Waiting To Die

Consider this: You’re facing death (total annihilation), its reflection is staring you in the face. In other words; you are about to enter into the after-life.

Meaning? You’re dead, no life.

So you frantically begin to look for a solution to your little problem when all of a sudden, this Jack Kevorkian type comes up to you holding the solution right in the palm of his hand.

Assisted suicide.

At first, you’re terrified of the idea, but that’ll only last until you go into a full blown panic! Now you start to scurry about looking for a possible way out. You look left, you look right, you look up, you look down, you look… totally miserable.

BUT YOU’RE A FLY ON MY WINDOW, so that comes natural.

That’s when fate steps up to lend you a hand and in this case its my hand, and its holding a rolled up magazine. That’s right, I’m your Doctor Kevorkian. I’m your doctor death—AND I’M PACKING.

Face it Mr Fly, you entered my home illegally.

Of course, your first instinct is to buzz around a lot and I can appreciate that—although, it’s totally irrational—but you’re a fly its what you do.

If it were me, I wouldn’t be a fly, and I certainly wouldn’t wanna be in your shoes right now. But your kind don’t wear shoes—so no worries there.

However, I still wouldn’t wanna find myself trapped against that glass door—BUZZING ALL ABOUT. That looks totally stupid—even more so if I were you.

But I’m not you, you’re Mr. Fly (or is it Mrs. Fly?) and you’re trapped against the glass door, my glass door, and now you are DOOMED!

Come to think of it, I’ve never really stopped to find out your exact sex. But, that’s likely because I’ve never had the time to dissect any of you guys afterwards.

You know why? BECAUSE YOU ALL SEEM TO SHOW UP AT DINNER TIME.

Well they’ll be no autopsy for you today either (lucky you), because I hate cold dinners, and it would probably ruin my appetite anyway.

Besides, I don’t have any microscopic Pathology tools on hand—they’re currently on back order from Amazon.

But just you wait (well, not you per se), because when those tools of torture finally do arrive I’ll have a whole new career in front of me… that of… INSECT CORONER.

Second class, of course, after all I’m still a beginner.

It’s a course I’m taking from a big (FOR PROFIT) online college. Their school phamplet says it’s a growing field—probably because there’s plenty of you. So when I get finished with my (12 year) degree, I suspect I’ll be making a killing.

Which should help me pay off about a sixteenth of my new found student loan debt… before I die.

But I don’t have to explain any of this to you do I? No, because YOU, Mr or Mrs fly, you are going to be long gone by then b e c a u s e…  I’m… a b o u t… to… s m a s h… the living daylights out of…

NOOOO… HONEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

“What?”

WHY’D YOU OPEN THE SLIDING GLASS DOOR? YOU LET THE STUPID FLY OUT! I HAD HIM RIGHT IN MY SIGHTS TOO!

“Well maybe I opened it because I was trying to figure out why my idiot husband was conducting a monologue with me through a sliding glass door? How was I suppose to know you were attempting to talk a fly to death.”

OH.

“Skills stupid, skills! Now go get a fly swatter—AND FINISH THE JOB!”

Pinterest

YES DEAR.

 

 

 

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How I Beat Bobby Fischer At His Own Game… And Other Confessions Of Note

Popkey.co

Oh, oh have I got big confessions for you guys!

Now a lot of these humongous (but slightly exaggerated) confessions of mine are actually genuine admissions of truth—otherwise I’d have to be a downright liar.

That means, you can count on these revelations to be absolutely plausible—if not destined to soon be found on the cover of a grocery store tabloid.

For example: bet you didn’t know that chess-master Bobby Fischer’s REAL GAME was actually checkers?

I ran into Bobby (total strangers, and even friends, were allowed to call him by his first name) sitting at this table in a little shop in Raykjvak.

He was dressed in multiple layers of yak fur and an earmuff cap challenging all comers to a game of checkers.

I accepted his challenge and proceeded to checkmate his kings 42 consecutive times!

That’s when Bobby asked me if I’d rather play chess, instead?

I replied, “Why would I wanna do that when I just proved I can checkmate your kings in checkers?”

I heard later Bobby had started challenging horses to tiddlywinks. Probably felt that would be a more successful venture.

Apparently it wasn’t.

ChessBase

Then there was the time I was asked by Richard Nixon if I wouldn’t be interested in becoming his running mate?

He was right… I wasn’t interested.

Hey… I discovered the true definition of… covfefe!

WHO KNEW?

Remember the most interesting man in the world? He found me equally interesting as well—that revelation came to him during a chat we had over several cases of Dos Equis.

I confess that I was once the lead singer for the Spice Girls, but then I had this unexpected bout with puberty and had to give up singing… except for when I’m in the shower—and my wife is still trying to get me to give that up!

Oh… here’s something I bet you didn’t know… I’M BATMAN, but I can’t show you the Bat Cave. It’s in a secret location—I accidentally broke my GPS.

I’m also close friends with a guy in the witness protection program. His name is John Smith, I know this because it says that on his drivers license. It has his picture on it and everything, so its just gotta be true!

Did you know that I was once invited to The White House for dinner? It was the house on the corner just down the street. Was, because after that dinner the occupants vanished—house and all! Real paranormal stuff!

Bet you don’t know Marvin like I know Marvin? In fact, I don’t think Marvin knows that I know Marvin like I do. That’s what identity theft can do for you. I really gotta get around to returning Marvin’s mailbox key to him someday.

Okay, now here’s a real big confession. My wife, she actually thinks she’s the boss around here—ha, ha, ha, ha—but I don’t have the heart (or the courage) to tell her that it’s really me.

Uh, maybe we better keep that little confession just between us. You never know WHO might be reading this stuff.