April 16, 2012
After what seemed to be several lifetimes worth of hauling sand, bricks, rocks, gardening tools, kindling, manure, fence posts, bales of barbed wire, rubble, trash of all sorts, and happy children, the wheelbarrow just up and quit, keeled over and refused to roll another inch. The triffid spawn, smiling their nasty invisible smiles, gathered in a teeming mass to consume it.
April 14, 2012
Destroying things is much easier than making them.
Tell it like it is, Katniss.
April 13, 2012
Thelma often sculled in Long Beach to relax. And yes, her favorite oar was stolen. She was understandably upset because that particular oar had been autographed by the entire 1919 Black Sox Scandal baseball team. There aren’t that many Lefty Williams autographs to be had, I can tell you.
April 12, 2012
Thelma has just been informed that:
a. her bid to purchase Hawaii has been treated with contempt.
b. her favorite oar has gone missing.
c. Richard Widmark ate the last piece of cake.
d. there is no Santa Claus.
April 11, 2012
This is the hill of Jack and Jill
That boulder there is exactly where
Jack bashed his head and bled ’til dead
Jill was sad and soon went mad
Nice hill, though
April 10, 2012
The Violent Quality Control Inspector lost it completely when faced with one too many uneven seams. He spun in place shrieking, tattered the offending garment with his teeth, jumped out the window, flailed his limbs while writhing in mud, skipped laughing and wild-eyed along the canal, collapsed weeping in a puddle, and was struck by lightning. He sat up and blinked his eyes, not once, but hundreds and hundreds of times. When he showed up for work the next day with a strange gaping grin of rictus pasted on his face, he had but one arm.
April 9, 2012
Were the loon to calculate the number of hours contained in the 25 years he spent flinging baseballs plateward from behind one of these things, his right arm would spontaneously combust. As it is, it walks with a limp.
April 8, 2012
If you think that chain will hold, think again.
April 7, 2012
Bloody scraps of cloth and flesh had been left on bushes around the crater – a strange and dreadful sight that put me in mind of the butcher-bird that spikes its prey on thorn bushes.
From Storm of Steel, the World War One memoir of a German soldier, reality trumping fiction.
