“Where’s my icepack?” shouted Alice.
Elmo pulled the tray from the freezer, bent it over the ice bucket, and waited for the cubes to fall out.
He scratched his head and smirked.
“Maybe they’re not clean?” he said.
Elmo ran the trays under the faucet, then poured them out and wiped them down with a kitchen towel.
He smiled as he stuck them back in the freezer.
“Where’s my icepack?” shouted Alice. “This migraine is killing me!”
“I’m still working on it!” shouted Elmo back, happily. “And don’t you worry – that ice is going to be really clean!”
Okay, so Andrew Ian Dodge said something about someone named Kim, she’s gotten addicted to this whole 100 word stories thing, and she even recorded one of her own.
I’d just like to say that I haven’tbeen invited to the wedding yet, but when I am, I give you two all of my blessings. And if you two haven’t actually planned on getting hitched just yet, well, my deepest apologies.
I have an excuse because, as I said in the previous podcast from Ian I posted, I’m rather hammered. It’s a rare thing, because I have such a huge and powerful brain, and it takes a lot of Guinness to lay me out like a smoked salmon at a Bar Mitzvah buffet table.
So here we go… Kim (Mrs. Future Dodge Ian Andrew) with her own story for the new year.
My New Year Resolution was ‘not to get Angry’. First day back at work the underground was on strike so I just shrugged and went to the bus stop. Being British, I got in line and waited for the bus to arrive. One, two, three buses later I still had not moved very far up the queue. However, I stayed calm and waited my turn. Another 20 buses came and went full up, the queue became disgruntled – it was each man for himself. Red faced I pushed, kicked and pulled myself on the bus. The prozac had worn off.
I think I need lots of vitamin C about now. Linus Pauling may be dead, but that doesn’t mean I want to join him in a grave anytime soon.
They made fruit smoothies by day and killed babies by night.
We found the tiny corpses in the dumpster behind the Blend-a-Rama. If it hadn’t have been for a hungry stray dog, we’d have never known it was a front for a backalley abortion clinic.
The problem is, it’s not their dumpster. And the geniuses at Crime Lab screwed the evidence in a mixup. Someone got high on seized weed, had the aborted tykes incinerated.
All they’re getting is a health code citation and a slap on the wrist.
Word spreads fast. Their business is booming now, day and night.
Too much TV is bad for your eyes and the fabric of space-time.
A rent in the universe opened up behind my entertainment center last week.
Every now and then, a hideous tangle of tentacles and fangs comes screaming out of the wormhole, lashes around for a minute or so, then slowly wiggles itself to death as it chokes on our nitrogen and oxygen atmosphere.
We dump their bodies in the trash. Double-bagged. Those fangs are sharp, you know.
The dog ran through the portal this morning. The kids want me to go after him.
Screw that. We’re getting fish.
Nobody knew why Dragon’s Cliff was named as it was.
Except Arthur. He knew.
Arthur clutched Captain Dragon’s treasure map and laughed.
“Fifty more paces, and I’ll be rich,” he mumbled.
As his feet walked the final fifty paces, his mind raced through all the wonderful things he’d buy with the gold.
Or diamonds. Or whatever Dragon had buried.
It was after forty-five paces that Arthur encountered two forces of nature at once:
- Erosion had worn away the cliffs in the three centuries since Dragon made his map.
- Gravity yanked him the seventy feet down to the rocks below.
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!