Just as the Leprechaun guards his pot of gold from rainbow-chasers, the Leperchaun flees the people who follow his trail of rotted-off appendages.
Why people would follow a trail of bloody fingers… toes… or worse, I have no idea.
Sometimes, it’s the police, After that John Wayne Bobbit incident, anything’s possible, really.
The dogs sniff out a trail, which leads to the miserable creature, hunched over a pot of glue.
With antibiotics, he can be cured of the horrible affliction. But the disfigurement is permanent.
With prosthetics and a 3D printed half-mask, he’ll still look like a goddamned Irish midget.
On the seventh day, God rested.
And God’s idea of rest is Texas Hold’em. (God created Texas and Texas Hold’em long before the first day.)
He brought the cards. Gabriel brought the snacks.
Since nobody had any money to bet with, Michael gathered up some animals to bet with.
Things got out of hand after a while. Gorillas lost their tails, dinosaurs were all killed off with the unicorns, snakes lost all their legs, and all kinds of other messes got made.
God swept the wriggling, writhing leftovers under the rug.
A platypus crawled out and slipped into a stream.
Sisyphus groaned as he leaned into the boulder.
The stone bit into his scarred flesh, blood welling from ancient wounds.
Just when he thought he couldn’t push any more, the boulder finally began to move uphill.
Every inch of motion was agony to Sisyphus’s soul, but he could not stop.
The Gods had stripped him of reason and logic, leaving him with just compulsion and suffering.
When he got to the top, Albert Camus slapped him on the back.
“Well done!” he said, and he pushed the boulder back down the hill.
Sisyphus screamed and chased it.
Camus laughed, jealously.
If Santa’s up at the North Pole, who’s down at the South Pole?
Anti-Santa, of course.
Anti-Santa flies around the world in his anti-sleigh pulled by anti-reindeer and gathers toys from all the good boys and girls.
He fills up his sack, and then goes back to his anti-workshop where the anti-elves smash the toys into teeny tiny bits.
The next morning, the kids wake up to… nothing. Because Anti-Santa goes around just after Santa.
That’s okay, because it’s really your moms and dads who give you presents.
Unless you’re an orphan. Then you get nothing.
Well, maybe charity.
For many years, Baba Yaga’s hut walked around on a pair of gigantic chicken legs.
But a harsh winter forced her to cook and eat one of the legs.
Instead of walking around smoothly on two legs, the hut hopped and wobbled on its single leg. Everything inside the hut was knocked around, and anything fragile was smashed to bits.
The old witch was forced to cook and eat the other leg.
Since she couldn’t find any more chicken legs, she bought a Winnebago.
Not as terrifying-looking as a magical chicken leg hut, but you should see how she drives!
A friend of mine recently underwent a colonoscopy.
They were all freaked out over it. The fasting, purgative, and the discussion about the anesthetic just made it all worse.
I told them how I just laughed through my own colonoscopy preparations and the procedure, and things turned out okay.
So, they went through it all, and they just told me “They found a precancerous polyp.”
That’s great news, I said, precancerous and not cancerous.
“Yes! Thank the gods!” they said.
Except the God Of Precancerous Polyps, of course.
Because he’s a total dick, giving those fucking polyps out to people.
Around Christmastime, people make a deal of Santa trackers. And the weatherman likes to add a Santa animation to the Doppler radar.
But when it comes to the Easter Bunny, does anybody watch that varmint?
They really ought to. Because bunnies can be nasty little creatures, and they have really sharp teeth.
And Easter Eggs have a pretty short shelf life. As pretty as the dye and glitter job is, you do not want to tear open and eat a hard-boiled egg that’s been sitting at the bottom of Peter Cottontail’s basket all night.
Stick to the chocolate ones.
You’ve heard of the goose that laid the golden eggs, but have you heard of the golden goose that laid eggs?
I’m not sure which is weirder: An inanimate object laying living, organic eggs or a living creature laying solid metal eggs.
I tried to explain this to the guy who owned the golden goose, but he just wanted to melt the goose down and sell the gold.
“Have you seen the price of gold?” he replied.
“This is a miracle goose!” I pleaded. “You can’t melt it down!”
He did anyway.
The goose turned out to be gold-plated lead.
The princess found herself a prince, but he’d been cursed into the shape of a frog.
He told her that the curse would be lifted if she were to kiss him.
“At least that tasted good,” the princess said to the still-cursed frog prince.
“Maybe you need to do something else?” said the frog.
Grinning, she lifted her dress and shoved the squirming frog between her legs.
The experience was magical in more ways than one.
Exhausted, she looked up at her prince.
“Marry me,” she said.
“Hell no,” said the prince. “You fucked a frog, you disgusting freaky bitch.”
Hansel and Gretel’s parents couldn’t afford to feed them, so they took the kids deep into the woods to abandon them.
However, the kids left a trail of breadcrumbs, and they followed it back to their home.
“Where did you get that bread?” shouted their parents. “We’re starving, and you waste bread like that?”
I stopped my mother and said “Don’t they use pebbles first? And shouldn’t the birds eat the breadcrumbs?”
My mother put the book down. “Fine, Little Mister Know-It-All. The birds ate the breadcrumbs. Then they caught and ate the birds. The end.”
My stomach rumbled painfully.