These attempts at being accepted into on-line American humor magazines have all failed. I think, in my British way, they are often a bit too brutal for American taste. What do I know? Very little. Anyway, without an s on the end of it, here is the first installment in a sort of salon de refusé of American humor for those who have a taste for what might be called the ‘Special Stuff.’
Joke - Solar panels for cemeteries - the last word in sustainability.
Comic Piece - Four Hundred Feet High.
The Penis of the Plains rose engorged over three hundred, imperceptably rising, (from lower in the east to higher in the west), miles of grassland, its prominance guiding wherever anyone was starting off from towards wherever they weren’t too bothered about going.
Here there was little to do and little was done.
A Belgian shepherd dog taking its cue from there being not much need for achievement barked steadily and to no effect at a lone swallow singing away on a television aerial.
An Amtrak train pulled out of the station. Soon enough all around was nothing much - the nearest place of entertainment a cattle pen passed ten miles back.
Two guys wandered through to the club car and ended up sat at the same Formica topped table. After a silence that went on longer than it should have they managed to break the ice with each other by agreeing to swap murders.
