Linda’s Bedtime Stories for Grown-up Children: The Cuppencaken

 The Cuppencaken

Roweena Patina was late for tea.   Her mother-in-law, Tulip Aarff, invited her three days ago and yet, somehowRoweena didn’t know how, she completely forgot!

Now Roweena found herself racing through the streets of Van Schmoodenfloffen, at such a furious pace that one of her wooden shoes flung itself off just as she was passing the Van Windenflooffen Bakery.

And even though Roweena felt her shoe fly off — she was in such a tizzy, she didn’t even bother stopping to retrieve it — despite the aroma of Van Boozlephaffen Pie tempting her . . . tempting her . . . tempting her!

For you see, Roweena, had managed to pile on fifty-three pounds during the annual Glockenflockenfluff Fish Festival to the mighty chagrin of her mother-in-law, Tulip Aarff.

In fact, Tulip Aarff found Roweena Patina lacking discipline in every respect — both as a human being, in general, and as a daughter-in-law in particular.  Now, Tulip Aarff could add “fat” to her myriad list of Roweena Patina complaints.

For Tulip Aarff made it her hobby to find fault in the tiniest imperfections of her daughter-in-law’s personage.  And today, Tulip Aarff was about to hit the jackpot when it came to her favorite amusement.

When at last Roweena arrived at the double Dutch door of her mother-in-law’s cottage, she said a prayer for protection, then knocked.

“Enter this instant!” commanded Tulip Aarff.  “For the cold herring is getting warm and the warm tea is getting cold!”

When Roweena stepped inside with her shoeless foot, her disheveled apron and her bonnet hopelessly askew, Tulip Aarff gasped the Great Mother-in-Law Gasp of the Ages.

You’re late as usual! Tulip Aarff barked.

With a hollow smile and a sugary, sweet voice, Roweena said, “I’m only late, my dearest mother-in-law, because I was baking you this  “special” Hagleslagen Cuppencaken!

When Roweena finished her tea, she bid Tulip Aarff a cheerful adieu. A cheerful adieu that Tulip Aarff failed to acknowledge, however, what with her being dead from the poison and all.

Tulip Aarff just before biting the Hagleslagen Cuppencaken dust!

* * *

Until next time . . . I love you

Linda’s Bedtime Stories for Grown-Up Children

Randall

Randall the white owl

Nobody knew about Randall. He came in the night.

Rhonda listened for her husband’s deep breathing and when she heard the familiar rhythm she slipped out of bed, carefully slid open the door and crept onto the balcony.

Tonight was clear and still with air so crisp you could almost smell the stars. Randall was perched on the railing in his usual spot waiting for her and  staring straight ahead with his secretive eyes.

Rhonda reached into her robe pocket and pulled out a cigarette, stuck it between her lips, lit it and inhaled suddenly like a newborn taking its first breath.

“You ought to quit,” Randall said.

“Mind your own business, you dirty owl.” Rhonda snapped. Rhonda hated it when Randall complained about her smoking.   She hated a lot of things about Randall — especially the fact that he was slowly convincing her to murder her husband.

“He’s the reason you’re always having panic attacks.  Having to go to the hospital.  Not being able to breath.” Randall raised his wings and fluffed his white feathers loudly. “You’d be better off without him.”

“Who?”

“Who.   That’s my line.” Randall blinked. Then focused his gaze into Rhonda’s soul. “Don’t be obtuse.”

“I can’t do it!”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a murderer!”

“Sure you are. You just need to get in touch with your inner murderer. Everybody’s got one. Given a certain set of circumstances, enough rage and a fortuitous blunt instrument, that is.

“You nasty snake eater! Just looking at you makes me want to take a shower!” Rhonda flicked a long ash off the end of her cigarette and aimlessly smeared it around with the toe of her slipper. “If I listen to you, I’ll end up on death row! You’re the one I should kill.”

“Ha! What’d I tell you? See how easy it is to get in touch with your inner murderer? It won’t be long now. I’ll bet you already got a gun. Maybe you stole one.”

Rhonda drew deeply on her cigarette then coughed out a harsh, smoky laugh.“Let’s just say I was able to get in touch with my inner thief.”

Someone was jiggling the balcony door. Randall took flight just before Rhonda’s husband stepped out onto the balcony.

“What the hell is going on out here? Christ sakes! Who are you talking to?”

Rhonda kept her cool. “Just having a cigarette, Robert.” She said not as pleasantly as she could muster, but pleasantly enough considering she was, after all, planning his murder.

Robert put both his hands on the railing. “Hear that? There’s an owl out there somewhere. I hear it almost every night. Must live up in one of these trees.”

A  little smile crossed Rhonda’s face as she stubbed out her cigarette and tossed it into the darkness.

 

 

 

Linda’s Bedtime Stories for Grown-Up Children #8,427

Zingy Zanderlini’s Meteoric Downfall

Mrs. Zingy Zanderlini worshiped Harry Houdini. But then the tables of Zingy’s  heart were always reserved for any man who wore a cape, carried a magic wand and could wiggle out of a straight jacket while handcuffed underwater in a minute and a half.

