Trifecta’s Weekend Writing Challenge “Write a horror story in 33 words, without the words blood, scream, died, death, knife, gun, or kill. Good luck.”
I see Freddie and I panic. My thoughts tumble like Keystone Cops in an avalanche. My palms become monsoons of sweat; my heart pounds Babalu. Then, when Freddie gets closer, ice cream!
From time to time I complain on this blog about the horrible tragedy of my childhood regarding my never having been successful at talking my parents into buying me a horse.
Well, Dear Reader, I am happy to report that this tragedy was finally remedied when I got my first horse at age 50. Better late than never I always say.
Meet Joey! My retired racehorse whom I often refer to as Sedentariat:
Anyway, here’s the real Joey:
First, I pulled Joey away from eating alfalfa, took him out of his stall and tied him up at the tie rail. Now since it’s been raining, his stall had three deep puddles which I had to bail the water out of using a dustpan (the only thing I could find).
Then since all the open spaces were occupied with other horses and riders, I had to turn him out in a round pen at the top of a big steep hill.
So I trudged up the hill, put Joey in the pen, trudged back down the hill, bailed more water out of his stall, shoveled out a trench outside his stall so the water in the stall would drain better, trudged back up to the top of the hill, got Joey, trudged back down the hill, washed and treated his legs (he has a weird skin condition on his legs that I’m always slathering the latest “cure” on) –then dissolved his antibiotics in some water (for the leg condition), hid the liquified antibiotics in his alfalfa (when he wasn’t looking), bailed more water out of his stall, schlepped in a big bail of shavings, covered his stall floor with shavings, walked him around and let him eat grass while the “slather” on his legs dried, put his blanket on him and, finally — a mere three hours later, returned him to a nice clean, fresh, dry stall where he resumed eating alfalfa.
And there you have it, Dear Readers, my childhood dream come true!
Until next time . . . I love you
Foraging around the falderal at my local thrift store, (I am starting to feel like they stock it just for me!) I found this wonderful gem:
On the back of the album is his historic poem, A Cat Name Sloopy — in three parts. It’s a poem Rod Mckuen penned during an unprecedented burst of love for his cat, Sloopy. And a poem, I might add, that catapulted Rod McKuen to superstar poetic status back in the halcyon days of unflinchingly serious, popular poetry.
Here are some excerpts from that historic poem with a few observations of my own.
“For a while the only earth that Sloopy knew was in her sandbox”
Just a quick heads up, Rod, kitty litter works better.
Every night she’d sit in the window among the avocado plants waiting for me to come home (my arms full of canned liver and love)
Excuse me . . .Rob? . . . you dropped a whole bunch of love coming up the stairs. (By the way, I hope you didn’t buy avocados, the grove in the window sill is finally producing!)
We talked into the night then, contented but missing something
Uh . . . could it have been Sloopy’s side of the conversation?
She the earth she never knew, and me the hills I ran while growing bent
Oh that . . . well, I hear calcium can help that.
Sloopy should have been a cowboy’s cat with prairies to run not linoleum
Good call Rod! And that’s why linoleum should be banned once and for all!
I never told her, but in my mind, I was a midnight cowboy even then. Riding my imaginary horse down Forty-second Street . . .
What? You love doing that? Me too! OMG!
Going off with strangers to live an hour-long cowboy’s life but always coming home to Sloopy, who loved me best.
Wait. . . what? . . . hold the phone . . . Rod . . . Rod! No more beer for you. Why don’t you go to bed now and see if you can’t sleep it off. What’s that? You can’t sleep because Sloopy keeps slapping her paws walking around on the linoleum? Well, just listen to the warm . . Rod . . .that’s right . . . listen to the warm . . . .
Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can get a call into the president so he can do something about the linoleum. And tomorrow you can start working on your next album. What are you going to call it? What’s that, Rod? You’re going to call it, Smell the Humidity?
I love it!
