On Wednesday, Ned’s worst nightmare came alive.
He awoke, showered, dressed, and looked out the window, and that was when he saw the Abomination: it was a cow with the head and wings of a crow.
“Nooooo!!” he screamed. “How am I supposed to make a portmanteau out of that!?”
“Gimme the jelly beans!”
“I’m sorry, what?” I turned around. There was a person with a shotgun standing on the other side of the counter looking menacing.
“Empty out the jelly bean vending machine! Now!”
“Ok, ok!” I slowly stepped around the counter and did it.
He ate them all.
This story was inspired by @Ponza on Twitter.
The former mayor sat pouting in the gutter. “He’s hoodwinked them all with his luscious, bushy beard!” he muttered. “I must uncover his secret! But how?”
“Did somebody say ‘Butt Howe’?” wheedled a large rat wearing a silk top hat. “At your service!”
“You can help me?”
“For a price.”
This story is a sequel to this story.
“But I really need to go!”
“I’m sorry sir, but it’s in the contract you signed when you bought your ticket: no stops ’til we get to Vegas.”
“You can’t even pull over for a minute to let me pee?!”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Then I’ma use the window!”
“Very good, sir.”
This story is dedicated to the Desert Bus For Hope charity fundraiser marathon, which is raising funds for Child’s Play.
The day after the day all the fruit disappeared, I broke into a grocery store in the middle of the night. It was a ghost town: the empty aisles were strewn with plastic bags lit by ghastly signs declaring, “We Still Have Vegetables!”
The Vitamin C pills were already gone.
Martin was my worst friend. You know how some people say they have a “best” friend? Martin was the opposite of that. Like, if “BFF” means “Best Friends Forever”, then I’d call Martin my “WFFA”: Worst Friend For Always. That’s how much I didn’t like him.
Couldn’t really say why.
“I’m an utter failure,” moaned Willy the possum. “If only I had gone to the Interstate with my brother Ben. I could’ve really been somebody!”
Willy flopped down beside a pothole on the back-country road and sighed wretchedly. “Goodbye, Linda.”
Perhaps symbolically, the truck driver didn’t even notice the bump.
Vigafray suggested the title this story was written for. I interpreted it as a play on the classic, erm, play, Death of a Salesman, which I’ve never actually seen or read. Maybe that’s why this story is so depressing and not funny. I don’t know. So sue me. The lack of humor in this story is just another in my long line of failures and uselessnesses. (Heh, there are so many “S”es in “uselessnesses”. Hee hee.)
“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…
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.