A farmers family had a small son called Mark. The boy was forever asking questions. So they called him Question Mark.
Walking around in the yard he said: What kind of animal is that?
His mother said: That’s a chicken.
And the boy said: What does a chicken do?
The mother said: She scurries around for food and then lays an egg.
And we scurry around after her eggs for our food.
And the boy said: Why does a chicken lay eggs?
And the mother said: The chicken hopes it’s egg will produce a chick.
And the boy said: What is a chick?
And the mother said: A chick is a young chicken, just like you are my young son.
And the boy said: But who came first, the chicken or the egg?
The mother was speechless.
One day a man and his little daughter came to buy some eggs.
The boy bombarded the two with questions.
He said: Who are you?
The man said: I’m married to my wife and together we have this little daughter.
And the boy said: What do you do?
The man said: I provide food for my wife and daughter.
And the boy said: Why?
The man said: If my daughter doesn’t eat she will never be big and strong.
And the boy said: Why do you have a daughter?
The man said: We enjoy living with her and hope she will support us when we are old.
And the boy said: Is your daughter the same as a little chicken?
The man said: I guess you could say so.
And the boy said: Did she crawl out of an egg too?
The man said: No, she came out of her mother’s womb.
And the boy said: So is a womb just like an egg?
The man said: No, people don’t crawl out of an egg. But in the beginning they do look a bit like a little egg.
And the boy said: But who came first, that little egg or the mother?
And then the little girl said: Everything starts small and ends up big.
And the boy said: But what about the Giant and Tom Thumb? That Giant was big from the beginning. And Tom Thumb stayed small.
The girl said: Yeah, I know that fairy tale. Tom Thumb beats the Giant, doesn’t he?
But then, Marky Mark, who decides who is big and who is small?

A man was writing a prayer and reading it back aloud. It was a call for help and mercy to God about his health.
He closed the notebook and went to a troubled sleep.
The following day he opened the notebook to write a new prayer and the prayer began speaking back.
I must have a word with you, Prayer said. You’re calling for help and mercy, and you expect this message to come across just like that. You don’t see me as a living being?
The man was shocked. I thought God would answer, but now my own writing is doing that.
Talk to me like I’m your neighbor, not a gofer.
The man took this to heart and wrote, Dear Prayer, I’m sick, the doctor says it’s gonna take a while. When will I recover?
Next night the man opened his notebook and straightaway Prayer started talking.
Who do you think I am? A psychic? I’m a stranger you just met on the street. Would you pray like that to him?
No, the man said, let me try again.
Dear Prayer, I’m in a bad state, I fear for my life. I pray I will regain my health.
Following night the man opened his notebook again and Prayer jumped at it.
I’m someone you would like to meet. Would you pray like that to such a person?
Who would I like to meet? How do I know?
Dear Prayer, it looks like I’m just praying to myself, so I pray to myself that I will
regain my vigor and vitality.
Next night once the notebook was open, Prayer said, now it looks like you found the person you always wanted to meet.
At that very moment the man’s Guardian Angel descended on Prayer and said, Prayer, get back in your book, you talk too much.

We have a Baroness and a diplomat. They were a team in a global organization. And they had an affair. And both were addicted to something. She to ****** and he to saving the world.
She promised him to quit and he promised her to quit.
He promised to quit if she promised to submit to a clinic after he quit his world saving addiction.
She promised to enter the clinic if he promised to leave the world’s stage.
They sat in a hotel room and she says, for the time being you can use you diplomatic status and pouches to get me the brown sugar. He said, the world saver he was, that could be great cover, for the time being.
Diplomaniak, I love you. Baroness, you sweet Brownie, I love you.
So for the time being as it was nothing changed.
The diplo haggled and joked with the dealers. He had learned the trade from his parents who both had been junkies. So he bought the best of the best. The Baroness took it for granted she got the best of the best.
Pouches came and went and the diplo covered it all up with a crazy story. About them containing samples of biochemicals used in warfare. And used by him to expose rogue states. All to prevent exposing his rogue mate.
Dealers asked him, you on the sugar?
No, it’s for my sugar. I’m on a drop of whiskey and a puff of tobacco.
But then time being as it was something changed.
The diplo finally found a suitable successor.  One who wasn’t trying to save the world. The world decided it would do it’s saving it self.
So in came a peace loving and peaceful negotiator. A man who extended existing wars and supported starting new ones.
The Baroness booked herself into the clinic. The diplo visited her every day. This time without the sugar but with a bottle of crème de cacao for her and a drop of whiskey for him. The nurse expressly had forbidden any stimulants in the clinic, so the diplo used a different pouch. He bought a large chocolate box. Together they retreated to a secluded spot in the garden and enjoyed sips of their respective browns.
One day the Baroness said, I’ve got to tell you something.  I’ve fallen in love.
With whom?
With the nurse.
Well, that’s better than being married to the needle, said the diplo.
You don’t care?
I care a lot but only for you.
Her new lover barred him from visiting her.
But the diplo found a way around this. He mimicked the voices of her family members and got her to visit him in their usual hotel rooms. There they sipped their browns in secret.
But the time being as it was one of them died. And when that happened their last words to each other were that they stopped making promises to each other.

