I pulled the plug, but the light bulb didn't

I pulled the plug, but the light bulb didn't blink. The entire house was lit up and buzzing. I flailed down the hall to the breaker and pulled them all, without effect. The doors

screamed insults as I sprinted past, telling me I was no runner and should go back to Kenya for more training. I stuck my tongue out at the mahogany and shouted

"Hwrashwetg ashte aksdnwm auh uh ilsksh," before I realized that it's impossible to yell and stick my tongue out at the same time if I want my words to be understood. Luckily, I

magic jack so I can waste time on the phone. Next time I call Korea to talk to Uncle Loo I will open with a knock knock joke. This is all part of my experimental

joke therapy for my Korean uncle, Skip Loo. Unbeknownst to me, romper room bullies saddled my uncle with his lingering moniker, "Skip Tooda Loo." My innocent joke went awry, and

one day my uncle snapped at a children's store when he heard that infamous nursery rhyme. "I'll show YOU Skip Tooda Loo!" he shouted as he opened fire, a spray of bullets

kicking up a skiff of freshly fallen snow. It fluttered earthward like so many angel kisses, and my uncle was so appalled by his own actions that he retired that gun. Now he

contemplated the twitching corpse of the last carrier pigeon. The burial was swift. The stone read simply, "Returned to Sender." It was a sad day for ornithology. A sad day indeed.

Alternatives were suggested, of course. Carrier bees, carrier bats, even carrier dust-mites with nano-fiche affixed to their nano-butts. Maybe narrow-casting wasn't the answer. We

Killed all of the custard cremes that made my mother sick. The end.