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“Your face is like the blue screen of death.”
“Sorry. I’ve encountered a fatal exception in my heart. You.”
“We are an outdated operating system, incompatible with the future.”
“You are the malware that corrupts my operating system.”
“As of today your program is no longer eligible for tech support.”
Postmodern philosophy is the mycelium from which the toxic fungi of skepticism, sarcasm, deconstructionism, ironic politeness, and self-aware apologies emerge.
These are nourished by a distrust of grand narratives and a single-minded pursuit of power in human interactions.
Postmodernism has also been described as modernism with the cheerfulness taken out.
Jeffrey, trying not to make a sound, stumbled into the sofa in the darkened living room.
Suddenly a small dog started barking insanely.
“Wait,” he thought, “we don’t have a dog.”
Then a light and a woman facing him with a gun.
“Wait,” he thought, “That is not my wife.”
If ever you hear someone make this claim, change the subject fast; otherwise you’ll be sorry to learn that “spiritual” folks believe in some batshit notions–crystals, astrology, sweat lodges, yoga, Ouija boards, Tarot cards, the I Ching–that make the notion of Jesus walking on water seem downright plausible. Amen.
“Bless me father for I have sinned.”
“And who hasn’t?”
“It’s been four months since my last confession.”
“Did you break a leg?”
“Uh, no father …”
“Is this going to take long?”
“Well …”
“Look, whatever you’ve done, I’ve heard it all. Your sins are forgiven. Now get lost.”
The magazine’s brand new “Pot Mortem” column identifies those strains as:
White Küntz (the umlaut didn’t fool anybody, Skippy);
Bedhead OG (woke and broke);
Pwr Bttm (lost its power when the band did);
Tim Tebow Reserve (associated with knees lock in both sexes);
Biden OG (old, tired, stale, and costly).
“It’s never too late to begin healthy eating,” explained prison dietician Dieter Volk. “A prisoner’s last meal should not constitute cruel and unusual punishment.”
Henceforth, all last meals will be portion controlled, light, and synergistically balanced.
“No one should eat a heavy meal before going to sleep,” added Mr. Volk.
The rooster began crowing to beat hell at 5:00 a.m. It was the first sound that Tom heard.
Half asleep he thought, “If you wake my old man again, you stupid chicken.”
The “stupid chicken” crowed a second time, louder.
The third sound Tom heard came from his father’s shotgun.
The insistence by certain pitiable malcontents that gender is fluid raises an interesting possibility.
Why stop at gender? Why shouldn’t age be fluid, too?
Be creative. Think outside the calendar. Express your age in dog years. Or parrot years. Cat years? Light years? Why not? Age is only a number.
Last night at Them’s Fightin’ Words Lounge, the C-word and the F-word got into an altercation.
“The F-word called the C-word the C-word,” said the A-word.
“No S-word, I thought they wuz gonna throw down,” said the N-word.
“Hamas must be destroyed,” shouted the K-word from across the room.