Funny As A Crutch

ask the horse doctor

dear horse doctor,

my horse biffy is my best friend. but sometimes when we are in line at the post office biffy will get impatient and kick someone across the room. biffy loves to lick stamps when i am mailing a letter but his tongue is too big. what can i do?

sincerely,
biffy's best pal

dear biffy's best pal,

well, it looks like a trip to the glue factory might be in order. ha, ha. j/k. actually, you might find that a nice cup of chamomile tea before you head out to the post office will calm biffy down. a five-gallon bucket should do. as for the matter of the stamps, well sometimes you just have to put your foot down. 

yours, 
the horse doctor

neurosurgeon’s correspondence course

he follows the diagram, carefully cutting in the correct places. he removes the brain and places it in a tupperware container filled with formaldehyde. his roommate slumps forward in the chair. 

he is starving. he makes a sandwich and a can of soup before continuing. he eats quickly. when he finishes, he picks up the brain and pats it dry. he is about to place it back in the cavity when the cat jumps up on the table, spilling his glass of grape juice all over the manual. 

it does not go well after that.

sobbing with joy

life 
can make me 
sob 
with joy
like when I 
see 
a beautiful sunset 
or a rabid otter 
chasing a tiny annoying dog

a crisis of confidence

it is pissing down rain. it thrums against the window like tiny drums. the cows have gotten up on the roof and the children have hidden wilbur’s iron lung again. lately it seems as though it is just one thing after another. 

he is becoming increasingly despondent. lately he has begun to feel that his work lacks meaning. he has made quite a comfortable living for himself these past few years doing paperback novelizations of snuff films for the growing young adult market, but increasingly he finds that the joy has gone out of it. 

he hobbles to the wet bar, gasping and wheezing. it had been a year now and though he is certain that jerry the half fish half man took his lung – neatly incising it from his chest and spiriting it away while he slept – he cannot prove it.

he sighs heavily, pours a stiff one and slumps into a chair. he can hear the heavy patter of hooves above him as the cows practice an intricate series of steps for the first all-bovine production of riverdance. he sighs and sips his whiskey, listening to the patter and staring into the darkness.

summer rain

i like to feel the rain falling between my toes. and then sometimes i belch and throw up a little in my mouth.

when homonyms kill

they slip into the cemetery in the still hour before dawn. they work silently, unsealing the tomb in no time. they take deep breaths, make the sign of the cross and enter. 

the air is close and fetid. two of them slide the heavy lid from the crypt. the other two take their positions. tne of them pulls a mallet from his coat. he speaks over his shoulder to the other one.

“the stake.”

they look on – aghast - at the choice cut of meat slapped into his palm. there is a stirring in the crypt.

tiny kittens

i was accosted by a swarm of tiny flying kittens this afternoon. or maybe they were gnats.