He stared past his television. He stared off into the abyss that was his life. He ran his hand through his greasy hair and across his four-day old stubble.

“What the hell and I doing with myself?” He spoke to no one in particular. He was alone except for his dog, a golden retriever named Pal.

“I am such a loser. I can’t believe I’ve just wasted a prime party weekend sitting on my ass.”

Pal raised his head from the floor and spoke clearly, “You know, a man alone always talks too much.”

He looked into the mirror. Surgery reduced the scar on his face to a slim line. His tan hid it further. His hair transplant was coming in well and responding to Rogaine treatments.

He checked the cut of his new grey suit. It was bespoke by an Italian tailor. It flattered him. His daily workouts were beginning to pay off as well. He smiled into the mirror. He’d have his teeth whitened soon.

Earnst Stravo Blofeld impressed himself with his new look. Now it was time to go back to the global financial crisis he’d created.

Lex Luthor triumphed. Superman’s lifeless body hung limp from the unusual rope around his neck.

“How did you do it?” a bystander asked.

“Simple actually. I discovered that Clark Kent was really Superman. Then I bribed Kent’s cleaning lady to give me all the vacuum cleaner bags out of Kent’s apartment. I paid extra for paper towels she used to clean the shower. I collected the loose hair that I found in the trash and fashioned them into a rope. The rest is… Tragedy…” Luthor’s voice trailed off before he started laughing.

Commander Terek of the Imperial Star Destroyer “Attacker” was selected to approach the Captain about the memorandum sent in advance of Lord Vader’s arrival.

“Sir, is this a serious request?”

“Yes.”

“It is to be “masculine and robust” like his own. Have you ever seen his?”

“Of course not. It’s covered.”

“But how?”

“How the hell should I know? Use that stuff keep for shore leave. It promotes growth.”

A week later, the Captain and the Commander met Lord Vader on his arrival.

Vader said, “Your moustache is impressive Commander.”

“Thank you my Lord.”

The steroid worked, in two ways.

Cletus Lake walked into the liquor store. He went to the single shelf where they kept the fancy wine from California. He was buying a bottle to celebrate.

After a lifetime of digging coal, Cletus’ wildest dreams were on the verge of realization. His life was suddenly changed.

As he approached the register a man with a shotgun burst in. He asked for money. The shopkeeper went for his gun.

Instantly Cletus was lying on the floor dying.

The paramedics did their best. They failed to notice the winning lottery ticket in Cletus’ pocket – soaking up blood.

Stanley Mushnick looked across the street at the halal butcher shop. There were hardly any Muslims around. How did they stay open? The shop must be a front for terrorists. He should call the FBI. They’d check it out.

Gemal Al-Tariri looked across the street at the kosher deli. How many Jews could there be locally? How did they stay open? The shop must be a front for the mob. He should call the FBI. They’d check it out.

Special Agent Walt Grunwald got two calls. What were the odds of the mob and terrorists operating in this town?

“Nancy. Good to see you.”

“Good to see you Mr. Vice President.”

“That lavender suit is quite fetching.”

“Thanks. It’s Vera Wang.”

“Heh… You said wang…”

“Are you going to do that all night?”

…

“Get your hand off my knee!”

“I’ve got an ‘earmark’ in my pants for you.”

…

“Nancy! Look there, Sam Brownback is undressing you with his eyes.”

“Shhh!”

…

“Dick, if you pinch my ass one more time I swear…”

“Executive Privilege sugar tits. Wanna complain? I see John Roberts right over there…”

…

“Good night Mr. Vice President.”

“Catch ya later toots.”

The worst part of the zombie apocalypse was the fatigue.

It wasn’t hard to pot the hooting inhuman undead as they limped bloodshod up the farm lane.

But they came at irregular intervals, mandating constant vigilance. How could a man sleep?

Plus, the cow still needed milking.

He shouldered his rifle and climbed down from the barn cupola-come-sniper’s nest.

It was odd that Bonnie didn’t issue her welcoming moo.

Entering the stall, he saw why.

Dismembered bovine. Empty skull. Intestine-festooned manger.

It came from behind: Baaaaaas surging past bitter cuds and froth-corrupted lips.

Zombie sheep.

Shit.

Brendon Travers was proved right after all. His neighbors joked him mercilessly about the “bomb shelter” he built. Now who was laughing?

Brendon settled into his 10×20 concrete bunker (which was buried 5 feet underground). The only door was secured. The air filters were working. His generator was good for weeks.

The worldwide zombie apocalypse wouldn’t claim him.

He decided to treat himself to his favorite snack, microwave popcorn. He had boxes of it piled around. He got a pack and went to cook it. But he couldn’t.

He’d forgotten to put the microwave in the shelter.

Shit.

The captain looked down the bar at the female. Her pale blue skin shone like clear water. Of all the spacer bars in the galaxy, this one had the hottest females.

“You crew or captain?”

“Crew,” she responded. “And always looking for a better… ride.”

He was in if he played it cool. They chatted. Then the dreaded question.

“So what system are you from?”

He responded, “Kayelon Loves Grammy and Poppy 2005.”

She smiled widely and replied, “I’m glad I’m not the only one fucked by the International Star Registry.”

Dr. Howard K. Smith, PhD (Philosophy, Harvard, ’72) groaned audibly. He hated his Department Chair. The Chair had placed that filthy little slut in his class intentionally. It would drive him mad. She’d taken her first test. He now had to grade it. He opened the examination booklet and read the first line.

“I don’t think that someone’s mind should have a problem with their body. I mean we all know that our jeans control how our body looks anyway.”

Dr. Smith then, for the first time in years, prayed to a God he doubted existed for strength.

UN Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon quaked. He was on the most important negotiation ever. The alien attack killed at least 1 billion people. The aliens announced that earthlings should appoint an ambassador to hear their demands.

Ban waited in the alien spacecraft. A wall opened and an alien entered. The alien walked up to Ban and said, “You have 10 days to provide us with 10,000,000 tons of chocolate, Lindsay Lohan, and the head of James Gandolfini on a stick. If you do not it will be your doom.”

Clearly, these were not the demands Ban expected.

Perkins the butler stole into the mansion. He returned surreptitiously from vacation to do the deed. He trod silently in the passages and halls until he arrived at the bedroom of his employer. He entered the room.

Perkins looked at his employer sleeping. Pathetic. Dissipated. The young man wasn’t worthy of the family name.

Perkins put the pistol in his employer’s hand, put the gun to the temple, and pulled the trigger. It would look like a suicide. Richard Cory was dead.

Irv Mills was at the top of his game. This was his first day as CEO of ConglomoCorps, a multi-national (and multi-billion dollar) company.

“Time to start making changes,” he thought as he pulled out an organizational chart.

He noticed a box marked “Research and Development.” He scratched it out and wrote “Research & Development.”

No. Scratch.

“R and D”

No. Scratch.

“R & D”

No. Scratch.

Damn. This was going to take longer than he thought.

He regarded her.

Regarded in true sense of regard. He supposed that regarding in this sense was fairly uncommon. He wondered how many definitions of the word he’d have to read before he got to the sense he was using. One? Two? Fourteen?

Of course, it would be more accurate for him to say he was trying not to leer at her.

The non-etymological thoughts he had were lewd.

He thanked her for the coffee and left the shop.