Wonderings



I’m cincosexual, which means for five bucks I’ll do anyone





What are the odds that Wetzel would dedicate his life to the pretzel?





I always use the male voice on my GPS, because I’ll die before I take direction from a woman


 


Blo-gurt: When the Yoplait won’t stay down



There's no "I" in team... unless you spell it wrong






Never underestimate the drunken Vegas wedding




How can jaywalking be considered a hate crime?
 




The buffalo will never fly again because you people were hungry for wings





Converting lesbians is thirsty work



I'm paralyzed from the nose down, so you'll have to insert the hard-boiled egg directly into my nostril

 



Regina the Liquid Weatherwoman always nails the five-day












You know that dog that says “I Love You”? I don’t think he means it





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Saturday Morning Madness

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Butter melts good on a frosted raspberry pop tart, but there was no sign of Bobby at the breakfast table. He had gotten up at seven-thirty, had a few bowls of Sugar Pegs and enjoyed two hours of cartoons in a glucose-induced coma... but as usual he had snuk out to the shed to tinker with his newest mystery project and was late for breakfast proper.

Rayna was ready for the Saturday morning ritual, kicking her footy pajamas under the table and pouring a good gallon of maple syrup across her mountain of scrambled eggs.  

Dad was in his paper, pretending to read basketball scores in order to avoid conversation with the family. Mom called out the back door: “Bobby, get inside for Saturday breakfast!”

“Bobby’s bad,” said Rayna, wrapping a Fruit Roll-Up ‘round a buttermilk biscuit.

“Bobby’s going through a very difficult time for a young boy,” thundered Dad from behind the Times, “I’m just glad he’s doing it in the shed instead of his bedroom.”

“Oh, Frank,” Mom shuddered, repulsed, “he’s only eleven.”

“That’s old enough,” Dad continued, face immersed in headline, “if memory serves I started at seven.”

“Started what at seven?” asked Rayna, her salivary glands squirting in her mouth.

Dad blinked behind his newspaper. “Shaving.”

Ruffy- the shaggy family dog, found a forgotten waffle corner on the floor and gobbled it before anyone noticed.

“I still don’t see Mystery Boy,” added Dad.

Mom got up to grab the sausage and called through the screen again. “Bobby Allen Anderbrook- get your ass inside this instant!” She spotted Mr. Cullen clipping his hedges next door and put her hand to her mouth, humilated.

“Mr Cullen’s out there, isn’t he?” Dad must have somehow sensed it because his face was still buried in Sports.

“Yes,” Mom whispered, mortified, “and he must think I’m a terrible mother.”

“I think he hates the lot of us,” said Dad, snatching a slice of bacon back behind his newsprint wall.

Bobby came bounding in through the back door as Mom sat down at the table. “Wash up, Bobby.”

He laid a small metal control box on the table and zipped to the sink, scrubbing his greasy fingers. Mom eyed the electro-contraption and its protruding antenna.

“What in God’s name is that?”

Bobby needed six paper towels to dry his hands. “Just something I’m working on, Mom. It’s what I’m building in the shed.”

Dad whipped the paper down, giving Bobby a dirty look. “You’re not making an explosive, are you?”

“Nope,” answered Bobby, taking a seat. He added three scoops of Strawberry Kwik to his whole milk.

“Good,” said Dad, drawing his newspaper curtain back into place.

“What are you building out there?” Mom wondered.

“Educational,” Bobby barked between bites of cinnamon roll, and that was the end of the discussion.

“I know what he’s building,” Rayna beamed, showing off her missing front teeth.

“Silence!” shouted Bobby, and Dad’s paper was down again.

“What the hell are you yelling about? It’s an explosive, isn’t it?”

“No, no,” Bobby assured, petting Ruffy from his chair. “Science fair.”

“That’s only half the story,” Dad shot back. He closed his paper, folding it up.

“I think you should tell us the truth, Bobby.” Mom was using her Mom voice.

“It’s a simple voltage converter,” Bobby lied, dunking his danish in his cocoa, “ideal for the business traveler on overseas assignment.”

“Horseshit,” said Dad, and he meant every word.

“I know what he’s building,” sang Rayna, grinning like a pumpkin.

“Traitor!” Bobby’s wandering English accent kicked in, and was just as suddenly gone.

“Bobby, I need you to be honest with me.” Mom looked like she had to make poo.

“It’s a binary bit-blitzer.” Bobby shoveled marmalade on his fried egg.