Until next time . . . I love you
This Weekend’s Trifecta Writing Challenge is to finish these 33 words with 33 words of your own:
“There’s nothing cute about it,” he said. The register of his voice indicated decision more so than discussion.
She disagreed heartily and privately, staring past his head and out the window behind him.
The elephant caravan was just cresting the hill. “We can still make it if we hurry!” Barbara pleaded.
“I told you! I go nowhere without my nose, Barbara!” Bozo shouted angrily. “Nowhere!”
Hello Dear Readers. Is it Lazy Friday Rerun Blog Day already? OK! Who am I to argue with the calendar! (except I do think a week should have 8 days and 3 of them should be a three-day weekend – but apparently my calendar wouldn’t give me the time of day.) Here’s today’s rerun:
When I was a little girl, the pot of gold at the end of my rainbow was a horse.
I had no preference as to style, make or model. If it had four legs and knew how to gallop, I’d take it! We lived in a small town smack dab in the middle of an ocean of wheat, so there were lots of girls who had horses and rode them everywhere. It would rip my heart out to see a gaggle of girls atop their sterling steeds clip clopping all over town.
I really only voiced the question of my getting a horse to my parents a couple of times, knowing full well that the answer would be no, and, as a matter of pride, I’d ultimately have to run away from home or –at the very least — stage a runaway as in the following true scenario:
“Look at this Janey,” my father remarked to my mother, “I found Linda’s yellow shorty pajamas in this little 45-record case in the bushes just outside her window when I was mowing the lawn.”
Oh I was going to run away alright . . . eventually.
Ok, fine . . . if I wasn’t going to get a horse, at least I could try for a kitten. This is how I went about it:
Step 1: Convince my parents that I was head over heals in love with cats. To accomplish this, I colored umpteen pictures of kittens and scotch taped them to my circa 1959 pink wall.
Step 2: Wasn’t even needed because Step 1 worked like a charm. Next thing I knew I was picking out my very own gray, long-haired kitten from a batch of five.
In my excitement, I failed to notice that this particular kitten had issues. It suffered from the world’s lowest kitty IQ. Maybe that’s why the name I chose, Taffy May, seemed to fit her so well.
Taffy May was the perfect cat for a little girl to bond with. Being nearly brain-dead, she allowed me to pick her up and carry her around without protest.
She slept with me all night under the covers which I thought was because she loved me so — but more likely she just couldn’t figure a way out.
Taffy May had one batch of kittens – if three can be considered a batch. But being the little dummy that she was, she managed to lie on all three of them during the night and in the morning the only one left breathing was my beloved, Taffy May.
Perhaps it was Karma (I know there was a car involved) the day Taffy May shuffled off this mortal world.
I was on my way home from school without a care in the world. When I rounded the corner, there stood our across-the-street neighbor, Mr. Huey, holding a lifeless Taffy May up by the tail.
I don’t know how many times Taffy May had been run over, but judging from the fact that she was literally as flat as a pancake, it would be safe to assume more than once.
I screamed and ran into the house where I was inconsolable well into the night. I never got another cat of my very own, out of respect for Taffy May, who will always have a place in my heart . . . about two feet wide and one and one-half inches deep.
Until next time . . . I love you
Hello Dear Readers. As you may remember earlier this week, we were discussing some ads that appeared in an 81-year-old Saturday Evening Post such as this one for Gluey Paste:
I am happy to report, that I have done some extensive research this week into the exciting, fast-paced Gluey Paste industry and needless to say did not come up empty handed.
Have you often dreamed of living the glamorous life of a Gluey Paste Professional Salesman or woman but cried yourself to sleep each night thinking it would be impossible?
Well, Dear Reader, you can now turn those tears of sorrow into tears of joy in ten (or maybe eleven) easy steps!
Step One:
As a Gluey Paste Professional Salesman, you will begin any successful sales call by shaking the hand of the potential Gluey Paste customer and greet him by saying, “How do you do, Mr. Smith.”
Step Two
The salutation should be immediately followed by noticing a smudge on Mr. Smith’s elbow and offering to wipe it off — the act of which will quickly bond Mr. Smith to you, the Professional Gluey Paste Salesman.
