In this blog you will find all the short stories that make up the books detailed below this presentation. 
They can also be purchased on Amazon, either each book separately or all gathered in a single volume entitled "SILLY HUMOR FOR SMART PEOPLE". (The benefits also go to UNICEF.)
For many years I've made a living on television taking advantage of my absurdist sense of humor. Like the books themselves, the intention of this blog is to continue making use of it with a philanthropic purpose. But it's free. Only at the end of each post I include a link to UNICEF just in case someone wants to contribute to help children in need in exchange for my stories. 
Imagine that one of those children asks for a little help but he/she cannot offer anything in return. Well, I offer you these stories in his/her name. 
At the end of each post there is a label with the title (in capital letters) of the book to which it belongs. Click on it and you will access the complete list of posts th…


Xavier Perez-Pons is the author of an academic essay entitled “Love Letters from a Widower: the Mystery of Soul Mates in Light of Ancient Wisdom". But he has made a living writing witticisms for television. Somehow he has managed to alternate both hobbies, Philosophy and Humor, without getting himself into a hopeless muddle.
There is nothing mysterious in his fondness of humor (absurd humor, to be precise). Simply, since he was a child he has that skill (like someone who is good at playing basketball, let's say). And, while studying Law at the University, he won a tender called by a television channel to write a situation comedy. That was the beginning of his career as a TV screenwriter specialized in witticism and silly humor.
As for his fondness of Philosophy (and specifically, of the Soulmates’ theory), it does have a mysterious starting point. He narrates it this way:
“I was thirteen years old. My sister two years younger than I used to bring home some of her classmates to …


Scotland Yard suspected that a London druggist dispensed tonics and other remedies adulterated with deadly doses of arsenic to any patron whose hair was slicked with pomade. Eighteen individuals with this profile had died after ingesting a medicine prepared by this druggist named Peter Poisoner. Scotland Yard needed someone to infiltrate as an attendant in Poisoner's shop, and Inspector Lestrade had mentioned my friend’s name as a detective knowledgeable about the ingredients of druggist’s trade and as someone stupid enough to accept such a dangerous mission.
Effectively, Holmes was quick to accept since that position would give him free access to laudanum, to which my friend was addicted.
I was not present during Lestrade's visit to 221B Baker Street, and I was not informed of anything either (of which I complained bitterly once the whole thing was over). Only two days later, during dinner, Holmes begged me to write a prescription for a laxative.
“Are you constipated?” I aske…


There has been much talk about the alleged scam starring Sherlock Holmes when he charged tickets for the exhibition of a stone.
Here I will demonstrate not only the falsehood of such accusation but its meanness and its contaminating potential in the environment!
(No, this last is false and I will also prove it!)
In fact, Holmes was especially disgusted with the crime of scam, especially if he was the scammed. I would dare to say that the crime of scam horrified him even more than that of murder.
Although it is very possible that he confused both crimes because, once, he went into the apartment in a rage proclaiming that he had been the victim of a homicide. But what had actually happened is that he had been sold a telescope that turned out to be a simple metal tube with a drawing of a starry sky stuck at one end.
Be that as it may, in that case the scammer played with advantage, as the stars exerted a great fascination on Holmes. It was especially when the sky was clear when he wanted…


One evening Holmes was reading The Times while I was distracted looking out the window when I saw a gentleman in a top hat who was about to knock on our door.
«Holmes. Why don't you test your deductive skills?»
«About what?»
«We have a new client. A gentleman in a top hat»
«The killer is the butler.»
I laughed at my friend's witty remark. But suddenly a liveried butler appeared from behind a carriage brandishing a knife.  My laughter froze in my face while I watched the butler stabbing our ill-fated client and running away.
I stayed petrified. I would say: in a catatonic state, for a few minutes.
«Well, Watson? Where is our supposed client?»
«He has just been killed by a butler.»
«You're very funny, Watson. But your facetiousness won't be able to divert my attention from your lack of insight. What made you suspect that that man was going to knock on our door?»
«He-he had grabbed the knocker.»
«So how is it that we have not heard his knock?»
Just then I came out of the …


On one of our night walks through London, Holmes and I witnessed a scene that sent a red flag up Holmes. Two stocky men of bad appearances were moving a wardrobe from an old Soho house to a wagon parked in front of the main door.
“Look at that Watson. Each of these men must weigh at least 300 pounds. And yet they have difficulty moving an old wardrobe. I wonder what its content is. And why move it so late at night?”
Once the wardrobe was loaded with difficulty in the wagon, the two men climbed into the coachman's seat.
“Hurry up, Watson! We've got to follow them!”
The wagon started and Holmes jumped on my back. It was not the first time that Holmes used me as a means of transport when there was no cab in sight.
After twenty minutes running, I watched with relief that the wagon stopped. Holmes dismounted and I collapsed exhausted.
When I had recovered enough strength to get up, I looked for my friend but I didn't see anyone in the vicinity. Then I heard the Alpine yodelling…


On a certain occasion, I was sound asleep in the dead of night, dreaming that a beautiful woman named Veronika was tickling the soles of my feet, when suddenly I couldn't resist the tickling anymore and I bunny hopped.
At the foot of my bed, someone was tickling my feet. But it wasn't Veronika: it was Sherlock Holmes. I naturally got angry. If there is something that rile me up, it is to find a man hovering around my bed while I sleep (let alone inside my bed).
“Holmes! May I ask what you are doing in my bedroom?!”
"We've got work, Watson.”
"And that work can't wait until dawn?"
"I'm afraid not. The future of the British Empire is at stake. ”
"The future of the British Empire? What has happened? The Queen has been kidnapped? The Crown Jewels have been stolen? ”
"It's a more delicate matter than that."
"More delicate than the kidnapping of the Queen or the theft of the Crown Jewels?" I exclaimed confused and alarmed.