Tag Archives: story
The blathering idiot darts up to a stocking clerk in a grocery store.
“You’re Spotted Dick, where is it?”
The male stocking clerk looks at him. “Come again?”
“Your Spotted Dick,” the blathering idiot said. “I need your Spotted Dick.”
“But I don’t have one.”
“One? One what?”
“Spotted dick, sir.”
“But you’ve advertised that you do.”
The clerk’s face turns red.
“I have not!”
“Yes, you have.”
“No I haven’t!”
“Yes, you have advertised that you have Spotted Dick.”
The clerk blushes. “That’s not what I advertised, sir.”
The blathering idiot stops, looks at the young man, a couple of small clusters of acne on his check and chin, and slowly realizes he may have been misunderstood.
He spots another clerk. This time a woman. He walks up to her. “Have you Spotted Dick?”
“Have you tried aisle nine?” she says and then quickly walks away.
“Thank you.” The blathering idiot walks over to aisle nine. It is an aisle of coffee and tea and some drinks in pouches, but there is no Spotted Dick. He stomps up and down the aisle twice and is about the curse this store, the earth, even the universe itself when a woman walks by, Spotted Dick in her cart, near the top, the name in plain view.
His face lights up. He points at the can. “Madam, do you know what you have?!”
She looks him up and down. “It’s not what you think.”
“I know what it is.”
“It’s not disgusting or lewd.”
“Where … did … you … find it? I must have it.”
“It’s the last can and you can’t have it.”
“It’s the last can and I can’t have it?”
“No it’s not. It’s the last can and I can have it.” He reaches forward, snatches it out of her cart, and runs to the front of the store. He hears the woman wailing and sobbing, screaming to anybody and everybody that somebody has her Spotted Dick.
The blathering idiot is almost out of the store when he is stopped by an off duty police officer working as a security guard. The blathering idiot has his Spotted Dick firmly clutched in his hands. He told the checkout clerk he didn’t need a bag. Zoey was waiting. It was all she wanted to patch things up between them. It was British, she said, and she wanted to help celebrate the Olympics. She showed him the ad and off he dashed to the store, barely getting his clothes on.
“Sir, I need to see some ID,” the security guard says.
“What?” the blathering idiot asks. “I paid for it fair and square.”
The guard nods. “I’m sure you did, but I still need to see some ID. I’m afraid I am going to have to cite you.”
The guard looks down at what the blathering idiot has clutched in his hand. Then he looks down below that. “Sir, your fly is open and several people have spotted … have seen your spotted….”
Each second a moment you can get lost in a good story or poem, writing or reading it.
I was somewhen gliding over Virtuosity when I woke up from my copy/paste coma. I was ten thousand bar stools above pay dirt, but the drinks had stopped coming long before the last sequence of route rot procedures was done. I tried to perk up with three quick and awful coffees and a Hershey’s kiss left over from my last intrusion into the real world, but it wasn’t helping much. The coffee was a tannic acid man’s dream, bitter and beyond redemption no matter how I tried to doll it up. And the kiss, well, I am a sucker for chocolate, even old chocolate, but this kiss had seen its last sweet pucker long ago, maybe even in a candy gallery far far away.
She walked into my room the way all sycophants do these days – with an air of predestination. She sat down in the old overstuffed chair next to the old overstuffed couch I was crouched on. She placed her legs in just such a position that a trigonometry professor would’ve been had pressed to explain, and it was all I could do to keep my eyes from triangulating on them. They were her best feature, but the rest of her was at least suborbital as well. She dressed in clothes with sharp angles, some of which would probably frighten an armadillo. Her lips were as full and shiny as a waxing moon and her hair gleamed as if it were a source of light all its own. In short, she was as textured as the night, and just as dangerous.
She dragged out a smoke and was about to light it.
“Not in here.” My head was a series of dots and dashes in binary world, and lighting up wasn’t going to help.
She pouted and then put them away. “The boss sent me.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
She looked perplexed, lost in the great heartland of non-sequitors, a trollop with a message trying to make connections with polarized plugs in a non-polarized world.
“The boss says—”
“I know what the boss says. He says it every time he sends one of you floozies down my rat hole with a message, and every time he promises me my freedom and every time he finds a way to wriggle out of following through. Tell Lucy, Charlie ain’t kickin’ at the ball no more.”
She looked even more nonplussed. I could just imagine one big minus sign stretched above her pretty little head, like a halo dancing black hole mambo with an event horizon. One day enough neurons might come burrowing out, Steven Hawking style, to make a moment of enlightenment, but age and propriety would keep me from waiting that long. After all, it’s not polite to stare indefinitely at a glacier, no matter how easy on the eyes.
[Editor's note: not sure what to do with this. If I should pursue it or let it go. if you have read it, any thoughts or comments? is this an interesting beginning? Thank you for stopping by.]
