughed. They came down to see what we were laughing at.
When they saw it, they laughed too, and lost interest in Malone really quick.
Chief says we move on Malone tonight.
Good. We need the building.
It’ll make more room for Casey’s file.

Ghostwork

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If you have a ghost, my advice to you is to give it a job.
Ghosts can be very useful. And loyal.
A ghost will enjoy walking your dog for you while you’re busy. And they’ll prepare delicious dinner meals while saving you the chore of cleaning up afterwards.
Got landscaping to do? I’ve got one word for you: ghost. There is nothing more reliable than a ghost with a lawnmower and hedge trimmers.
I, for one, have three of them working for me.
Hold on… maybe I meant to say “Mexicans.”
Or Mexican ghosts.
Still, they do excellent work.

Rygar

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Jack?
Oh, Jack! He calls himself “Rygar” now, and he sleeps in his basement under a pile of old towels.
Until… he wakes up… senses… INTRUDER!
“Come on out, Jack,” said his landlord, nervously twiddling his keychain. “We need to talk about you tapping the Smith’s cable line.”
“RYGAR ANGRY!” shouts Jack, and he searches his towel-pile for weapons.
“I’m sure you are,” said the landlord. “We’ll discuss this when you’re ready, okay?”
The landlord sighed and reminded himself that of all his tenants, Jack paid his rent on time.
And in cash.
“Grondar Goldheart happy,” growled the landlord, chuckling.

Marching Boots

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Every moment, we grow more afraid.
Boots! Boots! Marching Boots!
I can hear them marching in the streets, the boots of the soldiers!
Not the soldiers themselves, mind you. Just their boots.
It’s an impressive sight, so many boots marching in unison, completely in step.
A fearsome sight. A scary sight.
We peer out of our windows, watching them.
Who will protect us from these boots? Who will stop this stomping menace?
The soldiers?
No, they are more afraid than we humble citizens are.
We watch the socks, drying on the clothesline.
Will they be next?
All hope is lost.

Scythe

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Fashion is so fickle, you know.
This year in Paris, all the rage is scythe.
“Scythe is the new black,” says a designer, and he pedals the grindstone faster. Sparks fly!
The blade’s edge is sharp, and the flat of it is polished mirror-like.
Trowels and rototillers are so yesterday… scythe is now! It’s hip! It’s fresh!
It’s the in thing.
The word is: scythe.
“It’s the new black,” says the model behind the stage, changing from Versace to Armani. “It goes with everything.”
She checks her hair and heads for the runway.
Watch out, world. Scythe! Scythe is here!

Woodwork

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If I seem a tad distracted, it’s because my new lathe is broken.
I bought it last month, thinking I’d do woodwork. Sure, I don’t know anything about carpentry or crafts, but Wood 2.0 is new and exciting. It’s all about social woodworking. And the marketing brochures said it was profitable, too.
All I needed was a lathe and a client base.
Technical Support tells me it’s not plugged in. Then they say I’m using glass instead of wood… that’s why my finished product is often a pile of broken glass.
I’ll just scream louder and threaten to sue them.