What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
View from the Bottom
It’s been a rough week at the old grind. I’ve been more covered up than mosquito netting at a nudist camp. Changing to WordPress was easy enough. Now I have to learn how to use it. Right now, I feel kind of out of place and upside down. Let’s see what kind of story that creates.
This week’s photo is courtesy of Stacy Plowright.
To read more stories, go to http://madison-woods.com/ click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.
Man, this is really uncomfortable. I wonder how long I’m going to be stuck in this position. We were moving right along and the action just stopped.
People are screaming, running wild like a duck after a grasshopper, and it’s impossible to see with all those bright flashing lights.
I can feel my face getting hot from the blood rushing to my head.
This was all Mom’s idea. I was perfectly content inside, but she insisted on bringing me into the great outdoors. Now, she’s puffing like a freight train.
One more good push and I’ll be out of here.
Here I Is
Well, I finally made the leap from Blogger to WordPress. As usual, procrastinaton and laziness played a big part in the delay.
Connie is having a sale in the cabin this Thursday August 30th thru Saturday September 1st – hours from 7 am to 6 pm. She’s got plenty of antiques, collectables and new stuff to show and sell. A good time is guaranteed for all.
If you start feeling nature’s call we’ve a comfortable two-seater where you can relax with a companion (or alone) and find relief.
Misty Mountain Hop
My original intention was to title today’s Friday Flash fiction Foggy Mental Breakdown in honor of the Steppenwolf song. But I was struggling powerful. The words just would not come. Then for some reason, I started thinking about wise old owl and his buddy raccoon. So, I stopped by Craig’s blog and read his story. Next thing I knew I was humming Led Zeppelin and writing about bluegrass music. Go figure.
This week’s beautiful (and inspiring) photo is courtesy of Maggie Duncan.
Misty Mountain Hop
“Where’s that noise coming from?”
“What noise? I don’t hear anything.”
“It sounds like an owl playing fiddle and a raccoon on banjo.”
“You can hear all that? What you been smoking, man?”
“Nothing—I swear. It’s coming from that foggy holler between them hills.”
“If you could hear music—and I ain’t saying you can—what makes you think it’s being played by animals?”
“It’s upbeat and adventurous with a hint of sorrow.”
“So, that’s not unusual for bluegrass.”
“This is special music, not ordinary bluegrass. Powerful medicine for children.”
“Oh, I hear it now. That’s Craig Towsley’s place.”
Redneck Mythology
Did you ever wonder why there were no mythological Gods of Redneck Folklore? Neither did I.
Then I saw this wonderful picture(copyright Lura Helms)and I said to myself, “That explains it!”
I’m sure a bunch of ya’ll are gonna leave comments thanking me for enlightening you on Redneck Mythology. I won’t be able to respond right away as I am on the road this weekend, but don’t worry, I promise to visit your blogs as soon as I return. I appreciate you stopping by.
To read more stories, go to http://madison-woods.com/ click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.
Redneck Mythology
Billy Bob was half goat/half man. We won’t go into his genealogical lineage, but suffice it to say, his kinfolks are regulars on Dr. Phil.
One day, Billy Bob was peeping over the fork of ash tree spying on three beautiful young nymphs skinny dipping. Little did he know that this particular tree was a Venus Fly Ash.
His Mom saw him and cried out, “Billy Bob, pull your head out of that ash!” But the tree snapped shut on Billy’s head.
The moral of the story is; “When you’re doing something naughty; don’t stick your head up an ash.”
Mussel Shells
This week’s entry is an excerpt from my short story, “Lost at Peter Bottom,” which has been selected by Tales From the South for their September 18thshow at Starving Artist Café in North Little Rock, AR. This may not have the level of humor you’re used to from me, but it fit well with the prompt and gave me a chance to toot my own horn at the same time.
Photo by Susan Wenzel.
To read more stories, go to http://madison-woods.com/ click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.
Mussel Shells
There were rocks to skip and mussel shells to scoop sand from the water’s edge. Why did I ever leave the safety and security of such an oasis?
The answer is simple. Greed.
This was a fishing trip. The primary goal when fishing is to catch fish. We had worked this hole quite a while with no success. I tried various types of bait, often leaving them in the same spot for an eternity of two whole minutes without getting so much as a nibble. Frustration mounted with each passing moment. The length of my patience could be measured against the point of a hook—with plenty of room to spare.
Ozark Snotmouth
I ‘m known to have a strong stomach, but this week’s photo made me GAG! Now, I’m afraid to go to sleep for fear this disgusting image has burned itself into my brain cell (singular). When I was child nightmares of snakes often plagued my sleep. Just when I thought I’d put that chapter behind me—BAM! Now, I have to write about it. Oh well, the doctor says it’s good therapy.
To read more stories, go to http://madison-woods.com/ click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.
