Linda’s Bedtime Stories for Grownup Children #138

 

Ted Flerk’s Autobiography

“As you know, children, we always observe National Rubber Spatula Day here at Connie’s Kindergarten Cuisine Academy and–” Miss Connie’s announcement was interrupted by a collective moan from the classroom.

And,” Miss Connie continued unfazed, “I therefore will be reading to you from Scraping By — the autobiography of Ted Flerk who you will remember is credited with inventing the rubber spatula.

Miss Connie calmly opened to page one and began reading in a clear, strong voice as several students rushed for the door that Miss Connie had had the presence of mind to bolt.

“The story of how it came to pass that fateful day in Mother’s kitchenette, when I, Ted Flerk, invented mankind’s most important baking utensil, the rubber spatula, is, I suppose, a tedious tale, or, more precisely, a thorough recounting, if you will, of—“

Suddenly a loud boom erupted from the back of the classroom. Miss Connie looked over the top of her reading glasses. Charles was out of his seat.

“If you’re thinking you’re going to bust down that door, Charles, you’ve got another thing coming.” Miss Connie said mildly. ” Now, put down that battering ram and return to your seat immediately!”  Miss Connie continued reading.

” . . . the events leading up to the day I thought of inventing the Rubber Spatula, including what happened while I was physically inventing the rubber spatula, itself,  in addition to a detailed accounting of my life up to that point– “

Suddenly there was a mighty crash and a tinkling of glass. Miss Connie calmly put her finger on her place in the book and looked up. Several girls were helping each other climb through the jagged glass of the broken classroom window. A line of students was quickly forming behind them. Miss Connie chose to ignore the interruption and continued reading.

” . . . and exactly how I, Ted Flerk, was able to scrape every type of bowl known to man leaving no detail undocumented. . . “

At 3:00 sharp, Miss Connie bookmarked her place in the book, turned out the lights of her now empty classroom and went home.

 

Inventor of the rubber spatula
Ted Flerk, inventor of the rubber spatula and the Author of Scraping By

 

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

Mummy Tell Me Again About Labor Day

Welcome Dear Readers!  Well it’s Labor Day here in the United States of America!  Which means a lot of people get the day off.  Nobody knows why and nobody cares why.

Well, Dear Readers, I for one, feel that Labor Day is getting the shaft, and that’s why I have taken the liberty of writing an educational story about Labor Day to create awareness for Labor Day appreciation.

Mummy, Tell Me Again About Labor Day

“Mummy, tell me again about Labor Day,” little Tommy Sweatington begged his mother one fine Labor Day morn. “For as you know mummy,” little Tommy continued, “tis my favorite American Federal holiday of all!”

Mummy Sweatington looked up from her task of scrubbing the floors of City Hall with a toothbrush and replied, “Tommy!  How many times have I told you never to come to City Hall wearing your pajamas!”

Mummy’s harsh words made Tommy’s heart sink and push down on his kidneys in such a way as to make the tears in Tommy’s eyes shoot out at odd trajectories.  But then he remembered it was Labor Day, his favorite American Federal holiday, and his heart floated back up to its proper position and his tears reversed their trajectory and went back into his eyes.

Once his vision cleared, Tommy noticed something very strange.  His mother was workingMummy was working on Labor Day! 

“Mummy!” screamed Tommy, “don’t you know that in 1882 Matthew MacGuire proposed Labor Day after witnessing a labor festival held in  Toronto Canada which eventually led to the observance of my most beloved American Federal Holiday  — Labor Day?  Mummy, I implore you to tell me why you are working on Labor Day?”

At this, Tommy became agitated and then Tommy became appalled and finally Tommy became apoplectic — which didn’t last very long — because right after that Tommy went back to being appalled and then merely agitated and by the time his mother looked up to answer his question, Tommy was pretty much back to normal.

“But Tommy Dear,” Mummy Sweatington replied, “I’m not working.  Scrubbing the floors of the City Hall is my hobby, silly!”

“But Mummy!” Tommy protested.  “Why would you want to have a hobby that requires you to scrub the floors of City Hall with your toothbrush?”

“Tommy darling, you don’t understand.  I’m not using my toothbrush to scrub the floors of City Hall, I’m using your toothbrush!”

And a good Labor Day laugh was had by all!

“That Mummy’s a riot!”

***

Happy Labor Day!

Until next time . . . I love you

Friday Fictioneers: Earth’s Shimmering Orb and Whatnot

Welcome Dear Readers!  It’s time once again for Friday Fictioneers where writers from all over the wold gather to play a rousing game of football.  Oh wait . . . never mind — I was thinking of the Friday Buccaneers.