Looking for an entertainer? Birthday, moving to a new home, marriage?
Phone the Fartist. Produces funny noises and nauseous funks.
It’s your birthday. You ask for a song and dance. That’s what you get and more.
Kids imitate the gross concert and adults hop around keeping their noses to the candles. And the birthday guy? He loses gas and wins a secret pleasure.
You’re moving to a new home. You ask for an afterburner blessing. You get that and more. The new carpet gets a long shush, the walls a staccato salvo, and exclamations of wonder are accompanied by exhumations of thunder. In the end the family lullabies itself to sleep with a gassy purr.
You’re marrying. You ask for cannons and rockets. You get that and more. The wedding kiss goes with a **** and a swish, the wedding cake comes with a choking chopper and the dance is a medley of winds and bombs. At night the couple both turn their gasses on each other.
Afterwards the Fartist receives many a compliment and complaint about the stink he raised. We love your **** aria’s and **** bolero’s, but can’t you deodorize?
The Fartist doesn’t reply but thinks to himself: Where did I hear about odorless gas before? Do they want gas chamber music?
O well, what has been lies ahead of us and what’s coming creeps up from behind.

Well, wellness, that’s what this man is talking.
After his father died he was sitting in the Finnish sauna and realized:
dry heat, silence, discipline.
Just like my dad.
Suddenly he was present, and remained that way.

Wellness, oh well, still talking this guy.
After his mother died he was sitting in the Turkish bath:
humid, close to the skin, hot breath.
Just like my mum.
And there she was, and stayed that way.

Well, well, wellness, same person talking.
Now his parents were gone and he was alone.
He slowly immersed himself in the cold bath:
shivering, enveloping, awakening.
Just like me.
So he was present and remained that way.

Later he thought: how about freezing?
Three minutes in minus 110 degrees.
Burning blizzard, freezing fire.
Even more like me.
But the blood curdled, the blood lumped.
Well or no wellness, he thought and stepped out
to face whatever temperature, dry or humid,
the world had to offer.

Oh, Ah,
You are my
roundabout which
I round with a
minimal velocity
of three heartbeats
a second
chasing a
small guy,
naturally I mean
a small gal
but she doesn’t know it
and the small guy does.

Well, have you heard, have you seen?
What?
Soccer player keeps the ball airborne running.
Yeah? Your imagination, that’s what’s running.
No, my imagination stops when I see him doing it.
So? What’s he do?
Oh, you need telling twice?
Flips the ball past the defender, catches it on the other foot,
flips it past the next player.
Yeah, sure, gimme some detail on how.
Well, upper body at between 10 and 11 degrees, ball trajectory the same.
When did he find that out?
Exercising thru the bushes in the park, avoiding prickly branches,
trunks sticking out, logs diagonal.
Policeman asks what’s he doing. Go back to school.
Yes, he says, and doesn’t.
Wanted to put in 6 hours a day of ball control.
No school?
No, he was his own teacher and pupil.
Only cooked for the family.
Mother alcoholic, sisters rebellious.
Oh, so a monomaniac?
A solomaniac, is better.
But why this air solo?
Well put. You want to intercept the ball,
you have to commit a foul.
You didn’t succeed, all sorts of space
opened up for him and his team.
You ever played against him?
Eh, I’m just an observer, a sports fan, a bit of a scout.
He still doing it?
No, he’s retired. Walks up and down
stairs with the ball in the air,
jumps fences and catches the ball on the other side.
Sounds like the circus?
Guess you could say that.
Appears on TV explaining the technique.
But so far nobody has been able to copy.
What does he say?
Slightly bent knees, catch the ball close
to the ground, center of gravity low.
It’s like a dance.
And the ball is his partner?
Well said.
He takes the ball for a stroll
in the park. Kids love it.
Walking the ball?
Hey, you got a way with words.
Sounds like a lonely guy.
No, he’s got me.
How’s that?
Well, you could say I’m keeping
him in the air.
Ah, still a fantasy.
When he lands on my feet
he’s real as a double
and true as a story.