“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…
“Did you just shoot the chief of police?” asked Timothy Thicke, incredulous.
“No,” grunted Evan Edgelow. “It’s a mask.” He peeled off the imposter’s fake face.
“Wait,” said Thicke. “It’s another mask.” Underneath the second mask was the chief of police.
“Hold on… A third mask?”
Phew. No fourth one.
The cowboy walked up to the toddler, who was sitting on the cowboy’s hat. “Howdy!” he said.
“Doody!” said the toddler.
“Baw haw haw!” said the cowboy. “I love Howdy Doody! Great minds think alike, pardner!”
“Doody!”
“That’s right, you’ve–” The cowboy sniffed. “Aw, crap, little pardner. In my hat!?”
There once was a dragon named Scott Davidson. The higher-ups liked him, a real go-getter. He was destined for the top.
One day, he was covering for Robert, the hiring manager. An applicant walked in and screamed, “HOLY MOTHER OF PEARL! IT’S AN UGLY DRAGON!”
Scott ate him.
The End.
Ebon Wumon originally submitted this story as an entry in the Mere 50 Words contest.
Everyone was avoiding Martina like the plague. (Well, to be fair, they only avoided her “like the plague” because she had the Plague and was quarantined, but they did it very rudely!)
Martina stewed in resentment until she became an evil villain. Then she died. Of the Plague, of course.
She ate toast obsessively. Her friends called “Toasty McToaststerstonst,” even though she told them it was completely ridiculous to have that many esses and tees in one word.
For Halloween she dressed up as a piece of bread and some drunk guys stuffed her in a toaster. She got burned.
Tara told Tammy to try to stop telling tall tales. But Tammy bragged about her bossy big brother Ben: he had the hugest, heaviest head. Fortunately, Fred’s freakish feet were far funnier. Larry and Laurie laughed and laughed and laughed, long and loud.
Alice ardently, angrily ate all the alliterators.
“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.
“You know what’s so great about lunch?”
“Yeah! It’s spelled like ‘launch’ but without the A!”
“That is great, but what’s even greater is that it’s like the contents of the sandwich, and breakfast and supper are the bread! That’s why lunch tastes the best!”
“I hate sandwiches!”
“Me too!”