Don Gone

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Last week, I was drinking Irish Mist and playing whist with Bill Frist. And he had his shorts in a twist.
What was on his mind? Here’s the gist:
Said Frist, “I miss Imus.”
Continued Frist, “Sure, Imus was remiss, laying down a gratuitous dis. A lotta people were pissed. Said it was heinous.
“But in spite of all this, I miss Imus.
“It’s not like Imus said ‘penis.’ Something like that’d never come between us.
“But he said ‘nappy’ and got the Bitch-Slappy, Pappy. Now, are you happy? Me, I think it’s crappy.
“What’s next? Will they burn Stern?”

The Hunt

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When the sun goes down, vampires wake up from their slumber and roam the countryside.
Here’s my question: do the vampire hunters come out and hunt them?
Back in the romantic days of vampire hunting, yes. They would face off with the vampires under the moonlight.
But then, vampire hunters started to use technology to seek out and hunt vampires during the day, rooting out their hiding places and destroying them while they were defenseless.
Now, it’s a mix of those daytime operations and some highly sophisticated tracking methods at night.
One day, all the vampires will be defeated.
Hallelujah.

The Oldest

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We’re going to miss Daisy.
The first words that she ever said was “This is the oldest I’ve ever been.”
Everyone was shocked to hear this, because it took a level of self-awareness and deep understanding of the nature of life and mortality you wouldn’t expect in someone so young.
Over time, Daisy faced her life’s struggle and would say that phrase with pride. Then, when things turned too rough for her to handle, she said it with worry.
As she approached her twilight years, her accomplishments already made and legacy established, the worry gradually changed to a confident wisdom.

Juel’s Fish

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The song’s over, now you’ve got your chance.
Ask her why she has a fish circling her head and she’ll point to the fishbowl on her counter top.
It’s a perfectly ordinary glass fishbowl, filled with water. There’s some teal blue gravel at the bottom and a nice little castle and sea diver in there, too.
“He’s claustrophobic,” she says, tickling the fish on its belly as it passes by her ear.
Sometimes, it’s orange. Other times, it’s blue. And then, when it’s really happy, it’s a rainbow of colors.
She picks up her guitar, smiles, and begins to play.

Maine Man

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Lobster Boy was just one of the sideshow freaks that made their winter home in Gibsonton, AKA Gibtown, Florida.
It was the perfect place for Unusual People. Where else did the zoning laws allow you to keep a pet elephant, or the post office provide a special counter to accommodate dwarves?
Residents included the Human Blockhead, Monkey Girl, the Hilton Sisters (conjoined twins), Giant Al and Half-Girl Jeanie. And you had Lobster Boy, who sported claws instead of hands.
“Lobby” was a Ladies’ Man. Not handsome, but he made up for it with his renowned “Maine Tickler” and drawn-butter rubdowns…

War Is Hell

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You know those letters than the Post Office digs up now and then from a World War 2 soldier writing his wife or girlfriend, but it doesn’t get delivered until fifty years later?
I found one of those under some carpet I was ripping up in the office.
Policy says to go get a supervisor to read it before delivery, so I did.
He steams it open, takes a gander, and smirks.
Blah blah blah… killed some Germans… blah blah blah… screwed a bunch of whores… blah blah blah… stole artwork…
He pulls out a lighter and burns the letter.

Nailbiter

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Ned couldn’t remember a day he didn’t bite his fingernails.
The tips of his fingers were always ragged, bloody, and infected.
So he stuck his hands in a pair of gloves and duct-taped them shut to keep from biting them.
Or, so he thought.
By the time he bit through the leather in the gloves, his fingertips had healed and the urge to bite his nails was out of his system.
Of course, he’d ruined his teeth in the process, but Ned never really smiled, anyway.
Besides, it’s so much easier to type a colon and a closing parenthesis.

Weekly Challenge #68 – Yak

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Welcome to the sixty-eighth 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 selected by Rocky Torok from the Northwest Territories of Edloe Island, and it was: Yak.
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
SOMETHING NEW
Due to popular demand, I am going to include stories that were sent to me, but without a recording. However, since the midget has left for sunny Coral Gables, Florida, those stories will just be posted in the show notes. You’re more than welcome to vote for them, but they will be ineligible for prizes or topic selection.
I feel that this is a fair balance between the podcast and blog natures of this content.
Feel free to share your thoughts on this decision in the comments, and we might possibly come up with an even better and more fair policy for handling these kinds of situations.
VOTING
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 stories in Weekly Challenge #68?
Tom from Footnote
JD
Caleb from Black Tie Martini Club Oddcast
Guy David from Guy David dot com
Laieanna from HodgePodge Point
Elisson from blog d’Elisson
Rocky Torok
Chris from Chris Carlisle.net
Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com

WE GOTS PRIZES:
I will be sending the winner a prize… it’s refrigerator magnets for the podcast. Massive amounts of fridge magnets were mailed out in the past week… watch your mail, and let me know if I’ve missed you.
It is your voting that determines who wins. So listen, vote, and tune in next week to find out who won!

