It all started when Smithers came in with a silver Cross pen.
“See how it shines!” chirped Smithers. “Magnificent, no?”
“It is the finest pen I have ever seen!” said Walter.
Until the next day, when Walter arrived with a golden Mont Blanc.
Smithers seethed with envy, but refused to be outdone.
His Cross pen was soon replaced with a dodo feather quill that he dipped into a diamond inkwell.
For the next week Smithers and Walter battled over fancier and rarer writing implements until they were both fired for charging all this extravagant nonsense to the office supplies budget.
Warren
A frail and elderly imam was slowly helped through the White House, a guide at each elbow.
But every so often, he’d stop at a painting or work of art, inspect it for a while, and then continue his journey.
Then, he stopped at a painting of a former president, pointed, and said what the guides thought was “War and Jihad?”
The art curator was confused. “That’s not Bush, that’s Warren G. Hardi,” he said, then realized the mistake. “OOOOOOOH, I see. Right. Warren G. Harding.”
The imam smiled, and the guides helped him down the hall to the bathroom.
The Feast Of Saint Walter
Unlike other feasts for saints, The Feast For Saint Walter is unique in the fact it does not involve any elaborate preparations, but involves eating from a dumpster.
That’s right. A dumpster.
Walter was flat-ass broke when he was alive, bumming money from everybody.
I always said “It’s a miracle that people still give that dude money.”
Bob once told me “It’s a miracle his wife hasn’t thrown his broke ass out.”
He was rummaging through a dumpster and hit his head on the lid when the truck came.
Martyrdom through compaction.
Hey, is that an orange rind?
Walter provides!
Turn
I’m out in my workshop, tinkering with junk I’ve scavenged.
It took a while, but I think I have this old radio fixed.
I plug it in to the solar battery array, flip the switch, and the tubes begin to glow.
So beautiful.
I slowly turn the knob, and the empty frequencies swirl and crackle with the random almost-nonsense of static.
Something pops.
Wait. Was that a voice?
I turn the dial back.
Nothing.
I keep my eyes closed, listening… searching…
No voices. No music. No recorded messages.
I turn it off.
Am I the last man alive?
God forbid.
Take Your Rocket To Work Day
Today is Take Your Daughter To Work Day.
Jameson came in with a rocket launcher over his shoulder.
It seems he didn’t read his email and heard things wrong. Thought it was “Take Your Rocket To Work Day.”
Which seems weird, sure, but if you know Jameson, it’s not all that weird.
Rocket sounds an awful lot like daughter. Especially when you launch a lot of rockets over the weekend and have considerable hearing damage.
The one thing that has me worried is that Jameson may have misheard “Take” and think we said “Launch.”
I wish he’d read his email.
The Divorce of Figaro
Did you know that Mozart wrote a sequel to The Marriage Of Figaro?
It’s called The Divorce Of Figaro.
A year after the chaotic wedding day, Figaro is lamenting his crazy.
Seductions and singing.
Feasts and fancy.
Subterfuge and plots.
The Count and The Countess are on the rocks, too. The entire mansion is a wreck, every treasure having been smashed against walls in endless fighting.
The four take their fighting to the street, and they bump into each other.
They end up divorcing, The Count marries Figaro, and the curtain comes down.
A good story, but the music sucked.
Weekly Challenge #273 – PICK TWO #2
Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at podcasting.isfullofcrap.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.
This is Weekly Challenge Number Two Hundred and Seventy-Three, 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 PICK TWO
Finish line
A cardboard cutout of a movie alien
W.T.F.
Swivel
… on the tip of his/her tongue
Daytime television
Double barrel
Pocket
She’s a straight arrow
Failure
How about voting for your favorites?
[polldaddy poll=5240700]
And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post.
Gideon McMillan
Christmas was always the same. She delivered a list of gifts she wanted. I acquired, wrapped and presented them.
One Christmas I decided to inovate; my gift ideas, my own theme.
So proud, I presented the peripherals I knew (knew!) she could use with her new laptop.
Failure.
Nonplussed, the next day I retrieved her list, acquired, wrapped and placed the gifts under the tree.
Santa even left a note telling her what a bad boy I had been.
I waited. And waited. And waited.
Abject Failure!
Until three weeks later, while taking down the tree, she found the gifts.
TJ
Teen spy Martin sent what he’d discovered in his surveillance at the
mall to Richard. They weren’t friends, exactly, but he’d teamed with
Richard on different science projects in the past and noticed where his
mild Asperger’s gave him crazy focus when it came to computer code. A
progress report of sorts came that afternoon, a text from a restricted
number: “Shut down NOW.” WTF? His provider couldn’t tell him
anything. Richard could. By the next morning, he’d pocketed an IP
address, breadcrumbs, backdoors and the data necessary to either turn
Skylar over to the Feds… or to flip him.
Tom
Gary loved to compete in the Special Olympics. His brother Bob loved to cause Gary grief. Gary was afraid of any type of monster, supernatural and other worldly. His brother knew he was particularly frightened of the Predator. Bob had placed a cardboard cutout of the movie alien at the finish line of Gary’s 440 finishing heat. As Gray rounded the track a tractor beam locked on to Bob’s foot and a laser beam vaporized the cardboard prop on the field. Gary won his gold metal and Bob discover the true meaning of that old alien book: To Server Man.
This week’s story topic was going to be What The Fuck, but it seems WTF is part of the South Park canon. Well what’s an author to do when you get hijacked my Mat and Trey … well fly to New York and do damage to Book of Mormon. I had 4000 swivel desk chairs delivered to the theater, with a note signed Love Mom. Have you ever had to escape a blood thirsty mob of gay musical fans, not a pretty sight? Decided time to hide out in Uruguay. George W lent me his writing shack, what a guy.
