Easter Bunny Goes Out of Business

“I’m late. I’m late,” said Mr. Bunniwunie.

“Indeed, you are,” said Uncle Sam.  “Hand over the pot of gold, for I owe wagons of such tender to places that lay east by east of east of here.”

“A bunny has neither rainbow, nor pots of precious stones.”

“Then I’ll have that pillbox hat and that green felt jacket, which keeps your worthless hide warm.”

“What, pray thee, will become of me?” asked old bunny, handing over all he owned.   

“Pray not,” said Uncle, as he collapsed the hat and slipped in a pocket.  “We separate such things from the reckoning.”  Of the vest, he shredded the fuzzy material and cast it to the wind.

“How did these vestments aid the cause?” asked Mr. Bunniwunie.

“As a citizen of the glen, you may ask,” said Uncle.  “But I shall never tell.  Of this, I will say only one thing: I have deprived you of your trappings as an example, least all bunnies delay to pay.”

“How shall I go forth, naked as I am?”

“Perhaps, you need welfare now,” spoke Uncle with a wink.  “How many offspring have thee?”

“Oh, many,” said Bunniwunie.  “My wife, Alice, and I have a collection of decorated eggs stashed about the shire.  Dyed in pastels of pink, blue and yellow.  Quite extraordinary this year if I say so myself.”

“Eggs, you say.” Uncle pondered.  “Un-hatched eggs are asset of considerable worth.  Are you being evasive?”

“Nay,” the bunny said.  “My business is known about the village.  Every child can vouch for me.  I am familiar to the media, especially this time of the year.”

“Then I shall offer an extension,” Uncle said.  “Sell your eggs and give Uncle a quarter to begin, a third for labor and a half upon the end.”

“Robbery,” protested Mr. Bunniwunie.

“Ssssh, call it not,” said Uncle, bending down low.  He whispered into one of Bunniwunie’s giant ears.  “Hatch your eggs, claim them as dependents, and I shall owe you.”

“Is it better to proliferate, than to toil and propagate my gifts of joy upon the world?”

“Indeed,” said Uncle.  “The Royal Accountant has proclaimed that a trillion taxpayers are required to settle our debt with eastern concerns.”

“But a trillion bunnies upon the glen will burden our resources, strip all things green and leave us hungry in the winter that shall surely come to pass.”

“Tsk, tsk, Mr. Bunniwunie,” said Uncle.  “We must solve one problem at a time.”

The End

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U.S. Government 101: Syllabus

9:00 – 10:00    Practicing Apathy (Note:  No-shows get an A+)

10:00 – 11:00   Public Speaking:  How to Say Nothing.

11:00 – 12:00   The Art of Nepotism

Break:  Free Lunch provided by British Petroleum

2:00 – 3:00      Magic Show:  Disappearing OTJ (On the Job)

3:00 – 4:00      Handling Disaster:  Deflecting Responsibility

4:00 – 5:00      Finance:  Investing Bribe Money

5:00 – 6:00      Dress 4 Success:  Vacationing with VIPs.

6:00 – 7:00      Welfare & Bail-outs:  Stopping Revolution

Evening Soirée:  Dancing with the Devil

Sunrise Sermon:  Moving to Canada after Armageddon

Spiff on Writing

White face glares at me.

Across a lake of keys, the Cyclopetic eye blinks.

Dot.  Dot.  Dot.

I am hungry.  Feed me Sigmore.

‘No, wait.  I’ve heard that line before.’

Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

Perhaps….

Ashen face stares at me.  Begging, ‘Fill me, lover.’

My fingers hover,

wrist bent.  I caress…

‘No, stop.  Too sappy.’

Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

Maybe….

Ugly and pale, the ogre dares me.

I strike him, bruising his square face.

Take that.  And that.

‘No, quit.  I want fancy, not fantasy.’

Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

Thus….

Blank and pure, the box waited

for me to sully it.

One day, they would say,

here is where the words

were fated to be….

‘Nix that.  Too egotistical.’

Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

Ergo….

My words lash across the canvass,

criticizing, analyzing, harmonizing.

Bleeding the truth from their sterilizing…

‘No.  That’s awful.  Too ING.

Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

I must skip to the middle,

or even the end.

Obviously, my beginning is too thin.

My weapons are spent.

My hook is bent.

‘Ugh.’

Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

Is this what they call a dry spell?  So like me to be dry, when outside the rain won’t stop.

I turn away from my computer.  Perhaps, today would be a good day to buy some wood and build a bookcase.  My books are stacked high, and they have begun to call me eccentric.  Dictionaries, thesaurus, writing on this, and writing on that.  A yellow bound, four-foot stack of titles that all end in ‘…for Dummies.’

I know that somewhere between the sawing, sanding, and screwing that the demon will possess me again.  The bookcase will languish in my garage, half finished.

For writing is like being possessed or suffering a grand mal seizure.  I must be open and ready.  I try to keep a small pad and utensil in my pocket, but soon the notebook is filled with mad ramblings.  For what is the initial strike, but the rantings of a lunatic?  Then I must come back, sane and cured, to remold the nonsense into sentences.

Or, maybe, instead of the bookcase, I will draw first blood on my writing pals.  Would that it were, I had a magic pen to bleed them.  Now that would be cool.

Ah, but if I did, they would run me off, gun me down, and quarter my heart.

