I want to start by saying that you are the greatest readers who ever lived, even better than the readers who are buried in King Tut’s Tomb. King Tut insisted on being buried with anyone who ever laughed at one of his jokes, so I guess if you laugh at one of my jokes today, and I become a pharaoh, then I’ll probably want to be buried with you in my tomb.
Nothing personal, readers. I hope you don’t mind being filled with spices and resin. I had to Google “what’s inside of mummies” for that joke. The answer, of course, is people who have sex with mummies.
Please consider the following stories, and remember that houses get burglarized, people get robbed, and hamburgers get hamburglarlized, people get robble robbled.
I want to die peacefully in my sleep, like my grandfather. Not screaming and yelling like the passengers in his car.
I want to die peacefully in my sleep, like my grandfather. Not peacefully in my sleep like the passengers in his spaceship, who were in malfunctioning stasis pods. My grandfather had the best stasis pod, because he was the captain. Right before they all went into a state of suspended animation, the crew asked my grandfather if they should double-check the power to the stasis pods, and he said, “Nah.”
I want to die peacefully in my sleep, like my grandfather. Not screaming and yelling like the passengers in his car. My grandfather was the ferryman Charon. He was driving his car across the river Styx. He doesn’t use a ferry anymore. They built a bridge. They finally got enough coins from people’s eyes to build a bridge. His passengers were the souls of the damned. He dies everytime he crosses the river Styx. He doesn’t even feel it anymore. He fell asleep because listening to the screams and yells of the damned all day for eternity is boring. He is a glorified Uber cab of the dead.
I want to die screaming and yelling in my sleep, like my grandfather. Not peacefully in my sleep like the passengers in his car. My grandfather was a baby. His passengers were a team of geneticists and obstetricians who were exhausted from creating the world’s first baby who was also a grandfather somehow. Their last words were, “We haven’t slept in days—why don’t we let the baby drive?”
I want to dye peacefully in my sleep, like my grandfather, the narcoleptic hair colorist.
A man wraps his groin in saran wrap and walks into a psychiatrist’s office. “Well, I can clearly see your nuts.” says the psychiatrist.
A man wraps his groin in saran wrap and walks into a psychiatrist’s office. “I can’t really clearly see your nuts,” says the psychiatrist, “you used too many layers of saran wrap and your groin is translucent. But I can get a general sense of your nuts.”
A man wraps his groin in a clear glass box, sprays Windex on the glass box, wipes it down and then goes into the psychiatrist’s office. “I can clearly see your nuts,” said the psychiatrist, “and just so you know, there’s really no need for the glass box—if you had come in here nude or pants-less, I would have been able to just as clearly see your nuts.
If you’re trying to be decorative with your nuts, that’s one thing, you know, put a little window dressing on it, that’s fine, but if the objective here is only for me to clearly see your nuts, just don’t wear any pants, you know, or just stand in such a way as I can really get a good look.”
A man pours almonds and pistachios into a bowl, walks a good fifty feet away from the psychiatrist’s office, waves until he gets the psychiatrist’s attention through the window, and holds up the bowl.
“I’m far sighted,” says the psychiatrist, “so I can clearly see your nuts.”
The psychiatrist dies peacefully in his sleep. The psychiatrist is my grandfather. The passengers in his car die screaming and yelling, in accordance with the Sleeping Grandfather Death Act of 2014.
He finds himself back in his office, only now his office is in Heaven. God wraps his groin in saran wrap and walks into the psychiatrist’s office. “Well,” says the psychiatrist, “I can clearly see all nuts that have ever been, or will ever be.”
When God leaves his office, my grandfather realizes that all of his hamburgers are missing. I forgot to mention he keeps frozen hamburgers in a mini fridge in his office.
I also forgot to mention that hamburgers are never safe, not even in Heaven, due to a last-minute deathbed conversion to Christianity by the Hamburglar, and once you get up there you can do anything you want, you can robble robble everything and no one can stop you.
When my grandfather fills out a police report, he makes sure to check the box marked “Hamburglarized,” and not “Burglarized.”
Now that you have enjoyed my stories, please make your way in a single file line to the nearest pyramid, where you will be converted into mummies. Thank you, good night.
Artwork by Ellaree Yeagley.