“Techno-babble!” accused Dad, pounding the table so hard he toppled the Eiffel Tower of French toast.

“I know what he’s building,” teased Rayna, knocking back a shot of Hawaiian Punch.

“Nemesis!” shouted Bobby, as angry as he’d ever been.

“Tell us, Rayna,” said Mom, “tell us what he’s building.”

“Bobby’s building a robot!”

Mom started laughing, and even Dad grinned a little. Bobby’s face went beet red as Rayna giggled melodically.

The boy shot his sister a dirty look. “I’m going to have you deported.”

“What’s his name, son? Your robot?”

“I don’t want to tell you because you’ll just make fun.”

“Come on, Bobby,” Mom’s smile was fading, “what’s his name?”

“His name is Robby.”

Mom burst out laughing, and even Dad joined in with a hearty sarcastic chuckle. Bobby burned.

“You named your robot Robby?” Dad was easily flabbergasted.

“Yes,” said Bobby, “but not for the reasons you think. His name is Robert, Jr. I call him Robby for short.”

Mom was hysterical. “You named your robot after yourself? What is he, your son?”

That was when Ruffy- a lifelong Francophile- leapt up to the table to snatch a croissant, knocking Bobby’s control box into his water dish on the floor. The box shorted out, electricity buzzing from the bubbling liquid.

“Ruffy!” Bobby bent down and grabbed the box, which dripped water onto his lap. “You ruined it you dog idiot! Now I can’t control Robby!”

“Serves you right for building a robot,” smirked Dad.

“You reap what you sow, Bobby,” added Mama smugly, “this is karma.”

Robby the Robot came crashing through the screen door, shattering the wood with his seven-foot frame.

“Kill mode… kill mode…” The knobs and switches on his chest were blinking wildly, and as soon as Ruffy ran up to him Robby hauled back with his iron leg and kicked the beast into the living room. Ruffy- airborne- said goodbye with his eyes.

“Kill mode… kill mode…” Dad stood up, furious.

“Now wait one minute Mr. Robot,” Dad said, throwing his napkin into the hash browns.

Robby slid open the junk drawer and pulled out Dad’s service pistol. He pointed it at Mom and fired, blowing her brains onto the kitchen table.

“Just who do you think you are?” asked Dad, clearly peeved. “I’ve got a good mind to re-write your programming and sell you for scrap metal!”

Robby fired twice more, putting one bullet in Dad’s throat and one in his neck. Dad sat back down, in his chair, genuinely dead.

By this time Bobby had opened the emergency service panel on Robby’s control pad and switched him back to the Idle setting. Robby dropped the gun, and stood obediently in place.

There was an awkward moment as Bobby surveyed his dead parents, and Rayna looked at her older brother in genuine fear.

“If I were you,” said Bobby, “I would get upstairs and start cleaning my room.”

She leapt to her feet, knocking over her chair, and ran towards the stairs.

Bobby picked up a plate from the table and held it up to Robby.

“Pop tart?” 

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The Thanksgiving Day Massacre

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Johnny was not enjoying the holiday. 

It wasn’t just because he despised food, or his family, or that he was learning how awful and endless Life could be… it was more than that. Something about these people, gathered around this table, like hogs awaiting feed, all dressed in their finest church clothes, all smiles and denials. It wasn’t just that Johnny was amongst them that was making him miserable… it was the fact that he was becoming one of them.

“Who wants to say Grace?” asked Grandma, and that’s when Johnny stood up and whipped it out.

His cock slid clean out his corduroys, already hard with anticipation. There was a horrified gasp from everyone at the table, and Grandma fainted instantly, but that might have been a blood sugar thing.

Johnny was already bonking away. His head was lowered in concentration, a lone beadle of sweat dripping down his forehead, and he was masturbating with the fury of the condemned. “Ug… pog… sab…” His mouth gurgled senseless babble as he pummeled his penis, which would have been screeching in agony if it had been blessed with vocal chords. A wave of pleasure shot from its head to Johnny’s, and he exploded like a fine volcano.

A load of semen- what seemed like a gallon- exploded out of him and splashed the perfectly-basted turkey, and the family began to scream in horror. The next round of cream slapped Cousin Larry in the face, and he wet himself, because he'd always wanted to. The next round of splooge landed in the candied yams, glazing them splendid. The following spurt landed in Aunt Judy’s open mouth, and as she prepped for flabbergast she took most of the jizbah down her throat. Dad stood up in rage, and slipped on a puddle of Johnny's goop, tumbling backwards over the table, knocking over the bowl of mashed potatoes and breaking his spine on the arm of his chair, paralyzing him for life.

