I’ve got a crush: coffee shop girl
She doesn’t know I even exist
I’m just a name written on a cup
Along with my order as well
I try to speak but she just says
Please keep the line moving, order up
There is nothing more that I can do
Turn around and walk out the door
How can I get her to notice
Why can’t I find the words I should say
Day after day it’s the same, the same
I’ve got a crush: coffee shop girl
What is going on
Where did all of this come from
What am I, what am I
What am I doing here
Why can’t I just simply
Take one minute before
Everything I know is
Gone
Should’ve known from the start
Now I’m paying for it all
Couldn’t be, couldn’t be
Couldn’t be, couldn’t be now
Now I’m falling through a
Distant tunnel in a
Desp’rate groping for my
Heart
What am I searching for
Can I see it in the dark
Something, something
Something, something’s wrong
It is not where I had
Left it before I had
Forgotten what it
Was
Cho-Cho the orangutan eeked out a satisfied grunt.
“You said it, Cho-Cho,” said Rickie Clay, “Spending some much needed vacation time in the Bahamas was just what we needed.”
“Look at that view,” remarked Frankie Clay.
A small beeping noise coming from Rickie’s duffle bag interrupted the pristine silence of the beach.
“You didn’t shut off your top-secret communicator?” Frankie whined at Rickie.
Rickie turned on his communicator. “Clay Brothers! This is General Whitmore. I have an assignm–”
Cho-Cho squealed loudly and chucked the communicator into the ocean.
“You said it, Cho-Cho,” Frankie said as he drifted off to sleep.
“I know you,” a brash man sat next to the stranger.
The stranger said nothing.
“You’re Havlin Morrit. You fought in the Continental War. War hero even.”
“That was a long time ago,” Havlin did not look up.
“Indeed. But it seems you’ve fallen from grace, Mr. Morrit. You have quite a bounty on your head–dead or alive.”
The bartender cocked a shotgun, “No offense, Mr. Morrit. We appreciate your patriotism, but we sure could use that money.” The other bar patrons produced hidden firearms of their own.
Havlin finished off his shot. “If that’s how it’s going to be. . .”
She’s in love with her broken heart
It never leaves her side
The only thing that she can count on
Beyond deep despair
She won’t mend her broken heart
It’s just easier that way
The pain of loss is more to bear
Than of loneliness
Oh, it’s a shame
She opened her heart
Opened the door
Bearing her soul
But now it’s smashed
It’s broke in two
Never again
Never again
Others try to win that heart
But she won’t let them near
She’s just too much in love
With her broken heart
Oh, it’s a shame
She opened her heart
Opened the door
Bearing her soul
But now it’s smashed
It’s broke in two
Never again
Never again
Two guardian angels entered the heavenly locker room at the same time.
“Hey, Gamaliel. You just got back from assignment?”
“Sure did, Hananel. I made sure he lived to a ripe old age.”
“I hear performance reviews are coming up. If you keep this up, you’re almost a shoe-in for a promotion.”
“I don’t like to brag, but this one’s in the bag,” Gamaliel made an imaginary free-throw shot. “Swoosh!”
“So who’s your next assignment?”
“Some American kid. Those kids are so pampered! This will be like a vacation for me.”
Later on earth. . .
“Hey! Let’s go play in the Interstate!”
“Okay,” said Timnur, “We have a popular mythical figure that will give you magical presents–no commitment! Even if you don’t choose Smarnia as your fantasy escape, they will be yours to keep. Our gifts to you.”
The children’s eyes lit up imagining a jolly old elf.
However, that wasn’t exactly who they got.
“I’m da toof fairy, but I ain’t no fairy! Ya get me?” said the fat man in a tutu crusted with a collection of colorful stains. “And I gots presents for ya’s, but first give me yer teefs!”
Timnur shook his head.
“Man, dats da best part . . .”
“What are you working on, O’Malley?” I said entering Shamrock’s study.
“Well, Walton, you know that the smallest facts often lead to unraveling the most confusing cases?”
“Indeed. I read an article by Mr. Holmes about deciphering differences in tobacco ashes.”
“Bah! How many people smoke in Victorian London? Seriously? No, I’m interested in profitable areas of investigation: Ascertaining Sasquatch hair!”
“. . . Why?”
“Sasquatch attacks account for 87 percent of all homicides, but they hide by shaving and blending in with humans. Find the Sasquatch; find the murderer!”
O’Malley’s 563 page treatise Discovering Hidden Sasquatches Among Us failed to find a publisher.
Willem, Chief Alchemist, had saved the best for last on the king’s inspection of the Alchemy Workshop: the Lead-to-Gold Station.
“We have our fifty best alchemists working non-stop on the secret of turning lead into gold,” Willem proudly announced.
“Impressive,” said the king.
“Eureka!” shouted Alchemist 23, “I turned lead into goad!”
“Lead into what?” asked Willem.
“Goad. You know. A pointy stick to prod oxen?” the alchemist showed off his creation.
“Gold! Not goad you fool!”
“Oh . . .” the alchemist was dumbfounded, “So you don’t want the goad?”
The king glared at Willem. The next day the Alchemy Workshop was closed.
A visage of Space-Senator Vithor Lovenstein and the slogan “Feel the Lovenstein” was hung behind a podium. An enthusiastic crowd cheered as he approached the podium.
“I know that many of you have traveled a long distance to be here. I also know that it’s a financial strain as dark matter prices have hit record levels. Some say that things like ‘supply’ and ‘demand’ and ‘economics’ hold the answers. Those are failed policies of the past which depended on ‘science’ and ‘facts.’ We need to instead let our emotions and feelings be our guide. Feel the Lovenstein!”
The crowd went wild.
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