Step Three:
Uh oh. It looks like you, as the Professional Gluey Paste Salesman, might have inadvertently bonded yourself to Mr. Smith literally.
Do not be alarmed as this happens more often than not. However, it is of the utmost importance that you, as the Professional Gluey Paste Salesmen, remain calm and under no circumstances let Mr. Smith know what has just transpired.
Step Four
Assuming a nonchalant air, casually turn around so that you and potential customer, Mr. Smith, are facing in the same direction.
This might be a good time to introduce an interesting topic of conversation, such as: “How ’bout them Yankees?” A question that will keep Mr. Smith so busy thinking, he’ll undoubtedly fail to notice that he is glued to you, the Professional Gluey Paste Salesman.
Step Five
Next, you must inch Mr. Smith in the direction of the washroom with the eventual outcome of washing the glue off each of you.
However, in order to get Mr. Smith to cooperate fully without being the wiser, you simply explain that as the Professional Gluey Paste Salesman, you are very interested in the equipment in the washroom to see if it correlates with the amount of glue a potential customer such as Mr. Smith is likely to purchase.
Step Six
Should you, as the Gluey Paste Professional Salesman, suddenly trip and land in the manner pictured above, calmly explain to Mr. Smith that you are practicing your moves for an audition later in the afternoon with the Flying Wallenda’s.
Mr. Smith will not only understand-; he’s very likely to be impressed with your well-rounded personality.
Step Seven
This is the most precarious time in any successful sales call for both you, the Professional Gluey Paste Salesman, and your potential customer, Mr. Smith.
While you are struggling to get things “back on track”, it is recommended that you belt out a rousing rendition of Camp Town Racers since it has been scientifically proven that the singing of Camp Town Racer’s puts people in the mood to buy glue.
Step Eight
Once you have managed to unstick your hand from Mr. Smith’s elbow, next stick your hand onto Mr. Smith’s knee.
Step Nine
Now, of course, it is just a matter of “walking” Mr. Smith over to a chair so that he can sit down and sign the purchase agreement for upwards of 14 cases of Gluey Paste!
Step Ten
Be careful here because this is often the critical moment in which Mr. Smith is likely to get cold feet causing you to have wasted the entire morning without getting any sales commission. Therefore you must be prepared to put some serious sales pressure on Mr. Smith.
Step Eleven:
( Please note this step is only to be used should steps one through ten fail to produce a sale.)
If Mr. Smith still refuses to “come around” after utilizing steps one through ten, pull out the stops by pulling out your Gluey Paste Company issued Smith and Wesson revovlver.
Not only will Mr. Smith’s status be instantly upgraded from potential customer to loyal customer, you’ll be well on your way to experiencing the exciting lifestyle of a world-class Gluey Paste Professional Salesman!
Until next time . . . I love you
Well my brain, Peanuts, was really annoying this morning. (Peanuts being the nickname my brain insisted on giving itself.) Peanuts sometimes runs amok and when that happens, all I can do is stand by and watch helplessly.
This morning Peanuts was writing fast and furiously! Peanuts was so pleased about what was materializing on the computer screen that Peanuts was feeling confident to the point of being cocky. This is a dangerous state of mind. Last time Peanuts got like this it cost me and Peanuts $300.
That’s because Peanuts said we could go 59 when the speed limit was 35. Peanuts rationalized this decision by explaining that Peanuts didn’t see no cops so there ain’t no cops. Sometimes Peanuts insists on talking with a cheesey, fakey made up dialect. (I always have to roll my eyes.)
Anyway, sure enough Peanuts spent all morning typing up a post that Peanuts had to stop and laugh at every five minutes. It was really kind of nauseating how cute Peanuts thought it was being.
So it really served Peanuts right when Peanuts went to hit SAVE DRAFT and the little donut started spinning and spinning and spinning and then the Wordpress screen disappeared altogether! Peanuts panicked and flailed around clicking buttons and icons like a regular banshee but to no avail. The post was gone entirely.
