Author: R.

George the jammer

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
One day, he played his guitar along with his daily routine.
He was pretty good at it, and his shipmates liked it, and it boosted their morale.
George recruited a few shipmates to back him up, a few guitars, bass, keyboards, and drums.
Backup singers and a horn section, too.
Lights, smoke machines, props, and the sound system required more manpower.
Pretty soon, the ship was a floating psychedelic rock jam experience.
They soon gave up and returned to piracy because it was much more reputable than being musicians.

George holds a candle

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
The captain paired up George with a more experienced pirate to learn from.
The mentor tried to help George learn from his mistakes and get better.
But after years of frustration, he ended up covering for George’s mistakes.
The mentor recommended that George try meditation.
“Light a candle and focus on the flame,” he said.
So, George did. And he nearly set the ship on fire.
The captain picked up a bucket of sand and put out the fire.
“I’ll get you a battery-powered LED candle, okay?” he said.

Weekly Challenge #981 – Comment

The next topic is Taradiddle

RICHARD

— Like, subscribe, comment —
Like, subscribe, comment… the mantra of the internet.
But, what if I don’t like, don’t wish to subscribe and have nothing at all to say?
Should I leave a comment anyway, explaining that I’ve no comment to add?
Therein lies the paradox -if I really don’t like it, then I really should say so. If I don’t, then my protests will remain unheard, but if I leave a comment -even a negative one- it’ll just boost the algorithm. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
So, what do you think I should do?
Please, just leave a comment below!

LIZZIE

He wondered what that was. A pseudo kebab featuring the most unusual looking food? Upon inquiring about what exactly was being cooked, he realized that some strange items had indeed been stabbed and were merrily burning away. As far as he could see (no pun intended), there were eyes mixed with a few fingers and something that resembled a dragon wing, that is if there were dragons. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, but he was hungry and he could just close his eyes. He did. Let’s just say the following week was not the easiest week.

SERENDIPIDY

I’m on a drive to improve customer service.
I’ve never been a fan of ‘the customer is always right’ philosophy, but I like to keep my sponsors happy. A contented customer equals repeat business, and that has to be a good thing.
So, I’ve introduced customer comment cards -you know, the ones with smiley faces- to provide feedback on my service.
And, I’m pleased to say, that it’s all been very positive.
So, I’m extending the scheme to my other ‘stakeholders’, and now, I always leave a comment card with the corpse.
Unfortunately, the cops never fill the things in.

TOM

Once upon a time

Imagine if fairy-tales had a comment option during a bedtime story? Well actually they do. Peppered with requests for water and repeated trips to the toilet. The more precocious the young-N the more complex the comment or in the case of the uber precocious a running commentary. Mix in the vitriolic orbit of the internet which has seeped into the dearest of infants we have a problem, Houston. Take Goldilocks, Tim’s comment: deep imperialistic overtones. And Sally’s comment on Little Red Riding Hood in a post QAon landscape. What ever happen to: and they all lived happily ever after? Whatever.

NORVAL JOE

The red haired girl charged forward and pushed the bully in the middle of the back. “Hey Meat Head. Your parole officer is looking for you.”

When he turned to face her, Billbert noticed she was as tall as the brute. He sneered at her. “Shut up, Bobbi. We don’t need comments from the peanut gallery.”

Bobbi smiled. “I’ll tell mom you’re bullying again.”

Billbert saw the family resemblance, then; broad shoulders, sturdy build, red hair, and freckles; though Bobbi was much prettier.

“Patrick Yaan. Please come to the principal’s office,” came over the intercom.

Bobbi waved her brother goodbye.

PLANET Z

Miller was warned early in his influencer career never to read the comment section.
Hire someone to do that for you, said his mentor. Let them deal with the public while you just do what you do.
Every now and then, Miller’s assistant would send an email with a few comments worth responding to on the channel.
As artificial intelligence advanced, Miller handed the comment section to a bot.
And he crafted an avatar to read his writing on the channel.
As long as he kept writing, that is. He gave that up when he found a decent writing bot.

George and the tribe

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Still, it’s better to be lucky that good, right?
Which is how George, having been bound, gagged, and dumped overboard by his shipmates, found himself on a tropical beach.
A strange warrior in a grass skirt and holding a spear gestured at George to follow.
So, George followed him to his village.
As best George could determine, he was going to be the guest of honor at a feast.
“Thank you, I could use a bath,” said George, as they dropped him into a pot full of boiling water.

George the hipster

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Compared to the greenhorns that the captain had recruited recently, George was a seasoned seadog.
Hipsters with fedoras, neckbeards, and thick black glasses.
“Pirates are so retro, man,” said one of them, sipping his soy mocha latte.
Another was trying to dance to the crew’s sea shanties. “This is so much better than vinyl.”
Prety soon they got the hang of sea life, and surpassed George’s skills in every way.
So, George tried to emulate them, and failed.
“MANBUN OVERBOARD!” shouted a hipster, rescuing George by his hemp belt.

George’s personas

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
After several failed attempts to pillage, loot, and plunder, George consulted a marketing firm to work up customer personas so he could better target his pirating services.
The firm returned a report that laid out generic personalities that George should target, such as merchant ship owners, small badly-defended ports, and sailors on Spanish galleons full of gold.
George thanked the marketing firm, and then looted their offices.
“But we didn’t list marketing firms in the report!” they said.
George shrugged, and rolled their color copier back to his ship.

