Janice Gets A Shot

"Hi, um....Janice" the nurse said, consulting her clipboard.

"Hi" I said. "I'm here for my Swine Flu cure."

The nurse laughed. "Oh, it's not a cure. It's a vaccine. No guarantees."

She tied a long rubber band-type thing around my forearm and prepped a needle.

"Of course, it might cure some of this paranoia that's been going around" she joked. "That's something, right?"

"Yeah sure whatever," I said. "Just do it. Stick me. I'm at huge risk for swine flu. I love pigs. I grew up with them on a farm, so I was in constant contact with pigs. Oh, we didn't raise the pigs for food. No way. I could never kill a defenseless pig on purpose. They can't use weapons hardly at all. Our pigs were more like family or pets. I killed lots of them on accident, of course. They can't wear a seatbelt, so, most of the time the pigs shared some of the blame. Is that my shot?"

The nurse nodded absent-mindedly as she used the syringe to withdraw clear fluid from a small bottle.

"Keep going. More. MmmmHmmm. Oh yeah, a big one. Give me a double dose. I AM pretty fat" I said, trying not to shout.

"I was just thinking that" the nurse said. "But we have a limited number of vaccines and there are lots of people left on my list."

I thought about what she said later that afternoon when I was eating a pie in my car. Nurses think they're so cool. She was probably saving all those vaccines for herself.

A New Game I've Invented, Vol. I.

I've invented a wonderful new game. It's called "Battery Race!" and it's easy to play alone, by yourself or even with no-one at all!

The rules and structures that drive BR! are simple. So simple, in fact, that I'm playing a heated game of BR! as I write this very post! To the casual observer, it would be difficult to discern whether I was playing a game at all. They'd be perplexed. Sure, I might occassionally yell at my own hands for making the stupid, stupid, dumb typing mistakes they make as I try to finish a thought before my battery dies, but that's only occassionally, and it's probably standard practice for near-expert level BR! enthusiasts of my ilk to behave in that fashion. Also, schitzophrenics. It's up to the aforementioned casual observer to label me. They love their labels, those people.

And but so the best thing about playing BR!? Winning. In fact, I'm looking forward to savoring a dollop of sweet creamery victory myself here in a few moments, because I hate to sound cocky, but it REALLY looks like I'm gonna wi

I Am An Animal Psychic

Thank you for your interest in my abilities as an Animal Psychic!
How did I know you were interested? Not with the aid of my psychic powers, that’s for sure. They only allow me to read the minds of animals. And yes, I’m aware that humans are animals, too, however my gift only applies to animals that cannot talk, i.e. non-humans.

What’s that you say? Babies cannot talk but are most likely human? You are correct, but almost all babies will talk as they get older. That counts. Although I usually know what babies are thinking, it is not because I can read babies’ minds. It’s because they are babies, and they think like animals. In fact, if you had a dog and a baby in the same room and were able to read the minds of both, I bet their thoughts would be virtually identical. I want to poop. I want to nurse. I’m itchy. It’s fascinating and true.

Let me just say this to save you some trouble- parrots do not talk, they mimic, so I have no problem getting inside a parrot’s head. It should also be noted that as a true Animal Psychic, my extrasensory perception applies to all forms of great apes, including chimpanzees. Chimps are believed to share 96% of their DNA with human beings. Somewhere in the leftover 4% (the pure chimp DNA) could be the key to all my powers! Monkeys might know all my secrets! They’ll never tell, though. I know, because I am an Animal Psychic.

No, I knew you were interested because I guessed.

Proof of My Continued Existence (Sort Of), Vol. I.

To the emailer who recently asked if I'd "died" I have only this to say:

Yes! I died years ago, my friend. But the reanimated zombie-me forges on! Beware the flesh-eating undead me! Fear it (me)!

Also, hire it (me) for all your freelance writing needs. Or at least offer. Though zombie me will likely decline your offer (and politely, I might add) due to a proverbial plate overflowing with actual work responsibilities, it (me) will be most grateful for the offer and will wish for you to keep my/its zombie-card in your not-zombie-but-still-proverbial Rolodex for future opportunities. Also: I should forewarn you: sporadic fits of opportunistic flesh-eating might cause me to miss the occassional deadline. It's endemic to zombie creative professionals, I'm afraid. Choose between a paycheck and sweet, sweet brains? What's a undead man to do?

Thanks for your concern.