There once was a writer from Lexington /
Who had four daughters, but no son. /
He cried and he sighed /
And he wanted to know why. /
Then he made all his heroes be women.
***
Two antennas met on a roof, fell in love and got married. The ceremony wasn’t much, but the reception was excellent.
Filed under 2015, Monday morning writing joke, poetry by author
There once was a writer from Maine /
Who wrote about the strange and insane. /
“Your writing reminds me of King.” /
Those words would always sting, /
Until he stuffed their remains down the drain.
***
A jumper cable walks into a bar. The bartender says, “I’ll serve you, but don’t start anything.”
Filed under 2015, Monday morning writing joke, poetry by author
There once was a writer of fiber /
Whose morning had a high moral driver. /
A bowl of bran flakes /
Is all that she partakes, /
And the output does more than inspire her.
***
An invisible man marries an invisible woman. Their kids were nothing to look at either.
Filed under 2015, Monday morning writing joke, poetry by author
Q.: What’s the difference between a propaganda writer and a roman candle?
A.: Depends upon how much a roman candle is selling for.
***
Three writers walk into a fireworks store. Each has $1. One buys a cherry bomb. The second buys a pack of firecrackers. The third buys a sparkler. Which one’s the poet?
A.: The one with the cherry bomb. Metaphorically, he’s trying to get the biggest bang for his buck.
Filed under 2015, Monday morning writing joke
An old car, a bottle of antidepressants, and gun walked into a bar.
The car blew its horn and eventually had to be belted.
The antidepressants were such a pill, they had to be bottled up.
And the gun shot its mouth off so often nobody else could get a word in. Eventually it triggered a revolt from the rest of the patrons and the three of them were shown the door.
One writer at a back table looks over at his friend: “What do you thing that was about?”
The second writer shrugs. “Chitty pity bang bang.”
Filed under 2015, Monday morning writing joke
A writer and a monkey walk into a bar. First the writer climbs up on a bar stool. Then the monkey does. The writer orders a soft drink. Then the monkey does.
The bartender, when she has a moment, asks the writer what is going on.
“Well,” the writer says, “I have run out of ides. My well is dry. I don’t want to call it writer’s block, but I thought I would do my own experiment. I had heard somebody claim that if you put a group of monkeys in a room and gave them each a typewriter, eventually you’d get Shakespeare. I can’t afford a room full of monkeys. But I thought maybe with a little more time, one monkey might turn out something, even a crappy something that I could then use.”
The bartender walks away, but comes back after serving another customer. “Isn’t that like plagiarism?”
The writer nods. “Maybe.”
This goes on for several months until one evening the writer walks in alone.
After serving him, the bartender asks, “Where’s your … writing partner?”
The writer shots her a sour look, “Stupid monkey. After months of my investing him, teaching him all I know. Just when he starts to write some stuff I can use, he ups and quits on me.”
“What? He found out what you were going to do and got mad at you?”
“I wish. It would have been easier if he had.”
The bartender gets called away to serve another customer, but then returns. “Well, what happened?”
The writer sighs. “It’s a long story, but let me say this. I taught that monkey all I knew and he was getting good at writing a paragraph or two, here or there. Then he got the bright idea that he needed an agent.”
“So?”
“So, he only wanted one agent, a B.F. Skinner,” the writer says, taking a sip of his drink. This time it was something harder than soda.
“Never heard of him. He doesn’t come in here, anyway.”
“I can’t find him. But the monkey says he won’t do any more work until I do.”
“So, what now?”
“I’ve already moved on to another animal. I thought I’d try a dog this time. Thought he might be more loyal.”
“And how has that worked out?”
The writer shakes his head. “It was fine. Then the dog said he wanted to talk to somebody named Pavlov.”
Filed under 2015, Monday morning writing joke
A man was sitting next to a writer in a bar when he turned and asked: “Where do you get your ideas?”
The writer thought for a moment, then asked, “Do you really want to know?”
The man took a swallow of his drink, then nodded.
“Okay,” said the writer. “Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you.”
The man buys the writer a drink.
The writer says, “On the fifth Tuesday of each month I go to a tiny shop in a hidden building about a block from where I live. That’s why I live there. The shop is called Noideaer. For a fee the woman who works there will sell me several prints of story ideas. I take the one I like best and go to the framing shop next door, called The Hang Out, and he frames it for me so I can see the big picture of the story. Then I take it home and when I’m in the right frame of mind, I look at the picture and write the story.”
“Wow!” said the man at the bar. “Can I go there and you know get me up a group of ideas, have one of them framed up like you know you do and then take it home and write?”
The writer looked down at his drink, then looked back at the man and said, “As long as you can pay the syntax.”
The man cursed the government up one side and down the other, and eventually slowed down enough to say if he had to pay a sin tax, he’d rather do without. He then slid off his bar stool and stumbled away.
The bartender came over and nodded toward the man leaving. “Third one this week.”
“The syntax gets them every time.”
Filed under 2015, Monday morning writing joke
Three creationists accidentally walked into a tar pit last night. In 6.000 years nobody will care.
—
Three lawyers accidentally walked into a tar pit last night. They felt right at home.
—
Three lobbyists walked into a bar last night. The politicians were waiting.
—
Two, three, then four writers walked into a bar last night. Some say it was a comma occurrence.
Filed under 2015, Monday morning writing joke
Two scriptwriters were sitting in a bar in holiday talking about their latest series pitches to studio executives.
First writer: “I pitched the story that was the retelling of the big fish. In this case, the fish was so huge he was about the swallow the entire Earth. And the only thing in between him and his goal is a female nephrologist.”
Second writer: “Why a nephrologist?”
First writer: “Ever seen a series with a nephrology doctor in the lead?”
Second writer: “No.”
First writer: “See, that would make it different. Unique. Besides, my girl friend is a nephrologist–”
Second writer: “And you’re trying to impress her.”
First writer: “You got that right.”
Second writer: “What did the executive say?”
First writer: “‘You got to be kidney-ing me.'”
Filed under 2015, Monday morning writing joke
Q: What did the vampire say to his female plastic surgeon?
A: “I just want a little nibble and suck.”
—
Man in a dark suit walks into a bar and orders a Bloody Mary.
The bartender refuses to serve him.
Another fellow at the bar calls the bartender over and asks him, “You make Bloody Marys here. Why won’t you serve him one?”
The bartender says: “He’s a real vampire and he wants a real Bloody Mary. I’m already down two waitresses this week. I can’t afford to lose another. Besides, he doesn’t tip all that well.”
—
A cactus and a vampire walk into a bar. Then in walks a woman with blood stains on her clothes. She looks over at the two of them and can’t decide who’s the bigger pricker of her.
Filed under 2015, Monday morning writing joke
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