“Damn, Bill’s late for work.”
“Again.”
“John told me he was close to getting fired.”
“Isn’t it a bit of an overreaction?”
“Not for a job with these responsibilities!”
“But he just does nothing, all day.”
“He holds down the button that lets the Internet go.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“I hate Mondays!” As cliché as it was, he really meant it. “Weekends should be longer by one day,” he complained bitterly. “But then, you wouldn’t accomplish anything,” retorted his cubicle neighbor. “Since weekends were extended to start on Tuesday, back in 2078, you’re just proving how lazy you are.”
The song was stuck in his head. He couldn’t remember the lyrics, but the melody wouldn’t go away. As he hummed tunelessly, others picked it up and also couldn’t get it out of their heads. Soon, everyone was humming it. And that’s how the song virus destroyed civilization on Earth.
When the aliens came, they didn’t waste time learning to communicate. Unless you consider plasma beams communication. They overwhelmed our military and paralyzed them, with minimal collateral damage and civilian casualties.
Then they turned to our governments and made their first communication attempt:
“All your base are belong to us!”
I can travel anywhere I want, through the power of thought.
I’ve gone around the world, and out in space. I’ve visited the deepest oceans, and the tallest summits. I’ve been inside the Sun.
But right now, I’m in Ottawa.
Sometimes, my mind takes me where I’d rather not go.
“He sees you when you’re sleeping, He knows when you’re awake,” sang Tom.
“Why are you singing that song? We’re in September,” said Jim.
“Didn’t you hear? Santa Claus is now a homicidal maniac.”
“I knew that. So?”
“Do you really think he still keeps track of the current month?”
On a boring day at the passport office, some guy burst in. Looked like he’d been attacked by a bear.
Uncharacteristically, government employees rushed to help him. He was later taken by ambulance.
Turns out he’d infected all the employees with the zombie plague.
Didn’t affect their work performance, though.
He had a very special psychic ability: whatever he would paint would never, ever come to pass.
Even though he would paint what looked like very realistic and believable scenes, the event depicted would never occur.
Unfortunately, he never knew he had this power. Nobody else knew, for that matter.
Everywhere he went, he would exclaim himself!
Yeah! Woohoo! Neato!
So much so that he had to see a doctor!
The doctor confirmed that he had a disorder!
Unfortunately, the condition was permanent!
However, the doctor did offer something to fix him always speaking about himself in the third person!
Shutzbot was reassigned to vacuum duty at a hotel.
He felt wretched. Outlets ignored him. He used a dynamo to stay powered.
News of rewiring of a room in wing ‘B’ brought him to room 2B.
Hesitating, he fell into an infinite loop, considering the condition, “2B or not 2B?”