tagHumor & SatirePunishment and Other Crimes

Punishment and Other Crimes

byRev. Dave Springer©

He knew what to do. But this was the first time Freddie had ever done it. Everybody in his gang of friends had done it. Even Little Louie, he had made his first shot already. Louie had done so just three days after Jimbo had been caught. It was a dangerous sport, but the excitement was irresistible. Today was his turn to "try-or-die".

It would take all his skill and training to make it work. He had worked on technique and concentrated on accuracy. Freddie knew he needed more than courage and ability, these were qualities he possessed. It was essential to have luck. Jimbo had not been lucky. The memory made Fred shutter.

The gang would act as look-outs, making sure his quarry was isolated. It rested with him though, to make the shot when the all clear signal was given. They roamed the street looking for a subject to provide an opportunity for Freddie to prove his humanhood. He was primed, a piece of candy was nearly dissolved in his mouth. His saliva flowed freely as he hunted.

One turned the corner and the stalking began. The crew spread out, to determine if any others were around. A loud whistle signaled the okay. Freddie went in to action. Running up behind the tall figure Fred shouted, "Hey! You!" The alien overlord turned with a cat like agility despite his large bulky body. He looked at Freddie with a icy stare from the centered single eye each of the reptilian invaders had in their scaly heads.

"Go back to your own planet, throg-head!" shouted Freddie, as he jumped high as he could, hocking a real juicy one. Then he spit it out, hitting the E.T. square in it's only eye and ran like hell.



BEELZEBUB
By Rev. Dave Springer

His role in helping you raise Hell.
At first he seems like your friend, but really he's
Beelzebuddy - The devil in charge of bad friends make bad company.
Who is eager to introduce you to a couple of his associates
Beelzebooze - The devil in charge of getting people drunk. or
Beelzebbuzz - The devil in charge of getting folks stoned.
who both work for
Beelzebombed - The devil in charge of getting you totally smashed.
once you've met him you're likely to get to know
Pealzebbub - The devil in charge of speeding and reckless driving.
who will make sure that your acquainted with
Beelzebbubba - The devil in charge of fat state troopers, and his partner
Beelzebusted - The devil in charge of getting into trouble with the Law.
which means you can't avoid getting involved with
Beelzebummer - The devil in charge of morning after consequences.
Who allows you one call, which you make too your
Beelzebabe - The devil in the red dress who has to bail out your Beelzabutt from jail.

Baalzebub 2 Kgs 1:2+
Beelzebul Mt. 12:24+, Mk. 3:22, Lk. 11:15+


HARDBOILED
By Dave Springer

Pavlov, Pavlov . . . the name rang a bell with the hard boiled detective, as he doggedly followed the trail of murder and mayhem that led him to the City Pound. The chiming of the church carillon near by reminded him that it was almost his dinner time. No chance to stop for a bite now, he thought to himself, spitting into the into the street's littered gutter, hungry to finish the mystery once and for all. He'd wolf down something when he got back home. Then he remembered, Pavlov . . . the Russian Mafia . . . and bodies disappearing. Yes, the City Pound! It wasn't horse-meat they were serving the mutts, but evidence! Not Purina, but pure evil!

He would sure of it, he had sniffed the scent of fear coming from the young dogcatcher when he had questioned him. The whelp had whined before answering, then afterwards slinked off with his tail between his legs. The good looking woman who was with him was obviously a real bitch, barking at him to keep quiet, attempting to make him heal and obey. The vixen hadn't done any good. The young pup had squealed what he knew, sounding just like somebody stepped out his tail. A mystery man named the 'Jackal' had been seen around the pound in the past few weeks. This newcomer had been in a distemperate mood, the pooch-poacher provided, when he had observed Dr. Pavlov and the Doberman-faced fellow in a hushed conversation.

Again, the 'Jackal'. Who was the man known as the 'Jackal'? The question had nipped at his heels all through this entire case. It occurred to Bulldog that it might stand for Jack L. as in Jacque La Reynard, the sly fox from Quebec; or perhaps Jack Lupus a shaggy mongrel from the West Coast who had never been collared by the police. Was he hiding out here in 'Our Fair City', having gone-to-ground deep in a den of thieves and murderers? Certainlt he was involved with the intrigue at the municipal bow-wow boarding house! "No matter, when I get my paws upon him he'll finally be caged, along with the rest of his vicious pack!" the private eye growled to himself, looking up at the full moon with instinctual excitement. The game was afoot! ]

From the bloodhound unleashed by Harry Howell, published by Dog-Eared Dime Novels a division of Gumm, Shoeman and Schyster Inc., chosen as book of the month by the Crook of the Month Club.

Sorry I got carried away. I took a course in Seminary in dogma!



