More people die from wood chipper accidents annually than people killed by alligators.
Guiseppe Winnipeg was in a serious pickle. You see, in order for Guiseppe to speak, he needed to use his hands. He had to gesticulate, otherwise, he was reduced to stammering and resorting to saying things like whaddayah call them things, or you know that guy, the guy, that guy. Since he could not snap his fingers, he was utterly useless, like a lighter with fresh flint and zero butane.
The relationship between science and scientists is very much like love to a lover, or crystal meth to the new Mr. Howell on the reimagined “MTV’s Gilligan’s Island.”
He smacked the palm of his hand firmly against his forehead hard. It sounded like a firm seven year bitch slap. The reason for this violent act of self-infliction was unknown, but this was certain. It hurt. Kevin Ridiculous was at the peak of frustration, and it was of his own making. He was one of those jack-of-all-trades, and master of nothing. This is not to say he was useless, but in comparison to his peers, he was. He put too much pressure on himself for all the wrong reasons. This, as well as his addiction to morphine, was what prevented him from success.
Lest we head into the dog days of summer, let us recall the hell days of winter.
It was so cold, the words coming out of Albert Gavoora’s mouth froze, ice cubes of various sizes, each cube representing the length of the word. Conversely, on the other side of the world, extreme heat was killing people left and right.
Albert shut the fuck up and pulled the thick red, white and blue knit scarf over his face. This was the first wise thing Albert had done all day. He prevented his exposed nose from the cruelty of frostbite, and possibly nose amputation. A nose should be a nose, and not a flap of skin, like a door to a teepee.
What he tried to say was, “Jesus son of a bitch, it’s colder than two refrigerators fucking full blast. This ain’t global warming. It’s the ding damn opposite for the sake of Christ. It’s as if no one knows up from down in this fucked up fuck world.”
He waddled off, secured in the Midwestern four-layer wardrobe, thermal underwear, sweats, oversized pants and flannel shirt, all contained in a zip-up hooded snowsuit. Even dressed like this, he could feel the Arctic wind blow right through him.
The moon said, “Checkmate.” The man stood there, dumbfounded. Minutes later he said, “You’re a checkmate.”
Long into the night, the man debated with the moon over the terms waxing and waning. All the while, growing louder and louder with each shot of cheap bourbon they imbibed. The man claimed that the moon was waxing, and the moon insisted that the man was waning.
It did not matter a lick that they were both correct, for there was still a lot of bourbon left. What the two lacked in intelligence, they more than made up for with their impeccable stamina.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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