Actually Friday Fictioneers (organized by Rochelle Wisoff Fields over at addicted to purple) get together once a week to write a 100-word story prompted by a picture — which this week is provided to us by Erin Leary over at erinlearywrites.  Hop over and take a look a look around Erin’s blog.  I think you’ll find she’s as good a writer as she is a photographer.

This is such a beautiful picture prompt this week, but, of course, my brain, Peanuts, had to completely ignore all the beautiful scenarios that could have been created and came up with the following instead:

copyright-erin-leary
Copyright — Erin Leary

Earth’s Shimmering Orb and Whatnot

Betty watched as earth’s shimmering orb slowly deflated into the milky horizon almost like a slowly deflating tire but not exactly, of course.

Then Betty noticed that the beauty of the scene was causing her eyes to fill up with tears in direct proportion to the speed of the air being released from the tire Betty was imagining — which caused Betty to do two things:  1) Marvel at the perfection of the universe and 2) remind her husband, Bob, to check the air pressure on the tires of her Volvo and maybe check the oil too and whatnot.

* * *

Until next time . . . I love you

Trifecta Writing Challenge: Bob’s Face

Welcome Dear Readers to this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge.  This week we are asked to write a story between 33 and 333 words using the third definition of the word boo: 3 (verb) to show dislike or disapproval of someone or something by shouting “Boo” slowly –

Bob’s Face

“Boo!”    Gwen slowly pushed the word from her mouth and put on her glasses to follow along in the script as her boyfriend, Bob, acted out his lines.

“Boo?  But Gwen –I haven’t even recited the first line yet.”

“I know, Bob.  I wanted to get my criticism out of the way first thing.”

Captain Splitz!  I wouldn’t go into the engine room if I were you.  Not without your bull whip!” Bob emoted passionately.

“Funny,” Gwen remarked.

“It’s not supposed to be funny.”

“No, I mean it’s funny I never noticed your ears wiggle when you talk, Bob.”

“What?”

“They do, Bob.  Here, I’ve got a mirror in my purse.”

“Gwen, please!  I don’t need to see my ears wiggle.”

“Fine.  If you don’t want to see your ears wiggle it’s no skin off my nose.”

“Where was I? Oh yes . . .  Captain Splitz!  I wouldn’t go into the engine room  if I were you!  Not without your—“

Gwen stifled a little giggle.

“Now what?”

“Nothing Bob, keep going.”

“Captain Splitz!  I wouldn’t go— what are you giggling about Gwen!”

“It’s your eyes, Bob.”

“What about them?”

“Funny.  I never realized until now they look like two ice-blue eggs, sunny-side up!”

“Gwen, can we please get back to the script?”

“Sure, you don’t want to  look at your weird eggy eyes, Bob, it’s fine by me.”

“Captain Splitz!  I wouldn’t go in there if I were you!  Not without your bull whip!” Bob looked up at Gwen.  “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to say anything about my mouth?  Or maybe you want to tell me how weird my hair looks?”

“Bob!  How can you say that?  I’m nothing if not supportive.  How dare you suggest otherwise! You are so lucky to have me as your girlfriend.”

You’re right.  I’m sorry Gwen.  Bob took a deep breath and began again.  “Captain Splitz!  I wouldn’t—”

“But your nose does kind of look like a piece of bacon, Bob.”

“Captain Splitz! I wouldn’t go into the engine room if I were you! Not without your bull whip!”

Until next time . . . I love you

 

Friday Fictioneers: On Day Down at the Cannery

Welcome Dear Readers!  Well it’s Wednesday again.  Unless I somehow went into a parallel universe just as I was making my bed this morning.  In which case, I’d like to give a shout out to the “you” in the parallel universe and wish  “you” a lovely HorsD’oeuvresday.

But whatever universe you’re in, it’s still time for Friday Fictioneers — which means it’s time to write a 100-word story about the picture below — furnished by our lovely Friday Fictioneer hostess Rochelle Wisoff-Fields at her blog,  Addicted to Purple.

iaam
Copyright – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

One Day Down at the Cannery

The day Irene got a microscope was the day Irene began to loath large and began, instead, to fall hopelessly in love with little.

Nothing escaped Irene’s microscope slide –wood shavings (she loved to whittle), vitamins (she was fit as a fiddle) and even Jello (she was hooked on its wiggle).

Irene often pretended her Cheerios were donuts, and that she was eating them with The Incredible Shrinking Man.

Then one day down at her job at the cannery, she saw him!  Mr. Jolligreen Gyant!  And just like that, Irene began to loath little and began, instead, to fall hopelessly in love with large.

* * *

Until next time . . . I love you