I took it rather well, but Peanuts threw a big, huge, hissy fit by pounding fists on the desk, and shouting the F word, then shouting the S word and then went back to shouting the F word.
Of course, this display of immaturity didn’t do Peanuts one bit of good. I told Peanuts that in so many words, but Peanuts wasn’t listening.
So instead of posting the hilarious post that Peanuts lost us thanks to cockiness, Peanuts and I will rerun this poem entitled Ode to Peanuts. It’s really called Ode to the Brain, but Peanuts thinks it’s about Peanuts so we’ll just let Peanuts keep on thinking that:
Oh little brain
We love you so
For thinking up
The things we know
From your hemispheres
To your thalamuses
You know the times of all the buses
Your skull cap’s skewed so jauntily
You’ve hit a spinal chord with me!
And furthermore, let’s be quite placid
Because of your amino acid,
You do not sail this synapse sea
As hairy as a chimpanzee
That ought to shut Peanuts up for a while!
Until next time . . . I love you
While eating Skittles, Frieda Flerf suddenly found herself inside the bag hopelessly pinned between a red one and a yellow one. As she began gnawing her way to freedom she heard Mama calling, “Frieda!”
Until next time . . . I love you
Dear reader we’ve all been there! We’ve all been visitors at the Awkward Moment Hotel. Checking in on our own accord then unable to check out gracefully once the social faux pas has been made.
Awkward moments like:
Of course, I haven’t actually done any of these as yet. . . but it’s still early in the day. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of coming up with a few simple excuses –generic, one-size fits all excuses, — if you will — that we can keep up our sleeves should we find the need to smooth over “things” with a friend, a boss or the occasional nun.
Let’s say you happen to be strolling along the waterfront when you come across a big-bellied man whom you mistake for a pregnant woman and blurt out, “When’s the baby due?”
As soon as you realize your blunder, you can quickly counter with Linda’s generic excuse #1:
“I’m sorry, my glasses are on back order,”
This should confuse the issue long enough with the longshoreman (or whomever) so that you can run away and take safe haven in the nearest strip joint.
Now let’s say you run over somebody’s foot in the parking lot — a scenario we’re all bound to experience at some point in our lives. No more filling out police reports! With Linda’s Generic Excuse #2, all you have to do is roll down your window and shout,
“I’m sorry, my crutches are on back order!”
This quickly implies to the injured party that 1) you have no control over your feet, and that 2) you are trying to do something about it but haven’t been very successful!
And then simply drive off. No muss, no fuss.
Now let’s say you go to a gathering and quickly take center stage telling a long, drawn-out, humorous story about somebody being hanged.
When suddenly, you remember that your hostess’s husband, Joey, just got hanged day before yesterday. Of course, it could be awkward when said hostess busts into tears, runs out of the room and is inconsolable for days . . but not any more! Thanks to Linda’s Generic Excuse #3– you now simply say:
“I’m sorry, my medications are on back order.”
This little phrase says everything without explaining anything. If uttered along with a tear or two, the hostess will not only remain your friend, she’ll probably be happy to drive you home.
So there you have it, Dear Reader, no more awkward moments! Now that you’ve got all the excuses you’ll ever need, get out there and mingle!
Until next time . . . I love you
I don’t know about you, but often times I’ll go to my refrigerator and open the door and stand there for days on end trying to decide what to eat.
Not only does this kind of thing waste valuable electricity, it also wastes valuable time that could be better spent checking weather.com for days on end to see if it’s warm enough to go outside.
Well, I’m happy to report, Dear Reader, all this has changed! Changed because of this 1942 American Red Cross Food and Nutrition booklet I chanced upon at the thrift store!
This looks like an interesting page. Let’s take a closer look.
Let’s call this “Man–Moderately Active,” Herbert. As you can see, Herbert isn’t too happy with his job down at the factory. Well, who can blame him? Drilling holes in a 2×4 for no apparent reason all the live-long day tends to suck the joy out of Herbert’s me time.