Paper Pushers

In 2012 the paper pushers ruled the world.  They had typed their way to power in the world’s first bloodless battle, but it was a bittersweet victory.  Their web of control was a secret thing.  The supreme rulers world had to hide behind their computer banks in the thankless void of anonymity.

The last great battle had been fought over paper money.  It had been extremely difficult to lure the people away from paper money to computer credits, but Kind Nerd finally won.  Now, no one could buy or sell without recording the transaction, and the last of the rebels had finally been subdued.  Their DNA had been coded into the mainframe, and the malcontents were easy to track and arrest.  They could not eat, work, or even rest without leaving a trail of computer links.

It was a strange world, where bureaucrats were more important than artisans, and symtechs were more important than entrepreneurs.  It was a world held in impotent stagnation, but it was a neat and tidy world with Power Point graphs and uniform spreadsheets.  If a group became unruly it was easy to starve them out—a classic military maneuver.

The king of the computers sat behind his desk and drummed his fingers on his mouse pad.  He was an ex-hippie, ex-yuppie, and ex-humanitarian.  Utopia was at his fingertips.

“Gladys,” he called.  “Haiti is giving me trouble, again.  They’re always late with their TR-47.  Reroute all food goods and put a virus on fuel supplies to all ships in port.”

“There’s a 747 already in route,” Gladys said.

“Well, transmit a virus to the plane’s computer.  Bring the damned thing down.  Do I have to do everything myself?”

The End

Know the Facts

Men age 18 through 25 must register with the Selective Service System.

Question:  What is Selective Service Registration?

Answer:  Registration is a human bondage program that does not involve leather whips, furry handcuffs, or jello.

Question:  Will I be drafted?

Answer:    Only in the event of World War III, in which case you will want to join just for the free M16 and pea soup.

Question:  What happens if I don’t register?

Answer:   We’ll get you.  We have spies everywhere.  We have spies watching spies.

Question:  What are the benefits?

Answer:    Um.  Er.  Well, I don’t know.

Question:  How do I register?

Answer:  Take a picture of yourself in a pink tutu, attach it to this card with all your personal information, and post it in the mail.  (Government is not responsible for any ensuing identity theft.)

Question:  What happens after I register?

Answer:   Watch your mail.  The government will send you some bail out money and KP cookies.

Rodney Can’t Dance Tonight

Rodney Can’t Dance Tonight

By

C.M. Marcum

“They got really good eats here,” Rochelle said and wrapped her jaw around a powdered donut.

“You ain’t kidding.  And everything is so conveniently located, too,” Rodney said.  He preferred the left-over goodies in the pizza box, but to each his own.

“Mmmm…,” Rochelle agreed.  A beam of moonlight turned the coffee stained dishwater into glittering cream.  The kitchen seemed so pleasant, warm, and romantic.  She dusted the sugar off her legs, primping for him, emitting a low coo, and hoping he would notice.

Rodney’s ears picked up the soft sexy screeching; he tilled his head to the side and studied her, studied the room, and then went back to the juicy ort of pepperoni that was too delicious to ignore.  Tomato sauce painted his mouth.  He ate, happy and mindless for a while, concentrating solely on the food, until he thought his sides would split wide open.  Only then did he look back up at the female.

“So, Rochelle, what kind of dudes do you like?”  Wistfully, he pulled his mind away from the spicy meat and looked at his co-diner.

“What’s it to you?” Rochelle asked and secretly hid a giggle.

“I was just wondering.”

“Oh Rodney,” Rochelle said.  “I like what most eligible females like.  A strong jaw, long legs, and big eyes, of course.  Someone who’s tough on the outside, but soft and squishy on the inside.”

“I got all that, babe.  Would you like to bop with me?”

“I don’t know,” she said.  Her tone was harsh, but she wiggled her backside coyly.  “My dance card is pretty full, if you know what I mean.”

“I ain’t talking about the official orgy, later.  I’m talking about right here, right now.  I’ll do you on the kitchen counter.”

“Well, I….”

Suddenly the kitchen flooded with artificial light.  Rochelle screamed and instinctively ran for cover.  Rodney froze, hoping he wouldn’t be noticed, and for a moment it seemed like his ploy would work.

Their host staggered back and forth across the room.  The refrigerator door opened, bring a whole new array of tempting odors.  The man bent over and farted.  There was a small implosion, followed by the sound of more escaping gas.  An aluminum tap slid across the floor toward the garbage can.

Rochelle watched from the relative safety of a dark corner, as Rodney eased off the pizza box, but he was making too much noise.  The man-monster swiveled, jerked the stained cardboard off the counter, and raised the box over its hairy head.

Rodney dashed right, left, changed his mind and went right again.  The dark shadow of the box tricked him into a misguided sense of shelter; Rodney stopped running all together.  Rochelle jiggled her head and released a green, oval turd.

Indecision and hesitation were nearly always fatal.  She calculated Rodney’s chances and realized that he was doomed.  The square weapon crashed down on Rodney, and Rochelle heard the crispy crackle of exoskeleton.

“Rodney,” she screamed and coward back.  “Poor, big…extra dumb Rodney.”

Her front legs reached up to scrape the white powder off her antennae.  Oh well, she thought, Rodney Roach wasn’t on her dance card, anyway.

This story got rejected by flashfictiononline.com last year.  What can I tell ‘ya?  Not funny enough, I guess.