Uncle Alan vomited forcefully, a projectile spew coating Aunt Sarah’s face and dripping down the valley of her provocative but soggy cleavage. Grandma regained consciousness, only to be soaked with the next load of spunk from Johnny’s gushing geyser. Her lethal stroke may have begun even before the man-juice dripped into her ear, and her face instantly froze into a contorted fright-mask, her corpse stiffening into a wax-museum monster.

Johnny just kept cumming, a tidal wave of baby batter dunking Aunt Nancy’s prized stuffing, drenching the relatives and the mushrooms and the pumpkin pie and the, and the, and the…

Johnny’s testicles had clearly been drained, as the stream of pow-chowder finally tapered off, and Johnny fell exhausted back into his chair. The room was rife with the bleachy funk of nut, and his foul dripped from every surface in the dining room, which was now deathly silent. The family sat frozen, their holiday ruined, traumatized beyond any hope of recovery, and a satisfied smile crept slowly across Johnny’s face. The tradition was over.

Mom entered the dining room from the kitchen, a tray in her hand.

“Sorry, everyone, I almost forgot the rolls-”

She froze in her tracks, her eyes wide at the scene before her, her mouth open in speechless horror.

Johnny took a biscuit from her tray and buttered up.



“Happy Thanksgiving"



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The Story Of Peeples

Untitled #1
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Peeples clicked his pen and consulted his clipboard. He looked to the clock on the wall, a dusty black & white unit that had been there since he took the job. He reminded himself to buy a new one, as he had every day for the last eleven years. His eyes went back to his clipboard, briefly.

“This is never easy,” he said, contemplating a sip of coffee, “but it is my job as Administrator.”

Pemmy, sitting across from him, glanced at the placard on his desk:


MISTER PEEPLES
ADMINISTRATOR

She wanted to ask if his first name was Mister… it had to be.

“I think you know what this is leading up to,” said Peeples with a grimace, “We’re going to have to ask your Father to leave.”

“For a few hours?” Pemmy asked hopefully, shifting in her chair.

“Longer than that,” said Peeples, “Forever.”

“I don’t understand,” said Pemmy. She was still wondering if his name was Mister, and whether or not she still had two fingers of Kit-Kat in her pocketbook. He had to be named Mister, she reasoned, or else why would his parents have named him that? Coincidence was a possibility.

“Your Father is a rabble-rouser,” he continued, “An instigator. He’s a bad influence on all of the other residents. Every week we find him in the Ladies Room.”

“I think he is just curious,” Pemmy said, “curious about what goes on in there.”

“The bathroom is only the tip of the mammary, Ms. Styfers,” Peeples dropped his pen on his desk for the sheer shock value, “he also subscribes to magazines without authorization. He switches the residents’ medication as a practical joke and he ruined the lobby carpet with his homemade wine. He comes to lunch without pants. Or underpants.”

“Free spirit?” offered Pemmy.

“It’s more than that…” said Peeples, “We have a list of complaints so long it would take all day to go through them. Seniors come to this facility to live their lives in quiet and solace, and your Father treats the place like his personal playground.” He had been waiting to use “personal playground” for a very long time.

Pemmy noticed the strap of her tank-top had slipped down her arm and she pulled it back over her shoulder. “He is anxious,” she said, without conviction, “and befuddled by the problems of society.”

“It’s not my place to psycho-analyze,” said Peeples, “but your Father is a stunted adolescent with advanced Dissociative Disorder and borderline Sociopathic tendencies. He should be put down, and by that I mean euthanized.”

“There is no argument here,” said Pemmy, un-crossing her legs only to re-cross them, “but the procedure is too costly. Can’t you let him stay here instead?”

“He cannot stay here,” said Peeples.

“Please?” asked Pemmy.

“Never,” said Peeples.

“I will give you pie,” Pemmy offered, uncrossing her legs and spreading them.

“Six months,” said Peeples, rising to lower the blinds, “and then he’s out on the street.”

Pemmy pulled off her tank top, and bent to slip out of her skirt.

“You have a deal, Peeples,” Pemmy said, extending her hand.

“Please,” he said, shaking it, “Call me Mister.”

 


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