Author: R.

Sunday Morning Misalignment

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The Missus and I sat at the breakfast table, the scattered remnants of our waffles cooling on our plates.
She tossed her head, indicating the stairs.
“Well, we might as well go and get this over with.”
She continued, “It’s always so much harder to do it again if you put it off.”
We looked at each other. A sly grin stole across my face.
“Are we thinking about the same thing?” asked The Missus.
“Aren’t we?” I said.
“You’re thinking about sex, aren’t you?” asked The Missus.
“Well, yeah. Aren’t you?”
“I was thinking about going to the gym.”

Mister Thimble

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When I was little, I’d play Monopoly with my family.
They took the cool pieces, like the dog and the shoe.
All that was left was the hat and the thimble.
So, I put the hat on top of the thimble and called it Mister Thimble.
We were a team, Mister Thimble and I. Best of friends.
He still is my friend. I carry him everywhere.
Late at night, we talk about things.
Sometimes, we talk about you.
I like you, but Mister Thimble doesn’t like you.
Don’t say that Mister Thimble isn’t real.
He’s right here, watching you sleep.

Fresh From The Farm

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After the Great Protein Shortage of 2029, the genetic engineers started getting creative.
People needed protein, and the existing sources weren’t getting the job done. Beef cattle were practically extinct after the BSE epidemics in the late teens. Fish were laden with heavy metals, poultry with pesticides. Legumes were fine – except for their unfortunate vaporous side effects.
But then a brilliant Belgian geneticist had a breakthrough. An excellent protein source: animals that lived in a farmable colony. Roughly three apples high, they made a perfect portion. And in time, people got used to the color.
Smurf and Turf, anyone?

On The Dotted Line

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The Sultan wrote The Director of NASA a large unsigned check.
“Take my beloved son into space,” he said.
He wrote a bigger unsigned check when his son failed the physical.
“Take him anyway,” he said.
When NASA reported that G-forces had stopped his son’s heart during launch, The Sultan called the NASA Administrator.
“Get my son back to me immediately so we may bury him promptly,” he said.
“It’s an eight-day mission,” said the Administrator.
“And your family is on an eight-day vacation here in my palace,” said the Sultan.
He wrote out three death warrants.
And signed them.

Miles And Miles

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Joe says when you dream of flying, you’re dreaming of sex.
When I ask him if dreaming of sex represents flying, he says “I’m not sure. Maybe.”
Then, when I ask him of what dreaming of having sex while flying is, he says “Maybe you’re dreaming of the Mile High Club.”
I asked him if there’s a “Mile Under Club” for people in really deep mines or in submarines or a “Mile Long Club” for people screwing in an RV or on a flatbed trailer.”
“Don’t forget a bus,” he said.
Yuck. Who’d want to screw someone on a bus?

How Many Angels?

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The Boss shouted “LUMEN FIT!” and there was light.
After some flickering the light went out again.
The Boss cursed up a blue streak.
“SCALAE FIT!” shouted The Boss, and a ladder appeared.
Three angels grabbed it and went up to the light.
One went up the ladder to grab it and two more turned the ladder to unscrew it from its socket.
A fourth pulled a spare out of inventory, swapped lights with the other angels, and they screwed the new one in.
The Boss smiled. It was much more efficient than needing six angels and a dinner table.

The Wacky Adventures of Abraham Lincoln 72

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Abraham Lincoln looked at the recruitment rolls and smiled.
Then, he look at the longer list of deserters and his smile turned into a scowl.
“Why are so many of our fine boys fleeing their posts?” he asked General Grant.
“Newspaper editors, scaring them silly,” growled General Grant, taking a swig from his flask. “But there’d be more if we didn’t shoot deserters.”
“Must I shoot a simple-minded soldier boy who deserts, while I not touch a hair of a wiley agitator who induces him to desert?” asked Lincoln.
“No, Mister President,” said General Grant. “I’ll shoot them for you.”

Weekly Challenge #41 – Fecal Matter

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Welcome to the forty-first Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
The topic this week was supposed to be selected by Andrew Ian Dodge from Dodgeblogium, and it’s fecal matter.
Eight stories were submitted this week. Single digits… boo!
One rookie this week!
And, once again, some disturbing madness from Planet Z.
Go ahead and listen to them by clicking on the grammophone thingy there in the left column and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

Who had the best story for Weekly Challenge #41?
Andrew Ian Dodge of Dodgeblogium
Terrence from Never Was
Tom from Footnote
Elisson from blog d’Elisson
Ted From Ted’s Podcast
Rahel from Elms In The Yard
Mark H. the Spin Doctor
Laieanna from HodgePodge Point
The Mad Bard From Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com

WE GOTS PRIZES:
I will be sending the winner a prize… I still haven’t decided what it will be, but I will be sending them one.
It is your voting that determines who wins. So listen, vote, and tune in next week to find out who won!

The full text of each story:
ANDREW

“Fecal matter?” Gasped the senstive 100 word writer, “what the hell is
that Andrew playing at?”
“Well fecal matter is another name for shit, or rather crap which is,
of course, the name of the host-blog.” Replied her friend on IM.
“But fecal matter what kind of crap theme’s that?”
“Exactly…”
“No!” replied the exasperated writer, “I have my reputation. What
would my readers think of such a tale?”
“That you are a good sport? Happy to take the subjects whatever they might be?”
“After all Andrew has to deal with the lame subjects you come
up with.” He replied.

