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Randy Thoughts & Stuff, #2

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Last night, when I was saying my prayers, I asked God to make outer space a little bit smaller and to make everything in it a little bit closer, so we could visit some of those places without having to use, like, a trillion gallons of gasoline. That seems like a waste to me. I don’t understand why galaxies are so far away from each other. Talk about sprawl.

As I’ve said, my paperboy Randy Thoughts is one of the smartest people I know, but he’s still not entirely schooled in the ways of the world. For example, the other day, Randy and I were sitting around chewing the fat. Suddenly Randy spat his out and said, “Mr. Zee, I was reading the Congressional Record during study hall.”

“That’s commendable, Randy,” I said. “Most kids would be making pornographic drawings in their notebooks.”

“Yeah. So anyway, you wouldn’t believe the stuff that’s in there. Are all those people retards?”

“Randy!” I admonished him. “We don’t say ‘retards.’ We say ‘mongoloids.’”

Now I don’t like to preach. But there’s a reason it’s called political correctness.

 

I get lots of messages from folks here at Storiesspace. They ask me all manner of questions, everything from “Tony, where do you get your ideas?” and “Tony, how did you think of that?” to “Tony, how do you maintain such a sunny outlook in the face of possible annihilation from a giant asteroid strike?”

Thanks, everyone!

 

Don’t waste your money on Italian Roast coffee. It doesn’t taste anything like beef!

 

I don’t like to talk about my disabilities because I’m not looking for sympathy, but if you’ve seen me walking around here on Storiesspace, you’ve probably wondered, “What’s with the limp?” Well, it’s congenital. I was born with a country club foot. It’s mostly just like a regular club foot. The only difference, if I use it to kick anyone, I’m only allowed to kick blacks and Jews. Hey, I’m not proud of it.

 

This is a funny story; I’d almost forgotten about it. My paperboy, Randy Thoughts, owned a pullet named Charlene that he took about with him on his paper route. Well, after Charlene had damaged the eyesight of several of his customer’s dogs, Randy, being the businessman that he is, stopped taking Charlene. Now, everyone knows that if a chicken can’t work, there’s no point to it. So, they killed it, and Randy’s mother, Jejune, stuffed it with apples and onions and roasted it.

The next day, Randy Thoughts stopped by with Charlene’s wishbone.

“Make a wish, Mr. Zee,” he said. I firmly grasped the bone, closed my eyes, made a wish, and pulled. And I got the bigger portion!

“Aww,” said Randy, disappointed. “Well, what did you wish for, Mr. Zee?”

“Nothing for myself, Randy,” I told him. “I wished that someone would come up with a process for killing all the bacteria in cow’s milk.”

“You stupid bastard!” shouted Randy. “They’ve already done that!”

“Okay, Mr. Scientific American Paperboy,” I said, chuckling. “What did you wish for?”

“The biggest peanut in the world!” he said. “And I’d have it right now, too, if it wasn’t for you!”

That Randy. He’s probably right. I haven’t gotten sick from drinking cow’s milk in a long, long time.

 

♦♦♦

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Written by Anonymous
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