Ted was always telling Alice to go fuck herself.
So, she went ahead and did it.
She pulled off Ted’s head, put hers on Ted’s body, and fucked herself.
Right before she came, she realized that she wasn’t on the pill, and she hadn’t put on a condom, either.
She panicked, pulled out, and made a sticky mess on herself. Still, it felt great.
Ted had a condom in his wallet, so she cleaned up, put it on, and fucked herself again.
The second time was even better. And the third. And the fourth. And…
Ted’s head watched it all.
I grew up with coffee cans in the pantry.
This whole newfangled coffee pod craze makes no sense.
How the hell are you supposed to bury money in the back yard with those?
You can fit a few pennies in those things. Maybe a folded-up dollar or two.
But in order to bury your entire fortune, you’ll need to tear up your whole yard to plant a few thousand of these dinky little things.
Won’t the neighbors notice the mess?
And by the time you buy enough pods to fill up with your money, you won’t have any money left.
It started with a simple cheer: Hooray!
But, sadly, things got out of hand quickly.
Some people would give three cheers: Hip Hip Hooray!
(Whatever happened to double cheers, I don’t know. And where did the Hips come from?)
After that, people started five cheers… seven cheers… twelve cheers…
Some people did nothing but cheer all day long. And for inconsequential shit, too.
Like, you know. Cheering. Cheering for cheering.
Pretty soon, everybody was cheering all day long. And some people even cheered in their sleep.
Which, in the end, left no time for getting anything done to cheer about.
So let me get this straight…
Jack ignores his mother, and he sells the cow for some magic beans.
She throws them out the window, and they grow into a gigantic beanstalk.
Then he goes up the beanstalk and lies to the giant’s wife, robs the giant blind, and then kills the giant?
The dude sounds like a dick to me. He broke into a guy’s home, robbed, and then murdered him!
But I’m not about to say anything bad about Jack.
Because that guy just might lie to my wife, rob me blind, and then kill me.
You really shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, the saying goes. But if a book is covered with wickedly sharp spikes, you should consider buying the Kindle version.
The same goes for books that have a cover that is on fire, although most bookstores won’t stock books that are on fire. And Amazon can’t deliver them fast enough. You’ll end up with a box of ashes.
As for the book that’s dripping with semen, well, that’s just plain gross. But then, maybe you should get it.
I mean, someone else enjoyed it, right?
Just wipe it off first, okay?
Whenever someone says that dead men tell no tales, it’s obvious that they haven’t ever been to Necropolis, Kenya.
Not only does Necropolis have a population boom problem, but they have a severe shortage of paper.
The ruling elite came up with a brilliant solution to both problems: write everything down on the skin of people who have starved to death.
Okay, so the dead really aren’t telling any tales, and it’s dead men and women.
Plus, they’re all black, so it’s kind of hard to read the ink, even on the light-skinned ones.
Let’s just ship them some Kindles.
If you change your mind from your current position to the exact opposite, don’t say that you’re pulling a 360. You’re pulling a 180.
It’s basic geometry. 180 degrees is half of a circle, while 360 degrees is a full circle.
If you pull a 360, you’re not changing your mind at all. But at least you’ve taken the time to see all positions.
Add 360 to 180 and you get 540 degrees. Add another 360 and you get 900 degrees.
Keep adding 360. You’ll end up looking the same direction.
Just dizzier and dizzier.
Please don’t barf on me.
It’s all Bush’s fault!
The war on terror? Bush.
Guantanamo Bay? Bush.
Iraq? Iran? iPhone? Bush.
The Crimea? Bush.
The economy? Unemployment? Bush.
The one percent? Bush.
Drone strikes on weddings? Bush.
No drone strikes on Kardashian weddings? Bush.
NASA retiring the space shuttle? Bush.
Racism? Sexism? Bush.
The KKK? Bush.
The Third Reich? Bush.
The Kennedy assassinations? Bush.
The assassination of Julius Caesar? Bush.
Global Warming? Hurricane Katrina? Bush.
Tooth decay? Gum disease? Bush.
Bill Buckner? Bush.
The crucifixion? Bush.
AIDS? Cancer? Diabetes? Bush.
Because, dammit… it’s all Bush’s fault!
An apple a day may keep the doctor away, but I’ve found that a leather bullwhip is just as effective.
Especially when it’s one of those doctors that tries to avoid patients as much as possible, packing in way too many appointments for the day and having the nurses do all those blood pressure and height and weight things.
“The doctor will be with you in a moment,” is such a lie, as same as “This won’t hurt a bit.” and “You don’t need that bullwhip.”
Oh hell yes I do! I say, and I crack the whip, grinning wide.
People said that after all these years of writing and podcasting stories, I’d jumped the shark.
No, not me. I’d never just jump the shark.
I’d jump a hundred of them. A hundred live sharks, all jumped at once.
And I’m not going to jump them Fonzie-style. Boats and waterski jumps are so yesterday.
I’m going to freakin’ bungee jump the sharks.
My awesome plan involves lots of rigging of cables and pulleys and safety harnesses. I’ll write and podcast a perfect story, sail gracefully over all the sharks, and make a perfect landing.
Um, where does this bolt go?