Poor Poor Pawpaw Hans

When cutting a headstone in an as yet to be determined timeframe, the family of Hans Rausch might well consider remembering him as a man of precision.

Not the sort to be late to his own funeral or indeed anyone else’s.

That’s not to say that Hans was an impatient man. On the contrary if he were a man to believe in such sanctities as sainthood, Hans Rausch could hold his own with any halo bearer in a game of wait quietly and, quite frankly, would wipe the floor with even the most patient pietist who dared challenge him to a quick round of who blinks dies.

Simply put, Hans was a stoic soul who would not stand for sloppiness, tardiness or unnecessary delay.

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Word Puppet

Right now. Right at this very moment. The moment we are sharing through the medium of a page and the words it contains a man is washing blood from a nine inch blade. His hands are shaking and not just from the chill of the brown water that alternately dribbles then vomits from a rusting tap.

The bathroom is stark. You know the type. Single, naked bulb throwing diseased shards of light into your brain, alive with a frequency on the ragged edge of your hearing. The floor tiles might be white under the patina of despair, shit and god knows what else. The ones on the walls are much the same but with more graffiti to hide their shame. The mirror above the sink keeps showing the same re-run of a man washing a knife. He looks familiar but he’s changed. Hollowed out. He has no idea why he is cleaning the knife but he doesn’t stop.

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At Least The Grluvians Only Eat Badgers

In a million years from now aliens from the planet Klorg – Klorgians or Klorgs, it matters not – will descend upon Earth. Not that humans will care as we’ll have long since wiped ourselves out, but the cockroach population will be extremely concerned as to the Klorgian staple diet.

As they make their Klorgian way across our once green earth, and navigate our once blue oceans they will no doubt piece together the secrets of our past. They will marvel at the capacity of humans for torture and abject misery; plot their way through the exponential quagmire of humanity and, after unveiling all the horrors the world has to offer, they will arrive at July 5th 2016*

*not literally – they don’t have time travel capabilities. That will only come at the rising of Grluvian Empire another epoch hence.

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There’s A Pit Marked Out In Hell

“What’s wrong with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Seriously?”

“…”

“Wow. Where do I start. OK, so far tonight you’ve nearly wet yourself laughing about the fact that some people pronounce the letter d really badly so that it sounds like the letter j.”

“Yeah but you’ve got to admit that the idea of the morning jew who leaps out in the dark hour before dawn unleashing water-based napalm from his kosher spraygun on all living things is a pretty funny idea.”

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In A Long Line Of Cars

I spy with my little eye something beginning with…

How’s that going to work? You’re stuck in traffic all alone, dimwit. You need at least one additional person for a satisfactory game of I-Spy. Preferably someone older than two unless you want another round of I spy with my little eye something beginning with…tree. At least five year olds make it interesting by spying things you can’t actually see.

“…beginning with…C!”

“Cricket bat?”

“No.”

“Cricket ball?”

“No.”

“Cricket stadium.”

“No.”

“Chlorine.”

“No dad! You can’t see chlorine when we’re swimming.”

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