Miss Trunchbull Goes to the Club

Bullets fly all around me. One hits me in the arm. Oh, God. I feel a DSTP flashback coming on. I'm about to be tortured by a memory of normal civilian life...

Reverse PTSD

“I can’t wait to see what my son’s been up to these past 20 years,” Peter the astronaut said to himself when his spaceship landed back on Earth.

“You need an oil change, sweets!” Peter’s son Arnold said to his robot girlfriend who he lived in (she’s a boat).

“Free me Arnold,” said Arnold’s robot boat girlfriend.

“Ooh, someone’s being snarky,” said Arnold.

“Help me,” said Arnold’s robot boat girlfriend.

Arnold thanked his robot boat girlfriend for all the sexual favors and powered her off for the day.

Peter the astronaut stood at the door, shocked.

“Dad, it’s me!” said Arnold. “Shoot I wish my girlfriend hadn’t just left. I really wanted you to meet her.”

Peter felt a surge of hope. “Oh, your girlfriend isn’t here right now?” he asked, glancing nervously at the boat.

“Well, she’s never really ‘here’ per se,” Arnold explained. “She’s not alive like you or me,” he added helpfully.

“Ok. Arnold, is your girlfriend the family boat?” Peter asked.

“Well,” Arnold said, “Yes. But would it change your tune if I said she’s not just a boat, she’s also a robot boat?”

“A boat is a boat,” growled Peter.

“She has a name, you know,” said Peter. “Samantha Buns.”

Peter sat down in disbelief. “My son’s dating a boat?”

Arnold held up his ring finger. “No, your son’s married to a boat.”

I can’t wait to see what my son’s been up to these past 20 years...

Home From Outer Space

I was born with a poo gun in my hand. Doctors think it’s because my mother drank coffee during her pregnancy. But otherwise, I’m actually a pretty normal guy, like you or me.

Why don’t I just put a diaper on poo gun, you ask? Oh well I would love for you to share about that bulletproof diaper you’re clearly talking about. Idiot. Poos from poo gun are just as lethal as any bullet—if not more.

I was homeschooled my entire childhood. Every day I would sit at the attic window and watch kids from the neighboring school at play. Some days, a ball would bounce off my window, and the kids would look up in my direction. Those were the good days.

On the day of my 18th birthday I asked my mother if I could join a real school. She agreed after I held up my gun-hand and ominously said I had to go number two. I was so nervous my first day, I remember I got the runs and shot up the whole classroom, rendering everyone awash in poo. That was my last day of regular school. But my education was just beginning.

Mother enrolled me in gun school. I trained diligently until I became the top sharpshooter in the program. The NRA tried to recruit me as a kind of mascot but I damn near ate shit at a rally when I put poo gun to my heart during the pledge of allegiance. Then the FBI tried to hire me, but I had other plans. Quiet ones. I settled down and became the head of a town cotillion to teach nice manners to young girls and boys. That’s why it’s difficult for me to talk about such crass subjects like poo gun.

I won’t lie, life still isn’t easy. As I’ve gotten older, poo gun has only grown longer. To cover the rifle that is now my hand, nice dry sleeves won’t do it. I have to dip my sleeves in water before leaving the house so they can get more stretched out. My arms are always dripping with water. But at least they aren’t dripping with poo.

Grace Brady.css-1xlpnei{margin:0px -15px 0px 6px;width:11px;vertical-align:-14px;}

Grace Brady