This week I’m writing from Westwood Villiage near the UCLA campus. Before we return home, I plan to do some serious research on the effect of Arkansans (Arkansawers to those of you in the know) on the native population. One thing we discovered right off the bat was no one here knows where anything is located. Ask them for directions and they get this blank look on their face like you asked them to explain quantum physics to a sock monkey (any resemblance between me and a sock monkey is purely coincidental).
Another interesting fact we discovered is that their squirrels are overly sensitive. Having some free time this morning, we decided to tour the Mildred E. Mathias Botanical Garden. There were signs all over the garden warning us not to TEASE the squirrels. Evidently, the tree rodents here wear their feelings on their fur and get all bent out of shape if you make comments like, “Your mother mates with armadillos, or, Why did the chicken cross the road? (answer) To show the squirrel it could be done.” I think a psychiatrist could do quite well here just catering to LA squirrels with self-esteem issues.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Headmistress of our College of Creativity is Madam Agatha Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness visit her site for complete instructions. To read 100 word stories by other authors click here.
Art began developing his reputation as a trouble-maker early on. In pre-school he would cut class to hang out with sharks, killer whales, and jelly fish.
When a YouTube video of him ripping a two-piece swim suit off an eighty-year-old woman went viral, Poseidon had had enough. He assigned the famous marine psychologist, The Incredible Mr. Limpet, to rehabilitate the rogue dolphin. Electric eel shock therapy failed and the crimes became worse.
A juvenile judge predicted, “Art, someday you’ll hang.”
After serving two years in a gift shop storeroom, Art found himself suspended over a kitchen window, dangling from a rope.
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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.
Growing older is inevitable. Growing up is optional.
Confessions of a Delusional Maniac
I may make you feel, but I can't make you think.
All the Blogging That's Fit To Print
AS I TOLD THE GIRL THAT I LOST MY VIRGINITY TO, THANKS FOR LAUGHING AT ME HERE TODAY.
I don't write, I touch without touching.
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Stylistically Abusing Language for the Betterment of Mankind
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