Andrew sent me this one a few days ago about some drunk British politician or something. I’m a little drunk from Kennealy’s and four pints, so pardon me if I just step out of the way and wake up tomorrow to fix the code for this…
Charles Kennedy is fond of the bottle; unfortunately he was fond of being leader of the Liberal Democrats as well. He refused to admit he was addicted to Whisky so he has lost his party’s top job in Westminster. He never admitted he was alcoholic to himself, to his party or his voters. They all found out they were duped and turned on him sharply. His leadership was stumbling towards disaster and his end was inevitable. Now the party has to decide a new leader exposing the fact that Social Democrats and Liberals shouldn’t really be in the same party.
I really need a nap, but the bird keeps singing outside my window, dammit!
The sky turned black and roared.
“Everyone! Cellar!” shouted Henry to his wife and niece.
They ran to the storm shelter, but their niece was gone.
“Where is that stupid girl?” growled Henry.
Emily spotted her running in the yard. “She’s chasing that damned dog,” she said.
Henry yelled, but the winds drowned him out.
“I’m going back,” he said.
“No, you’re not!” yelled Emily, slamming the shelter door.
The winds roared louder, then a crash.
Henry slowly opened the door.
“See her?” asked Emily.
“Yup,” said Henry. “Tornado tossed her through a tree.”
“Stupid girl,” muttered Emily.
Sort of a diary entry in 100 words from Andrew Ian Dodge today…
It started out as a kind offer from a rock band friend of Growing Old Disgracefully. We were to have our official live debut playing a few tunes acoustically as “special guests”. It would be a great way to dip our musical toes in the live scene. The dipping seems to have become a plunge. The opening band has pulled out and we are now the openers. We will play as many as we can get rehearsed. I, for one, can’t wait to get out there; getting stage fright afterwards as I always do. So Stripes Bar here we come!
I’m hoping for bootleg recordings.
The Crown Prince put down his teacup.
“There is no abortion in the Kingdom,” he said.
He smiled. We smiled.
Ten hours later, the GPS unit told us to stop.
“Welcome to the Sea of Lost Children,” said our guide, pointing at the dunes.
We took turns digging.
Eventually, we found them.
“Suffocated in plastic,” said Bob. “Postnatal. No abortion.”
“Just plain murder,” I said. “How convenient.”
That’s when we heard choppers.
We tried to run, but soldiers surrounded us.
“Keep digging,” commanded an officer. “You sought them out, so join them now.”
Ever breathe plastic?
I don’t recommend it.
I never understood that superhero, the one who walked out of an atomic explosion and had flames on his head. Flamehead Guy or Atomic Firehead or something like that.
“Help, Atomic Flamehead Guy!” someone would shout. And he’d fly to rescue them.
Do you think he lit cigarettes with his head? Or made s’mores with it?
If I had a flaming head, I would.
I thought he was cool. I wanted to be him for Halloween, but my mother stopped me before I could light this Sterno can I glued to my head.
What? She’s gone?
Light me up, dude!
I’m going to need to set up a category for Andrew, I think.
Here’s his latest, which is kind of a poem and a song, too…
That glow you have
Like from my nano
Lights up my days
Lettin’ me know, I ain’t alone
You’re there as a lead
Through my life’s toils
Standing me in good stead
Helping me through my many foils
Like the iPod’s many tunes
You are a soundtrack to my life
Guiding me through the dunes
Helping things through strife
You plugged into my heart
A line of power to my soul
Getting to me like a sharp dart
Music to my hurting ears
One that technology can’t provide
There to prevent all those tears
Letting me know where to hide
And if any of you out there have your own stories you’d like to start publishing here or elsewhere, let me know and I’ll be glad to pass the word along to the tiny sliver of the world that listens to my little feed.
They left the gates open, and the guards all stayed home.
The mansion had never been a home. It always felt like a hideout, although the drugs sometimes made it feel like a slide under the world’s microscope.
Or a prison.
“Welcome home,” he muttered.
He’d been gone for almost 30 years, but his key still fit in the lock.
Maybe they switched the old lock back in the door, just for him.
He wandered around the mansion, which had become a sterile museum. Signs everywhere, saying what he’d done, where and when.
But never why.
He shrugged and left.