"To be or not to be," said Joji Fak, leaning over the fire in the back alley burn barrel so it nearly singed his bushy black beard. "And by not, I mean I'll blow the living fuzz outta you with my hot pink machine gun, ya dopes."
Two of the guys around the barrel laughed out loud, and three others grinned big grins in the firelight. Joji's one-man performance of the classic play Hamlet was every bit the smash hit he'd expected.
"I just love Shakespeare's dialogue." Rotten Robin, a stooped and haggard crone on the fringe of the little crowd, flipped the end of her moldy green scarf with a flourish. "It's so poetic."
“What’s a twenty-two-letter word for a relativistic quantum field theory?” the Washing-Up wanted to know.
It was a sleepy Gormsday off the western coast of Andromeda. The Washing-Up asked his question because he was doing the Times crossword puzzle.
There were three Rude Mechanicals. With the brains of the Six Million Dollar Mannequin, the astonishing strength of Buns of Steel, and whatever the pile of cookware called the Washing-Up was good for, they could accomplish any task, solve any problem. But today, the Mechanicals had nothing to do. When boredom sank in, you could expect more than a resulting funk. You could anticipate a depression with the gravitational heft of a minor black hole. The emanating gloom would make nearby asteroids weep.
The other Mechanicals had to do something, and fast.
I had warned him: If he followed me, I would be his only wife.
Arkkh! he said.
But he followed me.
And, when he followed me, he left all of his wives, his vast harem of elephant seal females, behind on the rocks.
On his body there was a proud network of marks: a record of his entanglements with rival (but lesser) males; a bloody price paid--and paid again--for the acquisition of so many consorts.
But he left them.
Because I was worth it.
Dear Aunty Stanky, I possess an extensive vocabulary, but I underutilize it in public because so few people have the capacity to comprehend me. How can I best genetically modify the human race to properly apprehend my consummately perspicuous diction?…
Dear Aunt Stanky, Is vigilante justice ever morally permissible? And if so, when? In the shadows, anxiously awaiting your advice, -- I Can't Believe It's Not Batman Dear Can’t: DC called. They’re unhappy. Very, very unhappy. Just look out for…