If you feel like getting fired, please do as Mr. Sean Smith #comedy #satire

Working for Heat

 by Donovan Sotam


Sean is trying to get a raise with Mike's help.

‘So, what we need to do Mike, is: climb up that tree, reach the second floor, cut the window with the diamond tip pen and move from there.’ said a very confident Sean.
‘Why can’t we just enter through the front door?’ We both know the access code.’ In fact every other person in a mile radius of that building knew the access code. It was the famous 1234 code that comes with that lock.
‘Well, where would be all the fun in breaking in, if we were just to enter in. No, no! We must do this properly.’
‘Ahh, yes, where would all the fun be in trying to avoid physical damage, from let’s say…’ a small pause while he observed his surroundings ‘falling down from the tree?’
‘Ohh, shut up, Mike, you’re taller than me, you could probably reach the second floor without the tree.’
‘Very funny Sean. Tall people’s jokes! Haha.’ replied a bit angry and even more sleepy Mike.
Eventually they decided to just go through the front door, since the window that was cut led to a storage room that was closed from the outside. They made their way into their boss’ office in a very cinematographic way, jumping, diving into the cover of a desk, running and sneaking, all to avoid, what apparently was not missing the chance to use the cheap ninja costumes to the fullest.
They were now in the waiting room and Mike picked up the National Geographic and started whistling the National Geographic theme.
Yeah, I read it this morning’ said Sean. ‘There’s an interesting article on Atlantis.’
‘Where did they find it, this time?’
Sean didn’t answer for he had managed to pick the lock of Mr. Anderson’s office.

Satire Kindle Books: "Six of One" by JoAnn Spears

Chapter Twenty, The Chapter That Is All About Fashion:

Livy—Mary Livingston, I presume—was on the spot with a device that looked to me like a life preserver. Eyeing it suspiciously, I insisted on an explanation before I would let her get any closer with it. All I got, though, was a smart slap on my rear end followed by gales of laughter from Livy. After the laughter had subsided, the tallest of the four girls, who was likewise the most dignified, introduced herself to me as “Mary, call me ‘Seton.’”

“The bumroll goes beneath your gown, Dolly. It will make your skirts flare out becomingly, like ours do,” Seton said. She illustrated by placing her hands on the top of her skirt, which flared out from her waist with enough flat surface at the top to rest a teacup on.

Had all my years of Jazzercise, I wondered sadly, been in vain? I winced at the thought that a million plié squats had come to this but guessed it would be best to just bumroll with the punches.

“Maestro, a drumroll for the bumroll!” I said to Livy, proffering her my rear end with a jaunty wiggle. Betty Boop might have been impressed, but Livy was not.

From "World Trade Center Writers" by John Blandly

“Bernie, wake up,” Notlieb heard his wife say. She nudged him in the ribs. She had the phone in her hand.

Notlieb never answered the phone. The middle of the night was no exception.

“Yes, he’s right here,” Cecelia was saying, hitting him on the head with the receiver. “Take it,” she said.

“Here!”

Reluctantly, he picked up the phone.

It was Charlotte. “Can you come over here?” he heard her ask.

“Where? Over where?”

“The Marriott.”

“The Marriott?” He looked at the clock. “It’s 2 a.m.”

“Yes, please come over. On Wolf Road.”

“Wolf Road?”

“Yes, Wolf Road. The room’s in my name.”

“Why? Why do you need me to come over?”

“Booker. Booker’s been shot.”

“Booker’s been shot? Have you called anybody?”

“No. No, I can’t. Please come over here.”

“Alright,” Notlieb said. “Okay.”

From "Satan Loves You" by Grady Hendrix

Death has messed up a very simple NASCAR track disaster. Satan is, understandably, angry...


Death stood before Satan’s desk, head lowered.

“What were you thinking?” Satan yelled. “WERE you thinking? The cars go into the stands, the cars blow up, the people die. Weren’t you aware that this was scheduled for today?”

“My Dark Lord and Master – “ Death began, in the sepulchral voice of the tomb.

“No,” Satan said. “Save that for the groupies.”

Death cleared his throat, then continued in a normal tone of voice.

“I could go kill them now?” he said, helpfully.

“Now is too late, Satan said. "You used to be so good at this, but look at you now. You look like a cartoon character and, frankly, you smell bad.”

“I’m supposed to smell bad.”

“Who says?”

“The cold stench of the tomb. And all that. Everyone.”

“And if Everyone told you to dress up in a pink bunny suit would you do it?”

Death knew that this was a trick question, but he couldn’t quite figure out the trick.

“Maybe?” he ventured.

At that moment Death’s scythe, which had been leaning against the wall, toppled to the floor.

“And why are you still lugging that thing around? Do you think it’s threatening? It’s not threatening. It makes you look Amish.”

From "Via Dolorosa" a story in "Frantic Planet: Vol II" by Stuart Millard

A single moment, frozen in time. Framed in the glare of the flashbulbs that scorched its shadow into the wall, a pair of huddled lovers, spooning with a death-grip tightness and gawped at by Pompeii's apathetic tourists.

 “Alright, I must ask for absolute silence in the studio.”

If you replay something enough times, it loses all meaning. Like when a record skips, the needle scratching out the same fragmented line, over and over, the words and syllables all jumbling together until you feel like you've forgotten how to speak English. Where does one word end and another begin? It's all just static. The white noise of memory on memory, the infinite re-runs in your mind, take after take, each nuance, each vocal inflection and intake of breath repainted so many times that its layers are thick enough to climb up like a ladder into the sky, pulling the saints and harpists out by their halos, tossing them overboard and hearing them as they fall behind you back down into the sin and the filth. That's when you punch God right in the windpipe for endowing human beings with the ability to retain knowledge of past events.

“Prrrrrrrp”