Zingy’s husband, Fred, a musician, wasn’t happy with his wife’s fondness for magicians.  “I’m sorry I can only play pianos, Zingy, and not make them disappear like Houdini does,” Fred complained, “Maybe you’d like me better if I played the piano dangling upside down by one foot?”

“Yes actually I would!”  Zingy replied.

“You didn’t have to answer that Zingy.  It was just a rhetorical question.”

“I’m so sick of your rhetorical questions, Fred, I could  run over you with a steamroller, fold you into thirds, stick you in an No. 9 envelope and mail you to Hell.”

“When you say stuff like that, Zingy,  I sort of  feel like  you don’t love me that much.”  Suddenly Fred grabbed Zingy by the shoulders and shook her hard.  “If you hate me so much why did you marry me, Zingy?  Why? Answer me!”

“Alright Fred!  I will answer you. I married you because when you told me you were a musician, I thought you said you were a magician.  Okay?  That’s the only reason I married you.  It was a mistake.  A big, horrible, ugly mistake that you can never make disappear, Fred, never!  Because you can’t make anything disappear.”

Fred couldn’t look at Zingy anymore.  He stared out the window and into the clouds where a firey ball had just emerged, heading right for their house.

* * *

“Yes  that’s right, officer,” Fred said shifting his position in the rubble. “The meteorite came right though the window, landed on my wife, and she simply  disappeared, ” Fred explained with not as much irony in his voice as one might imagine.

"What is it, Fred? My hair? My overly large chin, my weird arm? What?"
“What is it, Fred? My hair? My overly-large chin, my weird arm? What?”

Until next time . . . I love you

 

Linda’s Bedtime Stories for Grown-Up Children

Just Keep On Driving 

Highway 395 slices the state of California right down the middle like a dull knife wielded by a farsighted California State Assemblyman on a two-week Tequila bender.  It is on the right-hand half that our story takes place.

Here Jake Spitzwater presided over the Spitzwater Hamster Ranch – where 15,000 hamsters roamed free across a 12-acre expanse of prime California Hamster Country.  And here is where Jake Spitzwater reigned supreme over his hamster empire, signing autographs for tourists who would stop by occasionally just to get Jake’s autograph and to also borrow a gallon of gas having run out about a mile up the road.

Jake Spitzwater had an uncanny gift.  He could look any hamster squarely in the eyes and charm it immediately into submission so that it never bit anyone again.  Using this god-given talent, Jake made millions.

Its just a pity that Candy had to come along and ruin everything.

Jake first set eyes on Candy shortly after she ran out of gas about a mile up the road.  She sauntered down Jake’s driveway dressed in her little white tank top, skimpy cutoffs and pink hamsterboy boots.  By the time Candy pouted her pretty little lips to form the words, “Can I borrow a gallon of gas?” Jake was in love.

Candy became Candy Spitzwater two weeks later.  They settled easily into an idyllic hamstermen’s life, sitting on the porch watching their hamsters kick up teeny, tiny clouds of dust on a lazy afternoon.

Then one day Candy forgot and left the gate open and she and Jake watched helplessly as 15,000 head of hamster ran away — taking their idyllic life with them.

Jake was so mad he shot Candy right between the eyes while Candy simultaneously fatally wounded Jake by stabbing him 37 times in the abdomen.

If you’re ever on the right-hand side of highway 395 and see a commotion, pay no attention.  It’s probably just the ghosts of Jake and Candy Spitzwater or, failing that, 15,000 bewildered head of hamster — either way just keep on driving.

Hamsters on highway 395

Until next time . . . I love you

Linda’s Bedtime Stories for Grown Up Children

Rule Britannia

Rear Admirable Rasputin Riboflavin pondered the particulars of his forearm and the freshly inked tattoo thereupon that read “Kendall Labra Forever.”  He had never been so full of regret in his life.

Rasputin looked over at Commodore Shutthedore who was sleeping on the floor. Oh balderdash! It had been another one of those nights!

One didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes, to  grasp the extent of the reveling that occurred during the height of the euphoria at last night’s annual British Navy Tupperware party.

Rear Admirable Rasputin Riboflavin hated himself for what he had become.  A Tupperware fiend.  Some officers could take it or leave it.  But not Rear Admirable Rasputin Riboflavin. He could only take it.

If only he weren’t so hell bent on preserving his leftovers in perfectly-engineered containers with their alluring interchangeable lids.  If only he could be transported back in time, before he ever heard of Tupperware and before he ever met beautiful Tupperware Consultant, Kendall Labra, whose name was now engraved in his Rear-Admiral forearm forever.

A set of six, neatly-stacked Fridge Stackables lay at Rasputin’s feet.  They were blue — a shade of blue that reminded him of something.  But what?  The blue of the Indian Ocean on a clear day beneath a cloudless sky? Or perhaps the blue of a Singapore Blue tarantula lazing on a leaf in the late afternoon Malaysia jungle?

