I thought it might be fun to write something topical about the Olympics, since I just watched the Opening Ceremonies. I like adding a twist to things, so I considered writing about the Super Hero Olympics, possibly making a “Human Torch” joke.
But I realized that wouldn’t be very funny.
Samuel was studying Soviet philosophy, but he was having a hard time with it.
“It’s simple,” said Hank. “To the Soviet school, what makes us human is our ability to subvert our raw, natural instincts with humour and creativity.”
“I see,” said Samuel. “Basically, in Soviet Russia, joke makes you!”
“Mom, my square-shaped brand-name cereal tastes like O-shaped brand-name cereal!”
“Don’t you mean diamond-shaped, dear?”
“No, Mom. That was just a clever marketing scheme! They’ve been square-shaped all along! And I don’t want them to taste like O-shapes!”
“You should write a letter and deliver it to the Post office!”
The walls of the canyon echoed with the blast of two shotgun barrels emptying themselves into something or another. Maybe it was a desperate fugitive. Maybe it was the sheriff. Maybe it was a snake or a wildcat. Maybe it was just a cross-eyed bush.
The vultures were curious, regardless.
He led the eager men into the cold, white room. He was a well-to-do gentleman with time and blood on his hands. It was a relief to finally reveal his passion for taxidermy.
“Is the collection finished?” they asked.
“Almost,” he said, his eyes out-gleaming the scalpel in his hand.
“Dad,” said Junior, “I don’t think I understand women.”
Dad chuckled. “That’s common. Men never really know what women are thinking.”
“Yeah,” said Junior. “They open their mouths and all I hear is ‘blah blah blah.’ Literally!”
“Literally?”
“Literally.”
“Blah blah blah?” asked Mom, sticking her head in the door.
It had been Saturday for over twenty-three hours, and Georgia was beginning to Freak. Out.
What if Sunday never came? What if she was stuck in an ever-elongating, never-ending, self-perpetuating Saturday?
Suddenly, the clock stopped.
It stayed stopped.
And then it started again.
Georgia had no idea what that meant.
“Do you play any sports, Kylie Marie?”
“Why yes, Fuzzily Bear! I play badminton, ping-pong, volleyball, and hoppity-scotch!”
“Are you any good, Kylie Marie?”
“I always try my hardest!”
“That’s code for ‘I suck’, right, Kylie Marie?”
“That’s not nice, Fuzzily Bear!”
FUZZILY BEAR’S WORD OF THE DAY IS: TACT.
He walked down the street, head down and diagonal to his current direction. Every now and then catching dim reflections of himself in the windows of parked cars. He patted and smoothed his hair, clinging to fragile perfection.
Just then a gust of wind blasted it into disarray.
He cried.
“How long do you think it’s been since the waitress last stopped by our table?”
“I dunno. Twelve minutes?”
“Wrong. Try nineteen.”
“Wow, really? Nineteen minutes?”
“Nope. Try thirty-seven.”
“It definitely hasn’t been thirty-seven minutes.”
“True. You don’t have to keep guessing the numbers I’m suggesting.”
“…I hate this game.”