Ozark Snotmouth
I hate snakes. All five kinds—large, small, dead, alive, and rubber.
As a rural farm boy, I was unfortunate enough to experience dozens of unexpected encounters with these cold-blooded vermin. From March to November they sensed my every move, engaging in a horrible conspiracy to torment and terrorize me—often generating unsightly stains in my underpants.
The most horrific of all these despicable, slimy creatures is the Ozark Snotnose. This snake does not have fangs, but smothers its victim in a disgusting drool the consistency of rubber cement.
There is no anti-venom. Your only defense is tall boots and Kleenex.
Bucket of Ideas
People often ask me, “Where did you get a crazy idea like that?” I usually reply with some cock & bull explanation that I merely observe the world around me and the stories write themselves. Today, (against my own better judgment) I have decided to share my source of inspiration. Be forewarned that this act can only be performed by skilled professionals after years of training. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!
To read more stories, go to http://madison-woods.com/ click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.
Bucket of Ideas
“Billy, see that bucket hanging on the fence?”
“Sure, Grandpa. What’s in it?”
“That’s where Grandpa gets the ideas for his stories.”
“Really? How does it work?”
Grandpa leaned over, stuck his ear under the spigot, turned the tap, and made a bubbling noise to indicate the invisible flow filling his brain. Once full, he straightened up, shook his head like a dog and said, “Umm, that’s a good one.”
“Wow, that’s cool. Is that where Grandma gets her ideas for all the projects she has for you?”
“Oh no, son. She has those delivered in a large tanker trunk.”
I Heard it Through the Grapevine
When I download the photo for Friday Flash Fiction, I usually go with the first thing that pops in my head. The reason being, my brain is so small it can only contain one thought at a time, and even then, if it’s a very big thought my neurocranium starts to swell. This week’s photo triggered multiple thoughts sending me into a neurocalyptic (You like that word? I made it up. J) spasm attack. I spat all three ideas out on 3 x 5 section of used Kleenex and applied the scientific method, Eenie-Meenie-Miney-Moe, to select a topic. My apologies to Edgar Rice Burroughs and Marvin Gaye.
To read more stories based on this photo, go to http://madison-woods.com/ click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.
I Heard it Through the Grapevine
“Jane, you look so sad. What’s the matter?”
“Oh Cheeta, since George came to the jungle, I find myself questioning my love for Tarzan.”
“I can understand your infatuation with a younger man. After all, it’s been a long time since you’ve seen another male of your species.”
“It sure has. And George is so sweet and childlike. He counts the petals on every flower.”
“That’s because he has the brain of a six year old, Jane. He can’t swing from a grapevine without slamming into a tree.”
“Yes, Tarzan is a better swinger, but George uses a bigger vine.”
A Tale of Two Sissies
I can really relate to this week’s photo. I’ve been called an ‘old buzzard,’ and told that I have ‘buzzard breath’ upon occasion. Experts say we don’t have buzzards in NW Arkansas, technically they are vultures. I’m not going to worry too much about it unless one’s picking my bones. My Dad used to say if you ate a lot of hot peppers they would eat you. It’s a good thing I had a dozen jalapenos before starting this story. To read more stories, go to http://madison-woods.com/ click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.
A Tale of Two Sissies
“Come on boys, eat your food.”
“Ah, Mom . . . .” Brian and Billy whined in unison. “Do we have to?”
“Your father works hard to feed us. You want to grow up big and strong like him, don’t you?”
“But it smells awful,” said Brian.
“And it taste raw—like it needs to ripen some more,” added Billy.
“There’s nothing wrong with this food,” said Mom. “You can’t go play until you finish your meal.”
“Why do we have the same thing every Friday?” Billy choked back the tears.
“Because Friday’s the day when most Fictioneers get run over by the prompt.”
My Adobe Hacienda
I used the title from an old Bob Wills’ song for this week’s Friday Flash Fiction. While I was at it, I raped the lyrics from another song a by popular western swing artist, through in a couple of rednecks, stirred briskly, and threw out in the hot sun to bake.
This week’s photo by Amanda Gray. To read more stories, go to http://madison-woods.com/ click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.
My Adobe Hacienda
“How much further, Bubba? I ain’t seeing no ocean yet.”
“The guy said it’s remote. He called it a romantic getaway.”
Two hours later.
“Thar it is, Charlene. Our mansion in paradise.”
“Don’t look like no mansion to me. It ain’t even got no roof.”
“That’s so you can see the stars at night, Sweetie. Look. Thar’s the Golden Gate.”
A section of wrought iron fence, painted John Deere yellow, dangled from a concrete pier.
“Let me see that deed again, Charlene. Why, I ought to shoot that singing cowboy.”
What’s a matter, honey?”
“This ain’t Arizona. It’s New Mexico!”
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What's So Funny? 