Oh who was he kidding?  Of course he knew that blue!  It was the blue of Kendall Labra’s tempestuous eyes, a blue that flashed like a set of 16-ounce turquoise tumblers the day she left him to run away with Jimmy VonJanuary — taking her entire Tupperware collection with her –and leaving nothing in her wake but Rasputin’s broken heart and lots of spoiled leftovers.

“Say old chap!” Commodore Shutthedore was awake now.  Hadn’t we best be getting back to the battleship? The war will be starting soon.”

Rear Admiral Rasputin Riboflavin nodded solemnly and unrolled his sleeve until Kendall Labra’s name disappeared.

Rear Admiral Battleship

Until next time . . . I love you

 

Linda’s Bedtime Stories for Grown Up Children

Panhandler Pennsylvania

Two things put the tiny town of Panhandler, Pennsylvania on the map.  One was its pan-handle factory and the other was its bowling alley, the Lucky Strike, run by Ivan “The Turk” Iverson, who, during his illustrious career as a professional bowler, started every game with a turkey.  That is to say, he would bowl three consecutive strikes at the beginning of every tournament.

For years, The Turk enjoyed the charmed life of a professional bowler, giving bowling tips to heads of state, meeting with presidents at the White House to explain score keeping, and even discussing the pros and cons of his most beloved balls with the Queen of England!

Then one day — while The Turk was conducting his popular seminar Bowling Shoes: The Good The bad and The Ugly in the break room of the pan-handle factory — there was a horrible explosion, the result of which blew off both of The Turk’s thumbs and permanently parted his hair on the side, instantly rendering him just another ex-professional bowler with a stupid hairdo.

After that The Turk spent most of his time trying to kill himself.  But without thumbs, he couldn’t tie a noose, get the lid off a bottle of sleeping pills or even get a razor blade out of its packet, much less slit his wrists with it.

Time passed and one day while The Turk was out in his garage trying to grab hold of the ladder so he could jump off the roof, his luck turned around when the phone rang.

It was the President wanting The Turk to come to Washington and be in his Bowling Cabinet. By now The Turk was penniless.  But if he could figure out a way to get there, his troubles would be over . . .

So if you see a man with a funny hairdo just outside Panhandler, Pennsylvania trying to thumb a ride with his index finger, stop and give the poor guy a ride, will ya?

HOrrible art by Linda Vernon Humor
Ivan “The Turk” Iverson

Until next time . . . I love you

Linda’s Bedtime Stories for Grownup Children: Judy ByerMyer

Welcome Dear Readers.  Today’s blog is brought to you by the makers of WordPress Daily Prompt. 

The Prompt:  Time to confess: tell us about a time when you used a word whose meaning you didn’t actually know (or were very wrong about, in retrospect) 

Naturally, I was reminded of the time my dear neighbor, Judy ByerMyer, dropped by for a visit.

The Day Judy ByerMyer Dropped By

Judy Byermyer wordpress daily prompt

“Gosh I’m hungry!  I could sure go for some Colonial Sanders right about now.” Judy ByerMyer announced.

“Didn’t you have any breakfast, Judy?”

“Are you kidding? I slept in and then Katie couldn’t find her backpack, and then my car almost did-dint start and I could feel a migrate headache coming on and . . . ”

As Judy prattled on, I began to feel a little migrate headache-ish myself.

“. . . so anyways, I says to Katie,  ‘Katie, honey,  did you look under your bed for your backpack?’ sense it could have been there for all intensive purposes. But guess where she found it, Linda?”

“I looked at the clock: 8:35 a.m.  Judy would stay all morning if I didn’t think of a way to get rid of her.  I was mulling over ways to covertly set the house on fire when I realized Judy was trying to get my attention.

“Yoo-hoo!  Earth to Linda!  I said, guess where she found it?”

“Where?”

No guess!

“I give up, Judy.  Where?”

“Right on the hook!  It was supposably there the whole time!  Judy laughed like she was auditioning for a sitcom laugh track.  “Oh and wait til I tell you about what happened yesterday when we bolth got super flustrated because we could find her sweater anywhere and . . . ”

I looked at the clock again. One minute had gone by.  No force in the universe could slow down the passage of time quite like Judy ByerMyer. I had to think of a way to get rid of her.  But how?

” . . . so anyways we looked under her bed and we looked behind the couch and we looked  . . .”

I was beseeching the gods for an earthquake or at the very least a tidal wave, when there was a horrendous crash through the kitchen ceiling. When the dust settled Judy ByerMyer lay unconscious on my kitchen floor, knocked out cold by a well-timed meteorite. I was horrified and filled with guilt.  So much so that when Judy momentarily came to I confessed that I had beseeched the gods to do it.

“Never misunderestimate the power of the gods.” Judy ByerMyer said and added, “I sure hope I don’t go into a comma.”

 

Judy Byermyer in a comma
Commatose Judy ByerMyer

 

Until next time . . . I love you

 

 

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Dictionary, Shmictionary.