It appears we can’t manufacture anything in America anymore. All of our dry-goods, as my mother called them (clothing, shoes, linens, artificial cotton/cotton balls), come from foreign countries. Even Donald Trump had to import his current wife, Melania, from Yugoslavia because he couldn’t find a suitable young supermodel in the United States who would tolerate his super ego and constant bragging. Who knows what foreign, low-cost supplier he’ll turn to when it’s time to replace her with a new, younger model.
Politicians are always telling us how they are going to create new jobs. Let’s be honest, the only job a politician can create is another government job. I suppose if they all hire ten additional firm, young, interns it will add another 5,000+ new jobs in Washington, D.C. Such a move would likely stimulate more than just the economy in that town. Just ask Anthony Weiner.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Vice Chancellor of Intergalactic Blog & Comment Exchange is Paulette LeBrunett Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To view the writers on a wire in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Goot morning, Mr. Dayer. My name is Harvey (a.k.a. Ninjay Fuqua) and I’m calling to renew your free circumcision to Colon & Bladder magazine. Dis call may be monitored to enjoy your complete dissatisfaction. Now, if I may ass you a few questions to confirm your conscription. Your name is Rushell Dayer, correct?”
“Yeah, that’s close enough.”
“And de name of your company is Tasty Fooze?”
“Hookay, sir. Tank you merry much. To confirm we spoke—what was your mudder’s maiden game?”
“Snot? Hookay, berry goot,sir. Tank you, Mr. Dayer and employ your free prescription to Colon & Bladder. Goot day.”
Horror, Psychological Thrillers, Poetry, Flash Fiction
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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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