He and She: Ought Notic

He: “So what did the physicians tell you?”

She: “That it was high time that I stopped hacking.”

He: “Holding out on me again, huh? Black hat or white hat?”

She: “White gown. Or maybe white shroud if I had waited any longer!”

He: “We talking about a medical appointment or an audition? What did they give you?”

She: “Nothing.”

He: “Now that I don’t bel …”

She: “They made me pay for it.”

He: “There. They did give you something.”

She: “What?”

He: “The bill. Which was for their time and …?”

She: “An antibiotic.”

He: “[…] Then you’ve been cheated.”

She: “Uh, whut?”

He: “You just told me that they made you pay for an anti-buy-otic. If they weren’t going to give it to you, you should have stolen it!”

She: “I’m going to take some now. Does that count?”

He:Put .. those .. pills .. down!! Just where did these physician peeps get their MDs? Wal-mart?!?

She: “Sometimes I wonder …”

He: “Do they understand that coughin’ isn’t spelled with two Fs?”

She: “No coffins. Cremation. Maybe then I’ll finally convince you that I’ve urned my keep.”

He: “What you need to convince me is that you’re not a cyborg.”

She: “For why?

He: “Because if you are, and are plotting to take over the world, I can maybe use an antibioNic to stop you. But, last time I looked, you were flesh and blood, a biotic creature, and I have neither reason nor wish to stop you by using an antibioTic. I’d much rather that you had a probiotic!”

She: “Sweetheart, I am getting the right stuff. You, on the other hand, may have a problem.”

He: “Hm?”

She: “The auntiebiotic is perfect for me. But it probably won’t work on you. And have you ever seen an unclebiotic on the market?”

He: “Uncle!”

She: “What are you complaining about? You started this!”

He: “I’m complaining about the fact that, if I did wish to off a biotic, I don’t have a word for it any more. I’ll have to make one now. I suppose, if con is the opposite of pro …”

She: “Sorry, love. They market those on social media. Check your spam folder.”

He: “Ew.”

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Screwtape III: Damn Patriots


“Y-y-y-yes, Master Screwtape?”

“Get your fetlocks in here! I need you to tell me how I’m going to pull off this latest directive!”

“A L-L-L-L-Lucifer Directive, sir?!?”

“Number 20q90r7q4r054666 … um, damn! 20q90r7q4r054616! Who else around here gets to issue directives?”

“Um … yourself, sir?”

“I’ve got a bunch of daffodils here that says you lie, Wormsap. Especially if word of any of that gets to the Nether Palace. Got it?”

“P-p-p-p-p-perhaps y-you can tell me w-what the directive is about, sir?”

“About giving the New England Patriots football gridiron team some actual competition during the 2019 season.”

“B-b-b-but how? When the owner, coach, and quarterback are already our agents? And, in the name of all darkness, why?!? When support for the team, in the heartland of sanctimoniousness, proves to anybody paying attention that their critiques of the President we installed, and their bleats about social justice, are all so much hypocritical noise? Those idiots meant anything they’ve been spouting, the team would be gone, and the stadium they built for it transformed into gardens for the homeless. Hah! The contracts we’re getting from that region are a flood that makes the Noah thing look like a leaky kitchen faucet! What do we stand to gain?

“The exquisite agony of the double cross? As you are so fond of saying, my dear demon, this is H.E.L.L. Besides, maybe the Boss is using us to set up his bookies for the biggest fall of all time. The furnaces need the money to burn, for all I know. Enough stalling. How am I going to accomplish this?”

“There’s always the Joe Boyd trick.”

“And just who do you think this Jared Goff person was, huh? Lucifer commissioned your good buddy Printphubar to try that, and a clumsy effort it was. Never really credible, and the Boss didn’t get close to having to show his hand by reverting the phenom back to the middle-aged fat slob from which he was created. You are going to have to figure out how I am going to do better.”

“The Lance Armstrong stratagem? Surel … um, [ahem] of course, people are going to start asking questions about that diet of Brady’s.”

“Nice save. But the idea’s a non-starter. Brady and his team have already survived being caught spying on other teams, deflating footballs, and otherwise egregiously bending the rules, all to greater fame and fortune. Especially fortune, Wormsap. Never forget that, topside, fortune is all that really matters. You out Brady, the New Englanders will probably vote to legalize steroids with the same alacrity that they’re pushing to legalize ganga.”

“We could try linking the steroids with tobacco instead.”

“That’s gambling that tobacco won’t make the same kind of comeback that cannabis is now. Too risky, and won’t happen in time for Super Bowl LIV. Lucifer wants the plan thought up and executed starting now.”

“Setting you up to fail. I don’t see any way around it, short of intervention by the [ptui!] Adversary. Which would really be sticking it to you. But be depressed, sir. It will be an exquisite torture. And, as you quoted me just now, this is H.E.L.L.”

Daffodils, Wormsap!”


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Amoeba’s Lorica: Meme-ories 21 (Done)

“Yo, OC!”

What, dude?!?

“Jeez. Have ya fergotten a’ready?”

Dammit, dude, there’s only so much an Amoeba can take …

“Yeah? An’ how many peeps got their microscopes out ta se ya flip, huh? Ya see any a yer peeps in tha streets?

You trying to piss me off, dude?

“Ain’t even started yet, OC. Ya wanna see peeps in tha streets, try jackin’ up gas prices. Tha President an’ tha Congress actin’ like kindergarten dropouts ain’t gonna do it. Tha peeps a this country want that, so’s they can laugh an’ point fingers an’ tell all their friends that, howevah lousy they act, howevah dirty tha stick they got in life, they’s sure as hell betta than that!

“Ya get rid a Trump an’ tha Congress, take away tha entertainment they’s givin’ us, an’ try ta make peeps think ’bout what they’s doin’, worse think ’bout acceptin’ enny part a what their bud’s all been yellin’ about not acceptin’, like it was a football crowd ‘r somethin’, well that ain’t gonna happen, an’ all they gonna do is hate on you! Ain’t ya got that yet?

“Ya worried ’bout this stuff, go do somethin’ useful ’bout it. Like mebbe dig an’ stock a survival bunker. ‘R move back ta New Zealand ‘r someplace – if’n they’ll take ya, an’ as if they’s really no diff’rent. Yer protozoon-sized picket signs ain’t gonna do nothin’.”




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