TERRENCE

Raoul walked down the street from one pool of light, shining down from
a streetlight, to the next. His hood was pulled up and he looked down
at the ground as he passed the occasional person on the street. He
turned down a dark alley and stopped quickly when a large man appeared
pointing a gun at him.
“Hand over your wallet.” The man ordered, shoving the gun towards him.
Slowly, Raoul raised his hands and removed the hood from his head.
The man took one look at him, dropped his gun and filling his pants
with sh…… fecal matter.

TOM

Nichols Flamel roared with laughter “Je n’y Fourche crois pas” he snorted. His ilk had tried everything silver iron lead ivory mahogany polar ice.
The translation on transmutation by the Moroccan rabbi proved ironic beyond belief. “It’s not a goose egg,” he chuckled glazing at the Hebrew text.
Over the next month he had purchased every goose in Paris. The stench was over powering even by Parisian standards. The next year Nichols Flamel was the riches man in all Europe.
His alchemist brothers had taken the wrong path fixating on density and noble elements. Who’d guessed gold from fecal matter?

ELISSON

In the Land of Looxembourg, Fecal Matters were adjudicated by the Duke of Dookie.
He did not come to sit on his throne by noble birthright alone. He had studied Excremental Existentialism at Poopoo University – where the official Pootball Team Cheer was “Squeeze another touchdown out for Old Poo U!” – receiving his Dooktorate in Defecation for proving that shit, in fact, exists. De Facto Defecatio.
Now he was faced with a difficult case. A Stool Pigeon had caught the Vice-Chancellor adulterating his turds with Undigested Corn, a felony.
The Duke did his duty. “I sentence you to die…arrhea!”

TED

It’s a shitty world!
It seems that everyone is trying to take the fun out of everything these days. You can’t blow smoke in a babys face anymore, and it’s considered “insensitive” to torch a bag of dog poo on your neighbors front porch. Even that Lawrence Simon guy keeps saying that Podcasting DOT is full of crap! What the hell is DOT anyway, and why would you want to Podcast it?
Ah, well. Sometimes you just have to say “what the hell?”
I guess when all is said and done, it doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t fecal matter..

RAHEL

Bithia bent to her task. Like all royal children, she must serve in a temple, and today her job was to empty the litter pans.
Examining their contents, she smiled. Praise Bast, no more worms! Her formula had worked.
Outside, a whip cracked and a man groaned. Bithia’s eyes filled. “Lady Bast – or any god who may be listening – please put an end to that,” she prayed. “If only I could do so myself.”
Her work done, she summoned her maids. “I need a bath,” she said, leading them to the riverbank …
… for a dip that changed history.

MARK

His first creation looked just like Richard Nixon. “I am a sculptor,” he thought. Later, controlling hue and texture with diet, he produced other masterpieces: Beyonce, Rodman, Condoleezza. Artistically, busts worked, but abstracts just looked like piles of crap. He imagined himself the founder of poopism, the creator of fart art.
Eventually, he discovered, with beet-red hair, a corn-pearl necklace, and a greenish dress covering smooth brown shoulders, a perfect Lindsay Lohan. His wife would have to admit to his genius. He called out for her. She arrived just as Fluffy escaped, followed by the whoosh of the toilet flushing…

LAIEANNA

“Just two drops a day and one release a month. Yes, folks, you can now have relief from constant bowel movements with no side effects. Guaranteed! This is the bonafide real deal. Our remedy comes with all synthetic ingredients and is at low, low price. Step right up and see your life change forever.”
He was good and everyone bought his wares. Instructions were followed and life did change. A month passed, to the day, and every used toilet exploded. The town was flooded, burying everything. The salesman smiled and went back to his sales at the next sinning city.

Z

Two monkeys walk into a bar.
The bartender asks the first one: “So, what will you have?”
The first monkey says “I think I want a banana daiquiri.”
So the bartender mixes him up a banana daiquiri.
Then he asks the second monkey what he wants.
The second monkey says “I want a beer and a shot.”
The bartender asks the second monkey “Why don’t you want a banana daiquiri? Don’t all monkeys like bananas?”
“The second monkey throws a lump of crap at the bartender. “Yeah, I like bananas, but not all monkeys are daiquiri-drinking faggots like him.”

Thanks to everyone for sending in their stories, and I look forward to what you’ve got to write (and say) next week.
The theme for next week’s Weekly Challenge will be posted shortly.
(In case you’re interested, I’ve settled on “Clair de Lune” as the opening music and “Moonshine” by Michael Oldfield from the Tubular Bells II album.)

Commando

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A ghost ate my underwear.
That’s right. A ghost ate my underwear.
I cannot imagine my underwear being appetizing to any living or nonliving creature, but I woke up to the sight of a spectral entity eating my underwear.
I was too tired to be scared, so I just came out with it: “Why are you’re eating my underwear?”
“I don’t know,” said the ghost. “Got any more?”
I wanted to ask the ghost what the Afterlife was like, but he finished the last of my boxers and vanished.
So, can you exorcise my underwear drawer for me, Father O’Malley?

Sippycup

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“The optimist believes that the glass is half full,” said the teacher. “And the pessimist believes that the glass is half empty?”
FrankJ banged his sippy-cup on his tray. “Frank want more juice!” he cried.
The teacher stared at the student with disgust. “What are you? Three?”
“Actually, I’m in twenty-nine,” said Frank. “And I just wrote a book, too. Now, where’s my juice?”
“Can’t you get your own juice?” asked the teacher.
“That’s usually what Sarah does,” said Frank. “But she’s mad at me. Juice!”
The teacher sighed and poured more juice, pondering a new job soon.