Frankenstein came to my house last night. I told him he was looking swell.
"Unghh," he said ... "aarrrr ahhhh nguu umm-umm!" (Translation: "Man,
these neck bolts are a bummer!")
"Well," I told him, "they really don't look that bad; and look at the
bright side: you'll never have to worry about losing your head." I fixed
him a steak and a baked potato — boy, he's a sloppy eater — and sent him
on his way. "Don't be a stranger!" I called after him.
Then, wouldn't you know, Dracula stopped by ... dressed to kill, as usual.
He looked kinda pale to me.
"Business a little slow, huh?" I said.
"I vah-h-nnnt your blood," he hissed.
"Killer Boris Karloff, babe," I said, offering him a cup of tea. We chatted
about the good old days back in Transylvania, when he was in his early
hundreds and you still could find a decent tailor. "Yea, Count ...
everything's gone to hell, hasn't it?" I must've reminded him of an
appointment, or something, because "POOF!" he was gone.
I heard something rummaging through the garbage can and turned on the porch
light. Startled, the Creature from the Black Lagoon and the Mummy ran and
hid in the bushes by the driveway.
"Hey, you guys!" I shouted. "The good stuff's still in the kitchen!
I haven't taken out the garbage yet. Come on in." I emptied the can onto
the floor and watched them go at it. You'd have thought they hadn't eaten
in years. "Hey, fellas ... do the Abbott & Costello routine, huh ... you
know, the 'Who's On First' thing?" I'm tellin' you, it was to die for.
Funny guys, those two.
Then, the doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole. It was my neighbor,
Phil. I tiptoed back to the bedroom and pretended I wasn't home. That guy
gives me the creeps.