Back in days before “Cougar” meant something other than a large cat, The Rolling Stones recorded a song entitled, “The Spider and the Fly.” I’ve been humming it ever since I saw the prompt. I expect three or four Fictioneers to take that route, and I look forward to reading their entries. Instead, I chose an angle our more “mature” readers could relate to. The third paragraph is an actual line from the movie.
This week’s inspirational photo is courtesy of my good friend, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
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How I Learned to Stop Worrying . . . .
“Good morning, Mrs. Smith. How are you today?”
“Just fine, Doctor Strangelove. Do you have my husband’s test results?”
“Based on the findings of the report, my conclusion was that this idea was not a practical deterrent for reasons which at this moment must be all too obvious.”
“Could you break that down in layman terms?”
“Your husband has a growth over his hypothalamus. Here’s a picture of a healthy brain.”
“And here is the scan of your husband’s blockage”
“What does the hypothalamus control?”
“His libido or sex drive.”
“Good. It’s nothing that’ll keep him from mowing the lawn.”
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This is the blog of a woman who is seriously on the edge and I mean right ON the edge…no, not there… just a little bit further… further than that…no, further still…just a tiny bit more… just move slightly to the right a little…no, that’s too much…just move a tad to the left…that’s right, just there…now you’ve moved too far to the left… Damn, what part of the ‘on the edge’ do you not understand? Oh, and her matricidal boy genius, come devil spawn.
Or the three people I guilted into reading this blog, whatever.
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