TOM

Yellow Yoni Yurt Yearned Yuri.
“Yolanda Yellow Yak,” Yelled Yuri.
Yearling Yolanda Yak Yarelessly Yawned.
Yuri Yanked Yoked Yellow Yak.
Yolanda Yapped Yipped Yelped Yes.
Yeasty Yam Yen Yolanda Yielded.
“Yonder Yankee Yahoos” Yelled Yuri.
Yak Yolanda Yexed Yellow Yams.
Yuri Yammered, “You You You!”
Youthful Yahoos Yanked Yearling Yak.
Yuri Yelped Yipped Yapped Yes.
“Yellow Yurt Yet,” Yelled Yuri.
Yeshiva Yale Yachtsmen Yes
Yeshiva Yale Yachtsmen Yup
Yodeled Yearly Yule Yodels
“Yuck Yuck,” Yelled Youths
Yankee Yahoos Yielding Yearling
“Yeah,” Yelled Yuri “Yeah.”
Yarrished Rolanda Yawned Yernlessly.
Yielding Yellow Yoni Yurt
Yuri’s Yarn Yesterday’s Yarn
“Yakity yak” Yammer Yolanda

JD

The 4th Mounted Yaks were the heart of the regiment. They had fought in every war for a 100 years. Each campaign had brought new glory. Each battle had added to the legend. Only foes knew the terror of the charge of 500 yaks. Sparks jumping from their flying hooves as they pound across a rock covered plain. Flame red eyes stabbing deep into the soul. Steel encrusted horns gleaming in the early morning sun, ready to gore. Line after line of hairy humped bovines closing in, blood lust filling their brains.
Did you ever smell 500 yaks?
Yaks.
Yuck.

CALEB

Poised the attack yak is ready to pounce
Natural born killer this fiend ounce for ounce
The fearsomest deadliest of all of the yaks
Very few ever see one even fewer come back
Hooves like thunder, lightning for veins
Joe went looking for one but all that remains
Are his screams of anguish from up on the hill
Sometimes in autumn I hear those screams still
Now we square off this attack yak and I
I go for my rifle I hear his wild cry
And how does it end with defeat or aplomb
To find out just visit yakpenis.com

GUY DAVID

The Red Yak of Destiny is an understanding god. When we need crops for the winter, he gives us crops. When we battle with the twotelgloo tribe, we win.
Last summer, I went and asked The Red Yak of Destiny for a son, but instead he gave me a daughter. I got angry at him. I went back to him and said “you gave me a daughter when I asked for a son.” He just smiled and asked me to bring my wife. Next summer I had two boys. Sure, they have long red fur and horns, but their mine.

LAIEANNA

The auditions weren’t going so well and Lydia was tired. She buzzed for the next potential failure to be ushered in. None of the actors had been right for the part. The company needed someone who was perfect to appeal to their target buyers. With a new product, the first ads were always crucial.
The door swung open. Lydia glanced up at the next actor shuffling in. Shocked, she stared in awe as he began his line.
“I can’t believe it’s not yak butter,” he said with confident surprise.
Lydia sprung up, applauding wildly. “That was fabulous, Fabio! Absolutely fabulous!”

ELISSON

Morris was a miserable Mongol.
He was the hindmost in his Horde. Weak of arm, near of sight, with compromised riding skills, there was no chance he would ever amount to anything in the empire of the great Khan.
Worst of all, he hated yaks. Loathed everything about them: their stinking wooly coats, their rancid milk, their stringy meat.
Unfortunately for Morris, the Mongol diet was 98% yak, 2% green leafy vegetables. Clothing? All made from yak wool, including the boxers. Itchy.
And, of course, everyone lived in yurts made of yak-skin.
“It’s enough to make me yak!” shouted Morris.

ROCKY

It began as a social experiment.
I wanted to bring in livestock to my community, for several reasons. Besides the fact that
I’m just crazy about Yak, I really wanted to bring a little something extra to my neighbors,
besides richer soil.
I noticed the other day, one of the females was looking a little bit sad. I’ve seen that
look before. It was heartbreak.
With a series of dashes and dots, I had Bessie stamp out in Morse Code what was bothering
her.
With a big yak tear in her eye, she stamped out in code her pain in one single word…
RADAR….

CHRIS

Hello Clarice. Don’t bother with the trace, I’ll be brief.
I understand you just had a birthday. Did you receive my gift basket? The hand crème contains a special moisturizer derived from yak’s milk, something you can’t get stateside. I do hope you’ll try it once forensics is done with it.
Tell me Clarice, was there a party at the office? Did the FBI spring for a cake, pass a card around for signatures, gather at your desk to sing happy birthday? Sounds charming; pity I couldn’t make it.
Well I believe our time is up. Happy Birthday, Agent Starling.

Z

A mad, shaggy beast is running amok on Main Street, smashing cars and breaking store windows.
Sheriff calls for help, and a pickup truck pulls to a stop in the middle of the street.
His ancient boots are cracked with time, caked with mud from distant lands.
He raises his hand slowly and approaches the beast, humming a Himalayan sleeping chant.
The tornado of horns, fur, and hooves slows… and stops with a grunt.
The Yak Whisperer places his hand on the beast’s forehead and smiles.
His other hand holds a gun, and he shoots.
The town will dine well tonight.

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Gertrude

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As we wait for the water to boil, Old Gertrude pulls glass jars down from the shelf, lifting lids, taking a pinch of this, a pinch of that.
“I’m glad you finally came to see me,” she says.
Sally, crying, holds the baby and mumbled “Thank you” in between sobs. I twist my wool cap in my hands.
Gertrude mixes the leaves and herbs, sprinkles them in a cup, and pours the water from the kettle.
We dip a rag into the tea and put it to the baby’s lips.
She won’t drink. She’s not breathing. She’s…
We’re too late.

Bobby

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Bobby died three days ago. We kept him the the tub, trying to decide how to get him out of here.
Man, did he stink.
We opened all the windows, but the stink just got worse.
“Let’s leave him,” I said. “Let’s leave him.”
Joe said no. “He’s got the key inside him.”
Without the key, no money.
So, we cut him open, slipping our hands all inside him, pulling things out, squeezing and searching.
Still no key.
Did he really swallow it before we shot him in the leg? Or did he palm it…
Where did that key go?