Herbert’s only hope for happiness today or any day is that his wife will be cooking him a nutritional supper planned by the American Red Cross in conjunction with the U.S. Department of Agriculture to insure that Herbert gets a well-balanced meal so that he can live on indefinitely to perform his duties down at the 2×4 hole punching factory!
This Housewife is Herbert’s wife, Herberta. As you can see, she is wiping out a bowl which is her primary duty as Herbert’s wife. Uh Oh! Herberta doesn’t look like she’s planning a supper for her husband that would be deemed appropriate by either the Red Cross OR U.S. Department of Agriculture — let alone in conjunction with!
It isn’t because Herberta hasn’t read . . . no make that memorized The Red Cross Food and Nutrition booklet she was issued at birth back in 1922, it’s just that Herberta will never get this bowl wiped out if she doesn’t keep wiping and wiping and wiping and wiping . . . Plus she really doesn’t give a rip.
This boy–12 is Herbert and Herberta’s son Herbie Jr. As you can see, even though Herbie Jr. is only 12 that doesn’t keep him from looking, acting and dressing like he’s 47.
But just because Herbie Jr. always dresses age inappropriately in a white-dress shirt, tie, sweater vest, sports jacket and — I’m just guessing here — spats, Dear Reader, doesn’t mean that Herbie Jr. is over-compensating for the fact that his parents are losers. He just likes to dress up! God bless his Herbie Jr. soul!
This chart represents what the American Red Cross in conjunction with the US Department of Agriculture must insist that Herbert eat if he is to properly punch holes in a 2×4. The columns in this chart represent “shares.”
As you can see, for example, if Herbert shares his Vitamin B1 with 20 people and his Calcium with 37 people, he’ll soon be the picture of health and the apple of the collective eye of the American Red Cross, I’d be willing to bet.
Of course, this means his wife, Herberta, is going to have to cook for upwards of 60 dinner guests every night but a small price to pay for the betterment of the United States of America’s 2 x 4 hole punching industry.
Ok, but something tells me Herberta ain’t gonna like it.
Until next time . . . I love you
The barbecue’s rotisserie was assembled and soon a delicious aroma wafted from the meaty morsel skewered thereupon.
“Mommy, my guinea pig ran away. Little Suzy cried.
“No, “Mommy laughed heartily. “He’s barbecuing.”
Little Suzy cried!
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I know it’s hard to believe, but after carefully examining the above peculiarly worded cookbook from the 1960’s — it quickly became apparent to me that this is not a cookbook at all, but, in actuality, is a scientific study of the human race conducted by aliens from the planet Zorin!
Sandwiches for the Small Fry
As you can see by this heading, the aliens are going to great pains to make us believe that they have full command of English language idioms. Apparently they think these children are idioms. Apparently they think the entire human race are idioms!
The aliens go on to explain to their fellow Zorinians that sandwiches in the small fry’s “carried lunch” should be “made of bread” and that fruit should be eaten out of the small fry’s “hands” and that “milk should be sent from home in a small vacuum bottle”.
The aliens stressed that Zorinians should not confuse “Small Frys” with “small order of fries” even though both are equally delicious.
Taste Tempters for Teens
After much concentrated study, the aliens have ascertained that this is a fair representation of the typical eating behavior of the human “teen”. And they go on to state that “teen-agers are a mystery” — adding that “boy or girl their appetites are immense” even “staggering.” The report emphasizes that human “teenagers” have a “bottomless appetite” and an “endless thirst.” Information that probably raised a Zorinian eyebrow or two (or seven).
The aliens were careful not to get too close.
As you can see from this heading, when it comes to alliteration, the aliens are definitely on-board the human-language train! Even going so far as to use the word, “packables”. Well they aren’t billions of years more advanced than us for nothin’!
