Clock Watcher
4:51 – I’m getting nothing done.
4:52 – I don’t know what to do.
4:53 – There’s some place I’d rather be.
4:44 – I’m staring at the door.
4:55 – Am I still alive?
4:56 – The clock plays tricks.
4:57 – I’d rather be in Heaven.
4:58 – It’s times like this I hate.
4:59 – I’m hardly feeling fine.
5:00 – I’m out of here.
TV Died
I raised chickens when I was young
When you think of killing chickens
You typically imagine chopping their entire head off
Then watching the body run or spasm
But we were more modern
We hung the bird from a rusty old swing set
And drove a pointed blade directly into their brain
Ending thinking, not by brute force
But with a single, surgical, strike to the brain
Predictable
Predictable
Noticeably predictable
Noticeably unoriginal
Characteristically unoriginal
Characteristically bland
Understandably bland
Understandably ignored
Consistently ignored
Consistently devalued
Marketability devalued
Marketability unfeasible
Unsurprisingly unfeasible
Unsurprisingly predictable
Predictable
The Roaches
Everyone at the Bridge Street Hostel agreed the roaches were a problem. But most of the volunteers felt it was something they could live with. That is, until they learned to talk.
No one was quite sure how the roaches learned language. There were a lot of wild theories, from aliens to pesticides to black magic. That, however, was not the real issue.
You see, the Bridge Street Hostel was run by a collective. All it took to become a voting member was two hours of volunteer work a week. The newly intelligent roaches had no problem cleaning up garbage, so they easily fulfilled that minimum. And, since no one had ever anticipated this issue, there was nothing in the bylaws that specified members had to be human beings.
At the very next collective meeting, the roaches outnumbered the humans by several thousand to one.
Thus, it was easy for them to force a vote of non-confidence in the board of directors and replace them with roach candidates.
And that is how the Bridge Street Hostel became, literally, a roach motel.
Big Buts
I love you, but wipe your feet
I love you, but you’re gaining weight
I love you, but milk does not belong on the fridge door
I love you, but even socks should be folded
I love you, but that comb over isn’t fooling anyone
I love you, but you sometimes smell of peppers
I love you, but not ABBA at 7 a.m. on a Sunday
I love you, but don’t feed raccoons
I love you, but leave your damn wife already
Alien Buddha Press 