Everybody Loves a Parade (well, almost everybody)
Has this ever happened to you? You’re cruising down the aisle of a supermarket, you know exactly what you want and where it is, but when you get there, someone has parked their cart parked between you and said item while tediously browsing the shelf across the aisle.
In my case, it was a grandmother with two young tykes. A debate was raging amongst the tykes regarding which toothpaste Grandma should buy. The older of the two insisted on bubble gum flavor, while the younger one demanded cotton candy. I threw a box of Preparation H in Grandma’s cart while she wasn’t looking, grabbed a tube of Crest, and went along my merry way. I hope she got the hint.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the statistician known for her subtle nuances regarding the 100-word limit is Countess Purpula Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the fashionable hairstyles of the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
In its wake, the parade left a path of destruction that included a porta-potty containing “Blind Rutabaga” Keller and Stevie.*
“There was a horrible roaring,” said Blind Rutabaga. “I had torn off some tissue and was doing the paperwork, when BAM! Something slammed into the building. I thought a tornado had hit. Then KABOOM! The toilet exploded and threw me and Stevie out in the street. My whole backside was wet and a band was playing ‘When the Saints Go Marchin’ In.’
“I thought we’d died and went to heaven, except for having my pants around my ankles, of course.”
*Stevie is Blind Rutabaga’s seeing-eye dog
the above is an excerpt from “One Idiot Short of a Village.”
What the Hell is It?
How many of you have at least one pair of holey underwear? No, I’m not talking about the kind of “holy” you reserve for religious holidays; I’m referring to the type with non-factory openings for extra ventilation. Okay, you can put your hands down now.
Well, here’s some good news. In today’s fashion world you’re more in style than ever. People pay a fortune for jeans and shirts that look like they lost a fight with a weed-whacker. Consider yourself ahead of the curve—possibly even a trendsetter. Viva la holey bloomers!
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Chief Inspector who checks for 100-word skid marks, is “Skivvies” Hanes Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to submit your tale to the weekly collection, zip over to her blog for instructions. To rent a box in the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
The Resource Center turned out to be what people of my generation would call a library.
Twenty-first century libraries have become more of an entertainment center than a repository for books. The one at The Academy of Spoiled Rotten Brats was no exception. It featured a wide array of multi-media options, each partitioned off by a hideous piece of modern art.
One look at this fiasco told me it was the work of Claude Bawls, Professor Emeritus at Joe’s College of Mobile Home Design and Shoe Shine Institute, and a disciple of the man who invented the cocktail umbrella.
* the above is an excerpt from “The Academy of Spoiled Rotten Brats.” This tale and others are featured in One Idiot Short of a Village, now available for pre-order from Pen-L Publishing.
Three Monkeys
As we head into the cold & flu season, expect to hear these phrases; 1) Sounds like you’re trying to catch a cold. And, 2) You couldn’t have picked a worse time to get the flu.
My responses;
- Yes, I sat at the bus stop, waiting for six hours, then had to chase the damn cold up hill for three blocks in a snow storm. It wasn’t easy, but I finally caught the SOB.
- The Flu and I had originally discussed getting together in mid-January, but she was overbooked and this was the only time slot she had left.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Director of the CBC (Centers for Blog Control), who has issued a strong waring for posts exceeding 100 words, is Brenda Sneezingfitz Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to submit your tale to the weekly collection, zip over to her blog for instructions. To rent a box in the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Happy Holidays from Three Monkeys Outfitters
It’s not too late to buy the perfect gift for that gossip on your list. We have a wonderful assortment of blindfolds, earmuffs, and mouth plugs, all at holiday prices and gift wrapped at no charge.
This week, we’re running a special on hand-knitted “No-Hear” hats. Patented sound-blockers inside the flaps prevent even the smallest rumor from becoming Jerry Springer talk show material.
If you act now, we’ll also include our most popular black velvet hoodwink and unisex gag FREE. And it all comes with a 90-day no-malicious-talk guarantee.
Give ‘em the Monkey.
*this week’s post limited to 99 words due to my excessive overload of 101 words two weeks ago. You may have also notices I was missing last week–serving detention with my nose stuck inside a tiny circle on a chalkboard.
Seasoned Greetings
Merry Christmas from Russell the Red-Nose Writer & Connie the Green-Thumb Gardener
Greetings Friends & Neighbors,
We’ve been blessed to survive another year (you probably figured that out when you got this card). Some of you may have suspected for years that Russell had mental issues. Well, now it’s official—he’s retared.
