“Business, business, business. Profits. Third quarter. Business. Power Point. Lay offs imminent. Business. Any questions?”
Frank Statement barged into the business meeting, threw down blank sheets of college ruled paper, which scattered all over the glass table, and said, “I quit!”
CEO Rich Grieder didn’t even bother to look up to say, “This is the third time you’ve quit this week and it’s only Tuesday. Frank, if you’ve got something on your mind we should talk.”
Waiting in a hospital is a lot like being in jail, no one will tell you how long you’re going to be there unless you’re wealthy.
“Oh my fucking.” Raphael Scoliosis stopped himself short upon realizing where he was. Using what little logic he had left, he had deduced he was in a form of afterlife. He was in a waiting room stocked with tattered year old family magazines and one copy of People®.
He was surrounded by people with gaping holes where parts of their faces should be. He had never seen so many exposed brains before. Traditionally, he would experience nausea from all the casual gore, but he was more concerned with how he must look, especially with the way the others turn away with absolute disgust. Raphael feared the worst.
Always be prepared. Disaster is always a hair’s breadth away. If stranded in a grocery store because of an earthquake, tornado, or local sports team victory, it has been statistically proven that the happiest and safest place to be is in the junk food aisle.
“I don’t get it.” You could clearly tell by Kit Katz’s deadpan expression, which was equally dim and vacant that he did not get it.
So Laurie DePlorry repeated herself slower and louder as if inappropriately speaking to a deaf person. “I! Have! Been! Constipated! For! Three! Days!”
The declaration caught the attention of everyone in the grocery store, especially that of an elderly woman who reacted by dropping glassware in aisle two, accompanied with an archaic swear, “Godfuck!”
The Sanbot® will make people seem as ridiculous as the landline phone.
“I’ve only got time to say this once, so listen up.” Mr. Barker, as usual, had his resting sober business face on, as he addressed his personal assistant, Jim Barker, no relation, but worth noting, he got hired solely because of the shared surname. Jim nodded.
“You need to get Dr. Barker [Again, no relation, but worth noting the only reason he’s his doctor is because of the last name.] on the phone and decipher his phone message. I swear that ass speaks like he writes, illegibly. Something or another about chronic pussitis. Is that even a thing?”
Jim continued to nod.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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