In case you’re wondering, and even if you aren’t, I would like to take a few moments and explain the new layout I am adopting for this blog. I have decided to make at least every work day specific to something. For example, Monday morning writing joke will be a joke focused on writing or about writing. It might also be a limerick (though nothing too naughty) or pun, which is something I have a weakness for.
Next: CarToonsday will be a cartoon, usually based in some way around writing, but not always.
Writing Tip Wednesday will have writing tips. It could also have recommendations of writing books to try, or information about writing conferences, or agents looking for new clients.
Haiku to you Thursday will be a haiku. At least for as long as I can write what I consider to be good quality ones. Sometimes I’m sure I’ll spit out a clunker, but sometimes you have to fail in order to succeed.
Freeform Friday will be another poem, maybe not a haiku but something else, or writing such as a Blathering idiot installment, The Devil’s Dictionary, an essay. Maybe even something I haven’t tried before. Could even be another cartoon. (As if one a week is not enough.)
Story Saturday will be a part of a story. Something I am working on. Could also be a Found Story (photo with piece of writing about the photo). Could even be a whole story, if short enough. Or I may write something about my struggles to write stories, though I am sure that would get old and boring quickly.
Sunday? I may just take off. Or take off Saturday and make it Story Sunday. Or the whole weekend could be titled Workshop Weekend.
I have noticed on weekends there are usually fewer visitors to my blog. People are off doing other things, I assume. Plus a day off won’t hurt. I have a regular job, family obligations, and am working on a novel and short stories as well. On my days off, I aim for between 300 and 400 words of new writing on my stories or novel. So doing that and a blog entry can be tough. I might also skip a day here and there if I don’t have something that fits that day’s theme.
Certainly, comments and suggestions are welcome. And visits, too. The more the better. I aim to keep humor and wit of one stripe or another going on this blog. You may not be rolling in the floor laughing and sometimes you might even be rolling your eyes and groaning at the puns, but at least you’re not having to pay for the self-inflicted humor wound.
Last, but not least, thank you to all who have visited my blog and especially so to those who have linked up to receive notification when I post something new. I do appreciate it. Very much. Part of the reason for trying to more regularize the format is so that you know what’s coming.
[Editor's note: Parts 1 - 7 of The Kibitzer and the Kidd are available by clicking on "Kidd" or "Kibitzer" in the tag section. This is science fiction western with more than dollop of humor and satire.]
The Kibitzer couldn’t help himself. The flames were everywhere. Smoke embraced the air and made it suffocating.
He didn’t believe in the devil or demons – other than the ones you create or marry into – but the unholiness of the air made him wonder if there wasn’t something otherworldly afoot.
Then there was the quote running through his head, the one where the fat comedian turns to the skinny one with the big chin and doofus grin, and says, “This is a fine mess you’ve gotten use into.”
At a time of impending death, one shouldn’t be thinking of comedy, especially when you couldn’t remember the names of the comedians, especially the one with big chin and the doofus grin.
He heard voices beyond the flames, or at least thought he did. One voice kept yelling over and over: “Swallow the lozenges!”
The Kibitzer wasn’t sure what to make of the voice. The fire was loud and crackling. He never realized how much noise a fire made. If there was a hell and there were people in it and it was composed of fire, the people would not be able to talk to each other. Would not be able to listen to their own thoughts.
He felt for the lozenges. They were in a paper sack in his shirt pocket, but they felt soft, like warmed candle wax. Not yet liquid, but would soon be.
A new wall of flames sprouted up around him, forcing him to run further into the stable.
“Trust the lozenges.”
It sounded like a woman’s voice.
He heard the whinnying of a horse. The Kibitzer glanced around. He thought he had freed all the animals, except himself.
“Trust the lozenges.”
This time the words came with an image. It was the comedian with the doofus grin. The fat comedian with the small bowler hat standing next to him was breathing fire at him, smoke spewing out of the comedian’s ears. But the skinny comedian kept the same big grin.
The lozenges felt very soft when he touched his pocket.
Flames were everywhere. The air was hot, smoky, and unbreathable. But he was still breathing. Sweat flowed off the end of his nose.
The Kibitzer reached for the lozenges. Nobody was going to rescue him. Not now. Not ever. Not even the Kidd.
He heard the whinny again. Louder this time. Followed by kicking.
He had the lozenges out. They were oozing out of their wax paper wrappers and onto his fingers. The liquid was warm, but he could not feel its warmth.
He brought his fingers up to his lips.
The wall in front of him exploded inward, toward him. A part of the wall hit him, knocking him backwards, toward the wall of flames.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t feel. He wasn’t sure he had swallowed. And as he started passing out, he heard the fat comedian say, “Well, Kibbey, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”
Except the comedian wasn’t talking to him, unless he was a … duacorn?
(To be continued.)