Author - Chris Weagel

Ordinance 345 goes into effect tonight. No waivers or exceptions. Each single-family home and apartments of two or more bedrooms must contain a horse. The horse must be kept alive and in “good humor” indoors throughout the night. Each family must board a real, breathing horse, in their living room or sewing closet, from sundown to sun up, indefinitely. Or until…let me get the mailer…here, until “the end of hostilities,” we were told, by the mayor. Families are not to befriend the horse or bond with it in similar fashion. Inspectors must be allowed to touch the horse with both hands (or inspection wand) before families receive a three month window badge. Those presenting cartoon drawings in place of their horse will be named in the community newsletter...

Volunteer High School Bowling Coach.
He was called to serve.
Volunteer High School Bowling Coach.
He had a very accommodating judge.
Volunteer High School Bowling Coach.
From the Mayor's inner-inner circle.
Volunteer High School Bowling Coach.

First, he examines your thumbs.

Volunteer High School Bowling Coach.
He was such a blessing after the flood.
Volunteer High School Bowling Coach.
No, no, keep going. Make the font bigger.
Volunteer High School Bowling Coach.
Résumé building.

Volunteer High School Bowling Coach.

Persistent jigsaw puzzling can substitute for regular human contact. And should.
Limit your puzzle subjects to mega fauna of the Upper Midwest. At least for the first few decades of the sentence.

Trampoline Factory Fire! Trampoline Factory Fire! Trampoline Factory Fire!
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
…
Nothing further, Your Honor.

“It's an inflatable, cartoon football player. It's colorful. He's a quarterback. Had to get it. You can put him on the front lawn or back lawn. We keep him up all season. We're doing our part.”
I'm going to let that just hang there, in the air, so you can confront it.
Then I'm going to bring it down to earth with this:
“And he's got a light. He lights up. Right there in the head.”
America has decided: This Is The Way Forward.

The charity coin jug is filthy. Everyone is too ashamed to clean it. It's got more grime and dirt and dead spiders in it than quarters. Yesterday Alan dumped in thirteen, greasy bowling alley tokens. And he did it very slowly, one token at a time. He counted aloud as each one dropped in, so loud he was sure all could hear.
“This one's gonna cure Ugly Leg.” THUNK!
“This one's gonna cure The Gout.” THUNK!
“This one'll make your children love ya.” THUNK!
“You hear that, Janice?! Ehh!”
It went on all night. Eventually Hank wrestled him down and reminded him of his sins.
Still, nobody's gonna clean that jug.

Barber Chair Reintegration Specialist. That's what I do. That's what I am. I help former Barber Chairs who've gotten tired of or have otherwise renounced “the game” rejoin the company of other chairs. At dinner tables, on board buses, in some of our better theatres, wherever chairs congregate, I help these hulking, rigged-up, rusted spin piles find their place with the others.
I sent a barber chair, 76 model, to live with a family of benches in Mormon Utah. Took three weeks and a call from the Governor. But I did it.
Since I was a boy I've enjoyed placing furniture in close proximity to other, like furniture. Still do.

We're going to put a stop to this camping business right now. Before it gets out of hand. You pitch a tent on the roof, claim you like sleeping closer to the angels – it's bullshit. You don't like sleeping near your family. Their crooked eyes and bad taste in bedding shame you. You don't like the way they walk. You made them! That's you, that's your disfigurement, passed on towards the horizon. Feel it! Drape as many damp paper towels over their faces before the census man comes, it won't matter. Man sit down next your wife and eat that waffle. Eat it! I'm here to watch! You sleep on that roof looking for a cure. High altitude. Thin tent. Those cosmic rays won't bake your DNA. They won't do shit! You'll get a rash and then still be out of...