The airlock door didn’t lock their air in.
Author: John Rhea
Zombhard run last news paper of apocalypse
The space-station’s oxygen ran out on day three.
“I eat dress,” the alien said and did.
“I hate your dress,” he said, but didn’t.
“I love your dress!” she said, but didn’t.
He always seemed on the verge of success.
He broke both his legs on opening night.
“I’m a Time Cop.”
“You guard the clocktower.”
The militia picked a fight with the aliens.
The cavalry arrived triumphantly at the wrong battle.
The “unicon” stabbed the fool through the wallet.
He could never believe in her natural genius.
His wondrous fame only existed in his head.
The marketing department exalted the vapid author’s books.
Only a fool could solve the king’s puzzle.
She sprinkled poison ivy over all his food.
The super man was more mediocre than great.
The zombies raided the office fridge, disregarding labels.
“Someday you’ll recognize my superior farting skills.”
“Someday…”
The mannequin basketball game was actually rather exciting.