They say, “Ignorance is bliss,” and you’ll never meet a guy any happier to have this affliction.
Rather than bore you with the trivial events that occurred in our lives in 2017, we’ve decided to share some of the things that didn’t happen.
- We didn’t win the lottery (again)
- Russell’s book didn’t make the NY Times Best Seller List
- We didn’t secretly meet with Vladimir Putin
- No one offered to make a movie about us
- Neither of us aged a single day (wishful thinking)
Yet despite all these failures and shortcomings, we feel happy and blessed. The Lord has been good to us. Praise God.
It’s our sincere wish that each of you have Joyous Christmas and a Happy, Healthy, and Blessed New Year.
__________X_____________ __X_________________
(his mark) (her mark)
The Ice Woman Cometh
How much time do you spend waiting in lines? According an MIT study by Richard Larson (I wonder if he’s related to Gary Larson—The Far Side cartoonist?) American’s spend 2 years of their lives waiting.
Briton’s call it Queuing and average about 67 hours a year, or 5 months, 2 weeks, and 5 days of their lives standing in lines. Last Saturday, Connie and I took 2 grandkids to Silver Dollar City and used 4 of our 6 hours at the theme park standing in lines. The other two hours were spent wedging our way through crowds trying to find the end of the lines.
One place where you never have to wait is Friday Flash Fiction. Speedy Gonzales Wisoff-Fields posts the photo promptly at the crack of midnight on Wednesday and you can join the fun whenever you’re ready. To learn how to submit your tale to the weekly collection, zip over to her blog for instructions. To rent a box in the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
I’ve never met a woman
Who’s more like the weather
She can change for the worse
At the drop of a feather
Forget that the forecast
Calls for 90 and sunny
Better put on your coat,
The Ice Woman Cometh
Like a frigid arctic blast
Sweeping down from the north
The temperature plummets
When she walks through the door
Suddenly you remember
What you like about summer
Better put on your coat
The Ice Woman Cometh
The stare “chill-factor”
Is way below zero
Her silence so deafening
It cuts to the marrow
Better put on your coat
The Ice Woman Cometh
*the above is an excerpt from a poem I wrote about 25 years ago. It’s been modified to come in at 101 words.
Social Thinking
Usernames and passwords: How many do you have and how do you keep track of all of them?
Just when I think you’ve come up with a system, the website wants me to change my password. I’ve had enough Apple IDs to fill an orchard. Evidently, they turn rotten quickly because none of them ever works longer than 24 hours.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Emcee who provides one-photo clues to our weekly 100-word riddle is Alice Ludden Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to submit your tale to the weekly collection, zip over to her blog for instructions. To rent a box in the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Thinking is the hardest work there is; which is probably the reason why so few engage in it.” – Henry Ford
***
It pains me to say this, but one group at high risk for Heavy Thinking addiction is writers. These individuals spend a lot of time alone in front of blank computer screens actually encouraging the thought process.
I attended one of their small group meetings. During a critique session, a Heavy Thinker will offer a fledgling writer powerful suggestions to improve their story. This continues around the room until the author of said paper shows signs of dizziness and intoxication from an overdose of knowledge.
I usually sit there with that deer-in-the-headlights-look, occasionally offering half a thought, just to be social.
* the above is an excerpt from The Perils of Heavy Thinking, available on Amazon in both paperback and Kindle.
The Most Heinous of Crimes
Tomorrow kicks off the annual gorging season here in America. Like me, I’m sure many of you have been in training for the past several weeks getting ready to put on an extra of layer of blubber before we head into winter.
There’s nothing more embarrassing than showing up at the Emergency Room with a pulled stomach muscle because you hadn’t properly exercised prior to a big meal. You’ll never win a medal at the Obese Olympics unless you get in shape—and round is the shape I’m talking about.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the chef who provides the stuffing for our weekly cornucopia of stories is Ernestine Gibbons Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to submit your tale to the weekly collection, zip over to her blog for instructions. To rent a box in the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Detective Lowry pulled to the curb and studied the house. Other than the police tape, it looked like every other cookie-cutter home in the neighborhood.
Inside, a team of forensic experts combed the scene. The homeowners, a young husband and wife, sat shell-shocked at the kitchen table.
“What’d ya got?” Lowry asked the senior inspector.
“Not much. The Do-Not-Remove-Under-Penalty-of-Law tags from every mattress, pillow, and piece of furniture are missing. Who would do such a thing?”
Lowry wiped a white smudge from the mirror. It smeared between his finger and thumb. “When we find the invisible box, we’ll find the tags.”
