Andy had a pet turkey named Sam. Andy’s father, who had been out of work for a month or more, told Andy: “Son, we’ve little food left, and nothing for Thanksgiving dinner. Sam will have to be our Thanksgiving meal.”
Grief stricken, Andy fried to find a way to save Sam. Finally he came up with an idea.
Andy took Sam and a sharpened hatchet to his dad and said, “Here is Sam, Dad. If you were Jesus, would you kill him?”
Deeply shamed, Andy’s dad pawned his wristwatch and bought a canned ham for their Thanksgiving dinner meal.
The cops were combing the scene, about which they’d received some suspicious leads. Individuals lay still all over the room, showing no signs of life. However, there was no sign of violence or otherwise foul behavior.
“So, what exactly happened here?” a gruff-voiced cop asked a witness.
“Nothing out of the ordinary, actually,” the witness replied in a calm voice. “Everyone had gathered here, for a traditional reunion, when all of a sudden, they all passed out and didn’t move.”
“And how, exactly, is that ordinary?” the cop asked, skeptical.
“Victims of the Thanksgiving post-food coma.”
Danny was determined to rid Pluto of That Cat. Their immigration permit forbade no pets. The other colonists didn’t seem to care about what they saw as a minor transgression and a comfort to Alice. But Danny, who had no use for shades of gray, viewed the cat’s presence as a big black mark on the colony.
So finding online instructions, Danny carefully built a trap and baited it with a choice piece of meat.
When the trap was sprung, Danny was appalled to find he had caught a rat.
“Danny Boy, you really should reconsider the cat,” said Alice.
Norwegian Prime Minister Solberg arrives, exchanges pleasantries with the waiting press, then disappears into a room offstage. She’s followed by, in turn, Obama, Cameron, Hollande, Putin, even Pope Francis. Each expresses hopes for peace before vanishing.
Suddenly, the press room gasps. It’s Assad. He, too, speaks to the press, then disappears. Even the leaders of Daesh and the Syrian rebels show up.
Minutes later, Solberg reappears to announce that peace has been agreed.
Sadly, it transpires that all the politicians were merely the same thirteen-year-old boy performing astonishing impersonations. Pity. He made a lot more sense than the real things.
Dan could not believe his eyes. “Am I here to watch Star Wars or what?” Blinking, he looked at the screen again. The advert showed people reciting lines of the Lord’s Prayer. Dan swiveled round; scanning other patrons for emotion, but the darkness obscured their faces.
A mind war began within Dan. Images of his simple, childhood faith filled his mind. Changing, the images revealed the total lack of piety in his adult life. The contrast was too much.
“I must write a protest letter or I’ll sue them. My sensibilities have been hurt,” Dan thought, as he walked out.
Checking the door was firmly closed, Ardell’s Head of Marketing opened her desk drawer.
She poured herself a hefty slug of bourbon. It had been a stressful few months. Sales at Ardells had suffered and its management team twitched nervously.
“What can we do?” they railed. They lowered prices, they extended opening hours and they employed the pushiest salespeople, incentivising them with impossible targets.
Nothing had worked – and now it was Thanksgiving. She hadn’t even made it home to her family.
Oh well, she might as well put on a sale tomorrow. Call it something. Black Friday maybe?
Rebecca understood deceit. Words were weapons for her father, Laban. Her mother whispered: “Man is the head of the household, but woman is the neck. Man must think he decides, while doing woman’s bidding.”
Isaac admired Esau’s prowess in the hunt as well as his dedicated service. Rebecca was not swayed by this seeming prodigal son, whose reputation as womanizer and corrupt dealings were intimidating the neighbors. She must prevent the blessing he planned to bestow on Esau. Jacob was far more deserving. With fur-lined arms, lamb stew to taste like venison, Jacob approached his dying father. Isaac blessed him.
The setting for this one is fact, based on some events from this weekend, although the story events are something I could only hope for as a golfer.
The Golfing Wish, by Russell Conover
“Darn–another one in the water!” Jason fumed. The mountain golf course was eating him alive. Shot after shot went into the hazards, or into the unknown over huge drops.
“Oh, I wish I were playing better!” He scowled.
Suddenly, in a cloud of smoke, a genie appeared. “Is that your ONLY wish?”
Jason blinked. “Well, come to think of it … ”
On the next hole, he swung the club, and flew right with the ball down the middle of the fairway, steering it in the right direction. From there to the clubhouse, let’s just say he scored well.
We are hearing three immigration cases today:
The first is a young man from the Caribbean, an illegitimate, uneducated orphan, with no visible means of support.
The second is an émigrés from France, wealthy but with no marketable skills or means of employment, who knows few people who can vouch for him.
The third flunked out of school, failed an apprenticeship twice, was fired as a tax officer twice in four years and twice ran away from home.
I cannot approve any of your applications. I order the immediate deportation of Alexander Hamilton, the Marquis de Lafayette and Thomas Paine.
“Stop acting like a wimp and trust your body. It knows what it’s doing.”
“They said ‘be careful.’”
“Just because they said it doesn’t mean it’s legit. They aren’t inside you, breathing you, sleeping you, caring for you. No, they’re mind-sucking you.”
“You mean mind-fu**ing.”
“No. Mind-sucking. Draining your natural intelligence. Sucking your thoughtfulness out. Displacing you. How could you forget that the second your cells were severed by the incision new, next gen, rep cells were instantly activated and replacing them before you left the operating table?”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“Say something nice.”