Robot Silence

The robot working next to me on this assembly line never speaks. It's a long day without conversation. I liked it better when Howie was next to me. He wasn't quite fast enough, so this gleaming piece of aluminum was moved in. I can barely keep up, but they'll never replace me. I'm the shop steward. Getting our robots to join the union has been difficult. They don't need benefits and work for nothing.
It's harsh to categorize them as boring. Sophistication and wit are beyond them to this point. I tell knock knock jokes and there's no response. I'm not even sure if I should tell jokes disparaging Mexicans. Maybe they were created in Mexico.
Last week one robot locked up and had to be taken offline. I'm afraid one of them will catch fire. They seem pretty strong and might go berserk.
Maybe if I mention The Pope I'll get a response. Who doesn't like the Pope?

The Newcomer

Cecil made assumptions about the city. He had just relocated from South Jersey, hoping to move past a broken love affair. It was a balmy Saturday in Bryant Park, full of people eating, reading, stretching, playing ping pong. He saw many opportunities. Suddenly one of the humans tossed out a piece of hite bread. Instinctively, Cecil flew over and was about to snatch it up when the largest pigeon he'd ever seen hovered over him.
Who the hell are you? the monster bird asked.
I'm Cecil, he stammered. New in town. By this time he was surrounded by angry pigeons.
Okay Buster, this is how this is going to go down. You stay out of my park. We own every inch of this place. Because I'm a nice pigeon, I'm giving you a heads up. Head downtown to Tompkins Square Park. I hear there's an opening. Tell them Monty sent you.
But I'm starving, Cecil pleaded.
Not my problem, fella. And spruce up your appearance. This ain't Philadelphia.

First Mate

I can't believe one flea is missing. Bennett, that's its name. Its partner Monty is upset. How can they breed now? Noah will be furious. As first mate I am responsible. I tried to keep them happy by putting them on Walt, a dachshund, who didn't exactly appreciate it. I think it is hiding on Carl, a wooly manmouth, who sits in a corner and sulks.
A separate problem is the opposite. Somehow three ground sloths sneaked aboard in the torrential rain. I was just trying to keep things moving. The rule states simply two of each. Try to toss a ground sloth overboard. Eventually Noah will want a complete head count, including 800000 species of flying insects. Why are there three ground sloths, Bubba? That's my name.
The birds never shut up, the bears just roll around the deck getting in everyone's way. I'm guessing they squashed at least ten species of bug.
I am going to try to convince Monty, the surviving flea to mate with Grace, a near sighted Praying Mantis. Oswego, her partner, is too busy chatting up a swan. Good luck with that.
Noah is yelling my name. God, is he a pain in the ass. Not You Lord-- Noah.

Blondie Love

So close. I am so close to her. Our panels are side by side, but cartoon rules state there can be no interaction between strips.
Look at her. After all these years a perfect figure, not a hair out of place. Look at that posture, the wide eyed approach to whatever life brings. I adore Blondie.
Dagwood is clueless. He does not deserve this woman. Look at him sitting there, his mouth full of giant hoagie. Disgusting. And she has to clean up after him.
The only time I got to speak to her was at the annual Cartoon Character Symposium. Beetle Bailey was the keynote speaker. Mary Worth got a Lifetime Achievement award. Blondie's voice was like silk. I could barely control myself.
Who am I? Some minor character in Dilbert. Once a month I make an appearance. I never get the good lines. Why would she even consider running away with me to, say, The Wall Street Journal, where we could live quietly?
I must come up with a good pick up line. "You tower over Betty Boop." That might work. I know I will burn in hell, but I must have this creature.

Soft, Gooey Center

I am a cook who enjoys challenge. I have a knack for sensing which of my house guests have a soft, gooey center. I had a poet over recently. Wasn't crazy about her writing, but, my oh my, was she delicious.
A contractor knocked on my door wanting to see if I wanted a porch deck. I despise porch decks. Only people who want to mind other people's business sit on porch decks. I invited him in for coffee, which is where I drop my magic pills. He was out cold in seconds. But the man's diet must have been crap because he tasted like cardboard.
There's this little place I know where writers gather. Some look potentially tasty. Writers, deep down, have a soft, gooey center. I'll pretend I'm a writer--so many do--and gain their trust. I'll even bring Twinkies. Who doesn't like Twinkies?
That reminds me. I have to pick up some spices and honey mustard. Flavoring is so important with these exotic dishes.

The Art of Crankiness

Wearing my fisherman's hat makes me look cranky. People avoid me. Children are frightened. I want to smell the roses, but the price makes me furious.
Kids are cranky because they want something. Adults use crankiness to get attention. Especially on lines going nowhere.
I'm sure there were cranky people in that singing group Up with People, whose joyousness made me wretch. You can growl cranky, mumble cranky, sing cranky like Dylan. No one embodies cranky more than Nick Nolte in every single photo, unlike Clint Eastwood who is plain ornery, seething with anger. He'll shoot you before either one of you reaches cranky.
Old people in coffee houses with their paper and java grousing about everything--that's my man cave. Old people even shift position with cranky, jerky movements. They listen to radio stations with cranky hosts and spread their attitude throughout lobbies, diners and gyms. They grunt cranky when the weight is too heavy.
Some old guy who was late, growled at a woman who attempted to sit next to him on the bus. He looked across at me for support. I looked down at my feet and began humming Blowin' in the Wind. I didn't have my fisherman's hat on.

No Ordinary Love

Peter experienced his first Persian rug when he was six and immediately fell in love. He waited until his parents went to bed, sneaked downstairs and rolled around in the rug, smelling its exotic fibers.It was like being back in the womb.
This was no ordinary love.
Peter grew up and became an interior designer where he got to examine many types of rugs. None compared to the Persian. He saw a particular one online and was so taken he ordered it immediately. It was Baltic blue, as soft as cream. The night it came, he stripped naked and spent a good hour rolling around on it.
Peter had few guests, but at a dinner party one of his acquaintances accidentally spilled wine on the rug. An apology and an offer to pay for cleaning was met with rage. This rug will never smell the same, Peter sobbed. Before anyone realized it, he grabbed a steak knife and attacked the poor man, nicking him on the arm.
Peter was institutionalized. The rug was sold to Chinese investors who ignored the stain.
Some might say a warning should come with Persian rugs. Others play it safe and stick to bath mats.