At first, the aliens were in total disarray as to what the father figure pictured above was doing. But after intensified study, the aliens came to the conclusion that this particular human being’s lower appendages had collapsed by a whopping fifty percent (perhaps from carting around Picnic Packables?) and when that happens, human beings must squeeze a circular object with their “hands” for prolonged periods of time in order to restore proper appendage positioning.
The aliens got a good laugh out of this one!
Well that’s all we have time for today, Dear Reader, but rest assured there are plenty more Secret Studies by Zorinians about the Human Race hiding within the pages of 1960 cookbooks and I plan to expose every single one of them or be abducted trying!
That is my pledge to you.
Until next time . . . I love you
I was wandering around my local thrift store on the prowl for the weird, the crazy or the strange — keeping my eyes peeled for the unusual, when guess what I found!
An LP featuring the ominously cheerful Guy Mitchell! That’s what!
The first line of the album blurb reads:
This charming collection of ballads by Guy Mitchel has a dual theme; all songs are concerned with romance, and all of them deal in a sense with nature and the outdoors!
I don’t know . . . judging from the piercingly maniacal gaze of Guy’s baby hazels, I’d have to say Guy is a guy you don’t want to get involved with. And when I say get involved with I mean accidentally bump into while waiting in line at Target because before you can completely utter the phrase “excuse me” — Guy will have fallen deeply, passionately and hopelessly in Stalker Love.
And just when I was thinking, thrift store shopping just doesn’t get any better look what I found right underneath Guy!
The Four Roses Society! A society consisting of eight of cheesiest human beings to have ever so much as hummed.
If you’ll notice, all the men are drinking straight shots of whiskey, except for one man who is no doubt holding two bottles of Jack Daniels behind his back. (We can only hope.)
One of the songs listed on the album is “Home on the Range” I like to think that’s what they were singing when this picture was taken. Which would explain all the howling by the dog, them and you, the listener.
And finally, Dear Readers, just when I was thinking life, itself, doesn’t get any better I found this!
Pasar Dalam! Whatever or whoever they may be!
The blurb on the album cover begins:
Wilt u lets welen over de background van deze plaat, wat betreft repetities enz ja . . .
I’ll try to translate this for you as best I can under the circumstances of me not knowing how to speak whatever language this is. I believe it says:
Will you let us welen over the background of the van please? What? Why are you bereft about that? I’m tired of repeating myself, enz ja . . .
However riveting the above passage, this is not the reason it caught my eye. I actually noticed the way the guy in the front row is holding up the lady in yellow — I like to think her name is enz ja . . .
Until next time . . . I love you
The phone rang at 4am.
I heard nothing. I was alseep. I had water in my ears from excessive pearl diving besides which I don’t even own a phone. So there’s that too.
Take the Trifextra 33-Word Weekend Challenge Here!
It’s fun!
We all remember the somewhat-iffy glory days of our semi-beloved junior high school!
Some of us adored it and some of us hated it. Apparently, Ted, whose yearbook I found on the shelves of my local thrift store, fits into the latter catagory.
So pull your hair into a side pony tail and twist your hat backwards and let’s take a little trip to Junior High 1991 courtesy of Ted:
Now here’s a student who, even though he tried valiantly NOT to listen during Language Arts class, accidentally absorbed a few nuggets of wisdom.
Not only do I give him kudos for remembering two of the eight parts of speech, but he even threw in “vowel” as well as the rarest type of letter in the alphabet, “the consant.”
I’m also giving him extra points for mentioning the “prep prase” which I’m guessing is any prepositional phrase that is complimentary.
Apparently this same kid was also in Ted’s History class.
Now here’s a category they didn’t have when I was in Junior High:
Not to be confused with:
And of course, what yearbook would be complete without fun photo doctoring:
Everybody had a Jr. High math teacher named Mr. Flem (or should have):
And finally:
The eternally effervescent P.E. teacher, Mrs. Miller, leaves Ted with these parting words:
“Ted, you’ve got a great personality. Keep things in the right perspective OK?
Ted! You gotta love him, don’t you?
Until next time . . . I love you
Linda Vernon Humor 