George and Bob Uecker

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
You know, like how Bob Uecker was a mediocre baseball player.
At least Bob was in beer commercials, movies, television shows, and did play-by-play for the Milwaukee Brewers.
George was a pirate. Nothing else.
He tried to do play-by-play for his pirate ship, but the crew found it really annoying when he narrated their battles.
He’d rattle of statistics and other nonsense as they fought and he sat.
“I must be in the front row!” George said, as two rather large pirates picked him up and threw him overboard.

George in the lineup

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
If George were arrested for his crimes on the high seas, people wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a lineup.
“Number three,” the sea captain says.
“That’s a circus clown,” says the detective. “Try again.”
“Six?”
“There isn’t a number six.”
“Oh, wait… I know… number 201.”
“That’s the room number on the door.”
Exasperated, the detective dismisses the lineup, and George is released.
To go back to his ship, free to be a pirate once again.
Knowing, that if he ever gets caught, not to worry.

George’s wine collection

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
His shipmates drank rum and grog, while he maintained a wine cellar in a corner of the ship’s hold.
He kept it hidden from the others, stacking up a pile of old sails and crates.
Every now and then, someone would spot George tossing an empty bottle over the rail into the sea.
“Oh, sorry,” he’d say, “that’s the last one. If only you’d been around when I opened it.”
One day, they took heavy cannonfire, and George’s precious wine collection was smashed to bits.
George wept for days.

Weekly Challenge #980 – Teach

The next topic is COMMENT

NORVAL JOE

Billbert wandered toward his English class wondering who the red-haired girl might be, and why she would be spying on him. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her before, but she was clearly a student at the school.

Behind him, someone said, “I should teach you a lesson.”

Billbert wondered who they might be talking to when another someone grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around, and snarled, “Are you ignoring me?”

The bully who had harassed him before was flanked by his two goons.

Not far behind them, a girl with red hair and freckles watched, obviously interested.

RICHARD

— Hooked! —
Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day.
Teach a man to fish, and he’ll disappear every weekend, come rain or shine, to sit on river banks and neglect his family and responsibilities.
When he’s not actually fishing, he’ll be spending his time in bars and pubs, bragging about the size of his catches, and boring anyone who cares to listen about ‘the one that got away’.
Tasks at home will be left incomplete, the wife and kids left to fend for themselves, he’s never there when he’s needed.
Please, never teach a man to fish.

SERENDIPIDY

I always wanted to teach.
Whilst my contemporaries wanted to be nurses and vets, I’d already set my sights on becoming a teacher, and so, that’s what I became.
Kids are great. Those young minds: so malleable and enquiring. Like sponges ready to soak up knowledge and concepts.
Perfect receptacles for receiving my special indoctrination.
Thousands of them passed through my hands, my mini-acolytes and disciples, all of them being primed and made ready for the Day of Reckoning.
And it’s coming soon.
So, you’d better watch your children, because, come the hour…
They’ll be coming to get you!

LIZZIE

She would always hold a book and ask the kids to “read” from it. On each page, nothing but a few smudges and a handful of lost letters. The kids would then come up with a story. She would write it down on the blackboard, making everyone cringe and giggle when the chalk squeaked. The story would be copied to a notebook which would find its way onto a bookshelf. The next day, the same old smudges, the same old lost letters would inspire a new story. She hoped the kids would remember this for the rest of their lives.

LISA

Working Late
Ambulance Staff, Nurses and Doctors bustled around the bed. The surgeon was on call. Her Husband, whilst working late, had somehow had a car accident. She watched the monitors, the staff fuss around him, someone was saying they couldn’t save his leg
And then another victim of the RTA arrived on a trolley: his passenger.
Unrecognisable beneath the blood. But blonde.
Blonde, like the hair she’d found in their bed; she’d wanted to teach him a lesson he’d never forget but thought maybe he’d already learnt something tonight and left him and his mistresses to sort things out for themselves.

TOM

Luck of the Irish

My great grandfather came from Cork. He was from a long line of doctors stretching back into vailed time. He was not interested in the healing ways; he was into making money. No better place to make your way in the world was Chicago in the 1800s. Did very well for himself. That’s until he and a bunch of his fellow traders on the mercantile exchange tried to corner the wheat market. They came damn close, but no banana. Which try I’m not famously rich and do not prowl the hall of the powerful and connected. Better off for it.

A Calling.

I thought I had a calling in my youth. The choice in my faith was Dominicans, Franciscans, Jesuits, Benedictines, Carmelites, Salesians, Cistercians, Trappists. In the 70s all the orders were happily open to bring you into their flock. I chose the Augustinians because I thought my calling was to teach. The Tolentine Seminary was two miles from my home. Augustinian’s priests said mass at my local church. I took the application tests down the street at St. Rita’s. In a tiny clerical error, I ended up not attending minor seminary. I never became a priest, but did become a teacher.

PLANET Z

Those who can’t do teach, and you would think Mr. Johnson the shop teacher’s missing fingers and eyepatch would prove it.
But the guy used to be a zookeeper, and he had a nasty habit of doing things with the animals that you’ll never find in the brochures, and a rather feisty and proud wolverine let the guy know that no means no.
Some say that he’s also got a bad habit with the cheerleaders, and one bit off his fingers and poked out his eye, but as long as he keeps his hands on the bandsaw, I’m okay, really.