All's well that falls well

"...and forgive us our trespasses,"

Knock-knock.

"...as we forgive those that trespass against us."

Knock-knock.

"Come in."

"Good morning pastor. Are you ready for your weekly stretches?"

"Christ. Is it Tuesday already?"

"Yessir. Indeed it is sir."

"All right Bob, all right. Let's get this shit over with."

"Wonderful. OK. Great starting position. Now grab your ankles. Fabulous. And now...stretch. That's it. A little more."

"Arrgh...sweet baby Jesus. I think I pulled a kidney."

"C'mon. Don't stop. Feel the burn."

"What the fuck does that even mean, you sanctimonious prick?"

"Focus now. Stretch. Both of them back. You're almost there."

"Arrgh! Sadist. Faggot. Vile cocksucker."

"That's it. Right behind your head. Awesome! Now hold it."

Bob unbuttons his pants. His lowering zipper echoes against the pastor's belaboured breathing. The pastor looks up. His eyes bulge at Bob's bulge.

"What the fuck?! Oh God, I think I'm stuck."

Bob pulls down his boxers and approaches.

"Looking good Jerry. Looking real good."

Fine dining

Bienvenue à Manger L'homme Chez Nous messieurs. May I suggest the house specialty? Very well. We have a fine butter glazed leg of Spaniard in raspberry purée served on a bed of dandelions. Très savoureux. No? Perhaps paillardes de femme anglaise avec tomate épicée? This is the lightly pounded, how do you say, tits, of an English woman with a cumin and cilantro spiced tomato sauce. Very délicieux messieurs.

Ce qui? Oh no messieurs, non, non. There is no Iraqi on the menu. Non. Ce qui? Four North Korean burgers? Ahem. Very good sirs. Yes, right away sirs.

*walking away* Incroyable! Hamburgers! Porcs américains!

Sack lunch

My boss asked me to fill out an F-643-U yesterday, so I jumped on top of my hard plastic desk and whipped my shit out and waved it in his face. I assume he wasn't amused because 10 minutes later some beefy security guy was pulling on my piece and clubbing me with a hardcover Webster's.

I'm thinking about suing my boss for unlawful dismissal. But Randy from accounts, who was walking by during the whole overblown ordeal, says I might be barking up the wrong tree.

"C'mon. A lawsuit?" Randy groaned. "You were standing there with your balls hanging in his face."

"So?"

"What do you mean 'so?' There's a certain level of etiquette that should be observed in some situations. Your balls hanging in some guy's face is definitely a step or two below that."

Grand theft artismo

The gruff man drew smooth lines in black ink on a white page. I approached from just over his shoulder, eliciting a silent yet gruffer gruff from the man. I commented on how much I liked his drawing, his inkwork, his art. He gruffed at me.

"I'm no artist."

"Of course, of course. But tell me something. Are you happy?"

"Is anyone ever really happy?"

"You sound like an artist to me."

Hogan!

Donna needs the yellow pie to take a stranglehold on the game. She roles. Damn! A six. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. She grins a contented serial-killer grin.

I slip the card from its box. I snap the card a couple of times. Fwap. Fwap. The grin fades. Beads of perspiration form on her upper lip. I flutter my lashes coyly.

"Who headed the Gestapo?" I ask.

"Colonel Klink," she answers.

The game continues.