Who are we? Why are we here? We at Mr. Gad's are an organization devoted to answering the metaphysical questions of who and why.
Wassa matta wit' ya, bucko? Never heard of funny stuff? Never danced under a full solar eclipse? You need treatment, treatment all day long. Intravenous drip, that's the answer.
Little packets of information are whizzing at you, concatenated into a semi-comprehensible stream. You're hoping to get pictures of nakkedity and all you get is words words words. Break out into the technicolor world.
Hmm...maybe you'd like to respond to this data-stream. Add to the noise/signal ratio in the information sphere, will ya? Ya will if ya send us a sign. Don't forget to wipe your feet on the mattress.
Look at the size of that thing! I'd be happy as God to fix that sleeve, but all the chained horses in the world couldn't stop those tears, streaming down your face like bullion. What's that? You're fit as a pancake? Well, then, that's a whole 'nuther story.
Danger and death abound in this world, but never so luridly as when we're involved. When Mr. Gad's sticks its sticky fingers into a pot of blood, things are just starting to get weird.
WHAT THE....?!
The End
(So that wasn't much of a story, but there was pathos and goiters, both of which are very important, except for the goiters.)
My favorite teacher was Mrs. Rosaline. I had her in the second, third, fourth, and fifth grades. Mrs. Rosaline's hands were covered with warts, and she wore red jellies, and she smelled like castor oil. You might wonder why I loved someone who had warts and smelled like castor oil. It was because she could turn into a bumblebee at night and every night she flew to my window and every night she'd say, "Sally, where do you want to go tonight?" Maybe it was because she liked me or because I baked her cupcakes for her birthday. She took me everywhere, even to Billie Joe's house, who always picked on me in class. But one day I fell off and I died and my soul went up to heaven which wasn't filled with puffy clouds but looked like Coney Island, with bright whirring lights and hot-dog sellers. One of those hot dog sellers was Billie Joe, who said, "Ha ha, I picked on you in class and now I'm going to pick on you again, 'cause now I'm an archangel!" This made me really mad so I grew wings and flew off to the Land of the Bumblebees. Then I grew a giant stinger and stung Billie Joe so many times that he blew up like a giant balloon and fell down to the earth, popping into little pieces. But then I woke up and I realized I wasn't Sally at all; I was John Funder, working in the factory just like I had been for the last fifteen years. I went back to assembling cast-iron flywheels, when I suddenly heard a buzzing, and I saw a little bumblebee with warts on its feet and little red jellies on the end of each of its six jointed appendages.
The End
A Day at the Office
Mr. Pogrom liked to play tennis, but no, no he could not play tennis while at the office! No! He had to open those envelopes all day long. One time, he cut his toe with that dastardly orange peel. No, he didn’t. No! He only cut his finger—the middle one—a paper cut! "That really hurt!" Mr. Pogrom exclaimed, but nary a soul in that orange place turned to him. They were all busy playing hopscotch. "Oh, how I would love to play hopscotch," Mr. Pogrom thought to himself. "No! You wouldn’t get paid, then!" Mrs. Pogrom yelled. But, how could Mrs. Pogrom yell this when she was at home watching soap operas? The answer is simple. Well, not that simple, but work with me, people! Okay, you see, this was all happening in Mr. Pogrom’s head, because, as we all know, Mr. Pogrom is crazy. But isn’t it also quite insane to think that all of these things are happening inside Pogrom’s head? Wouldn’t his head be too small for all of these people to fit in, including the hopscotch diagram and his nefarious wife? And an office building? An office building, for God’s sake! That certainly would not fit inside the average human head. But you see, Mr. Nigel Pogrom had been born with a HUGE head! Yes, and all of these things were happening in his head. They really were. In fact, so much was happening in Mr. Pogrom’s very large head that he failed to return the ball his opponent had just served. That’s too bad, because now nothing could stop the aliens from winning the intergalactic tennis match and having us all for dinner. Blimey.
The End