George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He woke up with a bandage on his head.
“Oh, you’re awake,” said a nurse. “You’ve had quite a nasty bonk on the head.”
He looked around. He was in a hospital ward with other bandaged patients, all laying still in bed.
“Oh, okay,” he said. “Them too?”
“Yes,” said the nurse. “And it’s time for another.”
She pulled out a large mallet and bonked George on the head.
George fell unconscious and had a nice dream about sailing.
He looked forward to his next bonk on the head.
Author: R.
George the Pillow Fighter
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He wasn’t very good with a cutlass, but he was the master of the sofa cushion.
“PILLOWFIGHT ME!” he’d shout at his opponent, tossing aside his cutlass and dropping a sofa cushion at their feet. “I DARE YOU, COWARD!”
When the other pirate threw down their cutlass and picked up the pillow, George would draw his pistol and shoot them in the head.
He’d pick up his cutlass and the cushions.
Then he’d put the cushions back on the captain’s sofa.
With the bloodstained sides facing down, of course.
George clowns around
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
To make up for his shortcomings, he used humor as a defense mechanism.
He started with silly nose-glasses, which distracted his enemy long enough for him to escape.
Or he’d wear a fight wig, or ask his opponent to sniff his squirting flower.
Over time, he refined his humor, and he had the British Navy rolling on the desks, clutching their sides from the pain of laughing so hard.
He always walked away with the loot, even when he slipped on a banana peel and fell into the water.
The voices in George’s head
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
The voices in his head told him that all of the time.
“For fuck’s sake, stop it!” he shouted.
“Oh, okay,” said the rest of the crew coming out from behind the sails. “Sorry.”
George blinked. “All this time, I thought the voices were in my head. But they were you?”
“Yes,” said the crew. “We thought it was a joke, you know.”
George sighed and went back to his bunk.
“KILL THEM ALL!” said the voices in George’s head.
“Ahhh, that’s more like it,” said George, falling asleep.
George Tom Sawyer
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
So he was given all of the worst tasks and chores on the ship.
Every few months, the crew unloaded, grounded, and turned the ship over for a careening.
While the rest of the crew partied on the beach, George spent days scraping barnacles and seaweed off of the hull.
“This is fun!” George happily lied. “I’m so glad I have this task all to myself!”
Curious, other pirates asked if they could help, but they were too drunk and passed out.
George sighed and went back to work.
George the Werewolf
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate. Every time the full moon came out, the next day he would wake up covered in the blood and guts from all of his murdered crewmates. It made him wonder if he was a werewolf. It kept happening over and over with every ship that he ended up on. The truth was, George was a werewolf. But he didn’t slaughter his crewmates with his teeth and claws. He killed them with his really bad cooking. Apparently, his signature full moon five alarm chili is a weapon of mass destruction.
Weekly Challenge #972 – Mister Right
LIZZIE
Mr. Right lived in the lighthouse across the street. The place was hideous and no one ever visited it. Mr. Right was the typical know-it-all. When proven wrong, he’d blatantly lie. Everyone hated him, everyone except his neighbor who’d often ask to see the gallery because, as he said, “he enjoyed the fresh air”. And he tried, he tried many times. Mr. Right knew the neighbor wanted the lighthouse. Some plan to increase the flow of tourists and become the mayor. It turned out, Mr. Right wasn’t Mr. Stupid so he never stood alone on that balcony with Mr. Ambitious.
RICHARD
– Mister Right –
She peered at me critically over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses.
“It’s Mister, right?”
I was confused.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question.”
She sat back and sighed, folding her arms.
“Your personal pronouns! You need to tell me how to address you. I’ve learned the hard way not to make assumptions!”
“Ah, right”, I nodded, “yes, it’s Mister. Mister is just fine.”
She turned back to her keyboard, and tapped a few keys. “We’re done.”
I stood up, and glanced at her name badge, “Well, thank you, Miss Philpot.”
“It’s Mister!” She snapped, with a frown.
TOM
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step
Men are searching the world for the perfect woman. Women not so much, with a choice between the perfect haircut or the perfect Mr. Right, you known in your heart, a reasonable quaff, wins hands down. It would be great if Mr. Right was a hairdresser, not likely. Wasn’t that the central plot of the film Shampoo. Let’s get back to that perfect Mr. Right crossing the globe in search of Miss Right, as always, don’t rule out Mrs. Right. Hell it’s American, it’s what we do. The weary Mr. Right will wander before her without her taking a step.
NORVAL JOE
Walking along the dark street, Linoliamanda suddenly asked, “Why were you staring at those teenage volunteers?”
Not realizing she had noticed, he stammered, “Well. I guess I was thinking. Those girls are so pretty, they would never notice a scrawny kid like me.”
“Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked.
Then he really stammered, “Um. Yeah. Sure. Why?”
“Daddy’s older than Mother and he said he’s amazed that Mother would love an ugly old man like him. And she says, she always knew he was Mr. Right.” Linoliamnada stopped Billbert. “The right girl will always love you, no matter what.”
SERENDIPIDY
He always had to be Mr Right.
Always holding the moral high ground, always the one to win an argument, never one to back down or give way.
He was arrogant, uncompromising and incapable of admitting defeat.
It was these qualities that attracted me to him.
Don’t misunderstand me; it wasn’t that I like those sort of character traits – no, I loathe them with a passion, but he was precisely the sort of person that I love to put firmly in their place.
And that place, was six feet underground.
You really can’t say I was in the wrong.
Right?
PLANET Z
Every time we come across a mass grave, we excavate the site and sort out the bodies.
The few with identification, we send to the agents to contact any remaining family for handling and burial.
The many without, we take DNA samples and cross-reference genetic markers with genealogy databases.
Most families ended up in the same mass graves, so there’s a lot of dead ends.
There’s not much money and jewelry left to loot. The regime cleaned them out pretty thoroughly.
After all is said and done, we put the bodies back in the site and place a stone monument.
Hanging laundry
After I finish laundry, I hang it.
No, I don’t hang it up. I literally hang it.
I put all my laundry on a chair.
Then, I tie a noose at the end of a rope, throw the other end over a tree branch, and tie it down.
When a crowd gathers, I put the laundry in the noose and ask if it has any last words before I kick the chair out from under it.
The laundry jerks around a bit at the end of the rope before it stops swinging.
You shouldn’t have rustled all those cattle, laundry.
I am an imaginary friend
It’s not easy being an imaginary friend.
Especially to a kid they’ve pumped full of drugs.
I feel a bit guilty, since it’s my fault they’re doing this to him.
Seeing him out in the playground, talking to me.
The teachers were concerned.
The other parents at the school.
After that, his parents.
And finally the doctors.
They tried therapy, then went to the pills.
Sometimes, the pills work, because there’s a jump in time for me.
But I still come back.
Maybe he’ll talk to me. Try to hug me.
And other times, he covers his ears and screams.
Clean out the closet
I want to clean out the big closet.
Got a lot of stuff I don’t need in it.
Trash bags full of papers that aren’t important anymore.
Boxes for things that probably won’t need boxing up ever again.
And the boxes are too big to let the cats play in.
Or, I suppose, live in if I decide to quit my job and become a bum.
I’m a little too old to make a play house out of them.
It’s strictly sofa cushions at my age.
Get the hell away from my fort.
Or I’ll burn down your cardboard box.