Bruce was recovering from a ruptured appendix. He didn’t have the strength to change the channel on the set so he was forced to watch 10 hours of daytime television. Soaps, info commercials, game shows, Dr Oz, (who the fuck it that). Finally on third shift rotation a nurse asked Bruce if he need anything. The puzzled look on his face telegraphed to Nurse Betty it was just on the tip of his tongue. Bruce mouthed: T V “Oh you want the channel changed. She clicked on Oprah and left the room. Bruce yanked the IV line. Time to go.
I’m not a very good shot. That is why I use the Double barrel Henry when I’m out on the Edge. This jacket has 49 pockets and every pocket is filled with shells. I tolerated the first zombie wave. When they start singing show tunes I got pretty darn irate. When the walking dead started doing Color Me Barbra I knew I had to end this. Got a 5000 watt preamp in the trees, play Funny Girl to draw them out. On the first note of People I turn and pepper the field. “C’est Si Bon “C’est Si Bon Fuckers.
“She’s a straight arrow” whisper Jeff. “No way dude, woman looking like that, got to be gay.” “You just got a Failure to Lift Off.” Smirked Jeff. “My rocket is fully functional the docking rings on that station are not operation. “Watch the Master and learn” Jeff floated over to Cosmonaut Lena Popolowvich. When he returned his spacesuit was full of floating gobbles of Tang. “Teachable moment?” “Shut UP. Hook up the suction tube.” As Jeff was de-tanging, Cosmonaut Olga Grogorin sat down across Lena. I don’t understand a word of Russian, but my gaydar tell me I was spot on.
Zackmann
” I hope the race is broadcast live since it will be better than anything else on daytime
television.” said Tom.
“WTF, Why do you have double barrelled tail pipes on an electric car?” asked Jerald.
“They are ironic since my local electricity comes from a coal plant therefore having more
emissions than a gas car. ” Tom Replied.
“Do you think you will be first across the finish line?” Jerald asked
“I think the swivel drivers seat may prove a failure .” Responded Tom
“What do you think of the judge?” asked Jerald
“She is a straights arrow.” answered Tom
“Good Luck”
Daniel
“Scott! Wake up! I heard a noise downstairs!”
Muttering to myself, I grabbed the double-barreled shotgun next to the bed and headed downstairs.
Creeping into the living room, I saw a monstrous form standing by the window. Startled and half-asleep, I fired both barrels without even a warning shout. The blast ripped through its chest and shattered the window behind it. Turning on a light, I saw the cardboard cutout of a movie alien that my son had won in a raffle.
Sighing, I started back upstairs. I’d clean up the mess tomorrow.
That’s when the real alien intruder struck.
Ross
Arms pumping, legs churning, he sprinted toward the finish line. The broken pavement beneath his running shoes tried to trip him up, and only sheer luck kept him vertical, and in the lead.
He flipped a glance over his shoulder, gauging how far back the others were. Could he make it before they caught up to him? Lungs and body burning, he prayed silently that it would be so.
He crossed over the line barely ahead of the pack, and collapsed…under their weight.
For the zombies, you see, it was never about the race, but only about the finish.
Norval Joe
Double barrel insults; imprisoned, and in a cell with Vinyl Man; It made the boy feel like a failure.
“Fly Paper Boy.”
He swiveled on his bunk at the sound of the warden’s voice. A familiar woman was him, her name on the tip of his tongue.
“I represent the Women’s Trade Federation,” she said, taking a paper from her pocket. “The W.T.F. is floating your bail.”
“Seriously?”
You could’ve knocked him over like a cardboard cutout of a movie alien.
“Believe her,” The warden said, “This isn’t daytime television. She’s a straight arrow. Your finish line is in sight.”
Planet Z
I see a woman sitting across the table from me, and she’s smiling.
My head hurts. I put my hand to it… bloody…
I look again at her.
I know that I should know who she is, but I just can’t remember.
It’s on the tip of my tongue. It’s… it’s… it’s…
I know I should know, but I just can’t remember it.
I put my hand in my pocket, and I pull out… a photograph…
It’s her. It says “This woman has been paid to kill you.”
I look up, and see her swinging a bloody hammer at m-
Making The Grade
Years ago, back when I was in college, I was better at hauling kegs than carrying a courseload.
My GPA was horrifying.
However, I was making good cash running parties, so I figured I could buy my way out of the mess I’ve made.
I caught the professor at one of the parties, a Wheel Of Fortune-themed party, and I told him “I know I’m getting an F, but I’d like to buy a vowel, please.”
Five hundred bucks, it cost me.
That night, the professor shacked up with a Freshman and got fired. His TA turned in the F.
Which came first?
Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
Does it matter? Do we need to go over this again?
Fine. It was neither.
That’s right. Neither the chicken nor the egg came first.
It was the flying saucers.
They landed, aliens came out, and then looked around for a while.
The flying saucers took off, but they left a bunch of stuff, like crystal skulls, eggs, and chickens.
The crystal skulls mutated the eggs so they hatched all the different forms of life, like horses and monkeys and people.
There’s your answer.
Oh, and I’ll take my horse eggs scrambled.
The World Is My Gym
The world is my gym.
The sidewalk is my treadmill.
And the membership is free.
Sometimes, it’s raining.
Sometimes, it’s hot.
Sometimes, it’s cold.
Sometimes, it’s windy.
But, usually, it’s nice out.
The birds are singing.
I can’t hear them.
I have my headphones on.
A bird swoops past my head, flapping.
Defending its nest.
This happens every day.
I think about bringing a club.
Or a weighted sock.
To stun the aggressive avian.
What if I kill it?
Who would feed the baby birds?
I imagine myself, perched over featherless chicks.
Then vomiting into the nest
Where’s my ladder?