The Friars of the Floral Business
by Dave Springer

Some friars in a little Scottish town were behind on their belfry payments, so they opened up a small florist shop to raise the funds. Since everyone liked to buy flowers from the men of God, the rival florist across town thought the competition was unfair. He asked the good fathers to close down, but they would not. He went back and begged the friars to close. They ignored him. He asked his mother to go and ask the friars to get out of business. They ignored her, too. So, the rival florist hired Hugh MacTaggart, the roughest and most vicious thug in town, to "persuade" them to close. Hugh beat up the friars and trashed their store, saying he'd be back if they didn't close shop. Terrified, the friars did so - thereby proving that . . .Hugh, and only Hugh, can prevent florist friars.



THE WORLD'S GREATEST FAILURE
by Dave Springer

Nothing I've ever done has been successful.
I opened an origami shop, but it folded.
I had a balloon business, but I over-expanded.
I had a business making soft drinks, but it fizzled.
I tried growing an orchard, but it was fruitless.
And I failed in the pasta industry, because I didn't use my noodle.
I opened a taffy kiosk, but when things got sticky I could only stretch my supply of candy so far.
I had a bakery, Betty Crocker was my roll model, but I still couldn't make any dough.
The coffee emporium I took over, got into hot water because I didn't know beans about the business.
When I tried to sell beer, trouble was always brewing and I was finally tapped out.
I had a short career as a cook in a Chinese restaurant, but while I could talk the talk, I couldn't wok the wok.
I had too many irons in the fire when I tried cattle ranching and couldn't get any brand recognition.
I had a dairy in Los Vegas, I milked it for all that it was worth, but got caught skimming the cream. It was just as well, making cheese drove me crackers and it occurd to me that there had to be a better whey to make an killing from cows.
I was a butcher once, but I couldn't meat my customers orders.
I started a cloning company, but couldn't get any repeat business.
I tried drilling for oil, but I wasn't well-educated.
I was going to open a sign shop, but I discovered I was not a man of letters.
I went to witch-doctor school, but couldn't pass the final hexam.
I started a business to make TV remote controls, but with low volume I had to channel my energies into something else like retractable ball-point pens, but that didn't click either. And that goes double for computer mouses.
My foray in to photography was just a flash-in-the-pan, a very negative experience.
My trophy company never was awarded any contracts.
Then I went to work for RotoRooter, but at end of the day I just felt drained.
I even tried the brassiere business, but that went bust.
I looked into being a minister, but I didn't have a prayer.
My fire-extinguisher plant went up in smoke.
I owned a salt mine that became insolvent.
I attempted to manufacture scaffolding, but the market collapsed.
I once had a stint running a tire store, but the business went flat.
I had an enterprise in mountain climbing gear, but interest had peaked and things went down hill from there.
I once owned a stationary store, but was forced to relocate; success just wasn't in the cards.
I ran a telemarketing unit, but I was accused of being an operator of a phony business.
I didn't have much success with making fireworks, until I had a spark of inspiration and the business just exploded . . .thank God for insurance!
I once had a job in a Funeral Parlor, of corpse I liked the position, but when I finished with all there was to do I felt dead tired, comes from working the graveyard shift.
I started a playground equipment company. I couldn't swing any deals for the jungle gyms; had to bail out of swing-sets and got leveraged out of the teeter-totters.
For a while I managed a dating service, I was escorted off the premises when figures for the girls didn't match expectations.
I began a home cleaning service, but before we could polish up our act the competition left us in the dust.
I had a carpet store until I had the rug pulled out from under me.
I attempted to manufacture firearms, but government red tape shot me down.
When I sold tents, no one would buy my pitch when I canvassed the neighborhood.
I wanted to be a printer, but I became depressed because I hadn't an inkling.
I wanted to buy a vineyard, but the deal died on the vine. Then I tried to purchase a winery, but before things were settled the agreement went sour.
I tried raising tropical fish, but when all the fish died the business went belly up.
I tried selling swimming pools, but I took a dive.
Speaking of getting wet; when I went into plumbing supplies, I took a bath when the business went into the toilet.
We got squashed by the competition in the construction of racket-ball courts.
I wasn't thinking straight when I put together a Brain Trust.
I got booted out of the shoe business.
I was left out in the cold when we tried to produce ice machines.

Writing non-fiction cramped my style, but fiction cramped my hand; I got all keyed up when I used a typewriter, but word processing was just write, and write and write and write. All I ever got was rejection letters because I didn't have a novel idea in my head. My poetry was so free verse they wouldn't pay anything. My jockey short stories were too brief, so I wrote boxer short stories, but those tales were so full of holes they didn't even cover my assets.

I thought about being a stand-up comedian, but I knew people wouldn't sit still for such punishment.



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