Did you ever notice how radio stations synchronize their commercials? This morning, while attempting to listen to music, I ran through all six pre-set stations on the car radio only to be bombarded by one ad after another.
The same holds true on television. I can enjoy relief from constipation on one channel, flip to a remedy for diarrhea on another, and complete my tour of the lower track by clicking the remote and landing on an ultra-soft cloud of Quilted Northern bath tissue. After all, no job is truly finished until the paperwork is done.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the spokesperson for our product, who squeezes every story to ensure 100 word softness, is Charlotte Whipple Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to take a stab at this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
America lost another super hero this week when the body of Henry Cabot Henhouse III, affectionately known as Super Chicken, was discovered in his Boston penthouse.
Authorities are ruling out fowl play*, but have ordered an autopsy to determine the exact cause of death.
“He was fond of the ‘Super Sauce,’” said archenemy, Salvador Rag Dolly. “He couldn’t chase down a June bug without sticking his beak in that damn martini glass.”
“Henry was a brave bird,” recalled butler/sidekick, Fred. “There were only three things he truly feared, Avian flu, Coccidiosis, and Colonel Sanders.”
*not a typo, just an ugly pun
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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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