“Is this broccoli certified ironic?” says Paul.
“Yep,” says the clerk. Â “It’s ‘delicious.’ Says so right on the little rubber band.”
“Because it’s right next to some regular broccoli, and they look exactly the same.”
“Yeah, but the difference is, this one knows it’s broccoli.”
“Irony isn’t the same thing as–never mind,” says Paul. Â “So the other broccoli was grown under sincere conditions?”
“No, but that one you’re holding was,” says the clerk.
“What?”
“It’s delicious. Says so right on the rubber band.”
“You’re fucking with me, aren’t you,” says Paul.
“Dude,” says the clerk in that same monotone. “I’m hurt.”
Yuriko’s roommate has some weird habits but, y’know, Craigslist.
“Hey, Neely bailed so I’ve got an extra ticket to the paloozamacallit,” she says, banging through the front door. “Did you want it?”
Her roommate, levitating in the corner of the ceiling, stares with bulging eyes.
“Because it might be nice to get some sunlight,” says Yuriko doggedly.
Her roommate pushes stringy black hair over her white face with fingernails like broken claws, then meows. Black liquid glugs into the sink.
“Look, do you want to go or not?”
“Not if it’s going to be full of fucking hipsters,” sniffs her roommate.
They’re not called dead letter offices anymore, but Karaaz isn’t fooled by the Morcroft Mail Recovery Center banner tacked over the old sign. Necromancy works on lots of things.
“Arise!” she hisses through the little slot, and inside thousands of rectangles stand up on end. “Fly to me, my servants! Not that way! Slip under the door, you’re flat, wait not toward the sacred candle oh no not all of you, what are you MOTHS or something–”
“We knew they were bad at finding places,” Gretch points out.
“MY HAIR,” says Karaaz, trying to dampen out the fire with a sponge.
Across the country, flatscreens flicker on, and the populace hurries to abase themselves before the evening broadcast. It’s technically a Klingon ritual, but the ruling caste doesn’t mind. Once they stopped their internecine arguments about canon, they had free time to do things like conquer the world.
“Good evening,” smiles Herman, smug and pockmarked. “In tonight’s top stories, we’ll explain why females are inferior, then investigate why they won’t date their new overlords.”
“On the forecast, a promising drizzle will keep everyone indoors!” chortles EvangelionFan08.
“Turning to the stock market,” says Herman, “the NAZGÛL gained eleven points; the Drow, nine.”