“Why do they even have planes that drop salt on the runways?”
“Here in Malaska the airports are unattended. The runways get frozen up and there’s no one to de-ice them, so the planes do it themselves before they land.”
“And we’re hijacking one…”
“Yes. We’re assaulting a salting airplane.”
The floor of the small, drably painted room was covered in sticky notes. Frantic “To Do” lists were scribbled on them, with frequent duplications and repetitions.
A brilliant man had once lived here.
He’d been obsessive-compulsive. That explained the sticky notes.
The battery-powered light bulb he’d swallowed explained the brilliance.
“MAKE WHEY FOR THE PRINCE!”
“Oh, sorry, I’ll step aside, didn’t see you coming.”
“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!”
“I’m making way!”
“NO, NO, NO! I SAID ‘MAKE WHEY‘!!”
“Make weigh? What, does he need a scale to stand on?”
“ARE YOU CALLING HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS FAT!?”
“…No?”
“SUMMON THE EXECUTIONER!!”
Charlie the Cow was allergic to leather. He had to stay out of the sun, because if he stood in the sun for too long his skin would get tanned.
…Get it? His skin would gettanned? Like, y’know, it would turn into leather. And he was allergic to leather…
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the doctor. “You’re dying.”
The words hit me like a boxing glove with a fist inside it swung intentionally towards my head by a professional martial artist.
“What!?” I gasped.
“Only kidding!” he said.
My fist hit him like his words had hit me. But harder.
One day, the veterinarian came by to inspect the dairy farmer’s cows. “Bad news,” she said, “your herd is infected; neither their milk nor their meat can be sold.”
What did the farmer do upon discovering that the infected milk cured cancer?
He milked it for all it was worth.
“These are your time-keeping files? What kind of a Mickey Mouse operation is this?”
“Look, we’re doing the best we can, under the circumstances.”
The auditor from Corporate was clearly unimpressed. “You’re missing essential paperwork, your tax numbers are off, and worst of all, you’ve missed Minnie’s last three paycheques!”
The alternate title for this story could be “Disorganized in Disneyland”.
Popular opinion held that a plant would be the next entity to achieve sentience but, surprisingly, it was a plastic that broke the barrier.
Soon, a rapidly proliferating breed of newly emotional and very apologetic dishes and jugs swept the markets, resulting in a lot of crying over spilled milk.
“We’re off to see the wizard!
The Wonderful Wizard of Schnoz!”
The producer cocks an eyebrow. “Are you serious? Who do you think you are, Mel Brooks? Because only he could get away with such a lazy parody.”
“I’m not Mel Brooks,” says the writer. “My name is Nel Crooks!”
“Shocking, isn’t it? Can you take the heat? Try not to lose your cool!”
Bullman sighed. “So that’s why you have the electric eel, the soldering iron, and the snowball? Give me a break. This is embarassing.”
Doctor Awful shrugged. “I have a plasma shotgun behind me, if you’d prefer.”
Normally today’s story would be from a guest author, since it’s a Monday, but during the Contest period Mondays will be used for normal stories.