Patio Furniture

A man walked out onto the patio, holding the morning paper and a cup of steaming hot coffee. He sat on the patio, looking out at the sunrise. Why he didn’t sit on one of the chairs was a mystery. Also a mystery: how he expected to see the sunrise over China at 4:30pm EST.

A man opened the French doors to his patio. French poured into the house. He opened the British and Japanese doors, and Brits and Japanese poured into the house. He didn’t open the barn doors. That was a messy smelly disaster last time.

A woman opened a man on her patio. She was either a psychotic serial killer, or had very lax autopsy procedures. The other woman spying on her couldn’t tell which. The spy woman happened to be taking a dump at the time. A spy dump. It was top secret, she told herself. She didn’t talk to herself. Instead, she had a full working typewriter sitting on her lap as she shat.

Just then, an alarm went off and came on at the same time. It somehow made the same noise for both. It was a polite clearing of a throat, which is to say, shoving a sanitary wipe down the throat with the pinky raised.

A spoiler alert pecked on a tree, trying to dislodge factoids from the tree of knowing stuff. It was successful. As it flew away, had one been looking at it, one might have seen that it was a male spoiler alert. This was a coincidence, and wasn’t really that important. That factoid was deceased.

It turned out, the man sat on the patio because the woman was opening the other man on all his chairs, as multinationals poured into the house, causing the alarm to sound for whatever reason. The spoiler alert was an alien the whole time!

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