Poor Mrs. O'Leary

“Ding dong,” rang the doorbell.

“Who is it?” queried Mrs. O’Leary.

“It’s your frickin’ cow, O’Leary”

“No, come on. Who’s it really?”

“It’s your doorbell, dumby.”

“I knooow,” replied Mrs. O’Leary. “Do come in.”

“I can’t, you dumb woman,” replied the doorbell, obstinately.

“Why can’t you?” said naïve O’Leary.

“I’m stuck in the fucking wall, woman!”

Ice Cream Longing

Pauly was daydreaming about yellow polka dot bikinis one day which made him think of the beach which made him want ice cream; he would ignore his lactose intolerance just like he did every day. Yesterday was toffee swirl. The day before that, rocky road. Today though—today was different. Today was a java chip day.

Poor Chris

Chris was sick of his goddamn stupid writing assignments. I mean really sick of them. A shitty editor demanding 56-word stories--I mean, come on! Chris was so sick of his goddamn 56-word stories that he jumped on his swivel chair, shouted “Dagnabbit!” at the top of his lungs and defenestrated himself off the 56th floor.