Oh, if my client weren’t thin,
I might try again
To give ol’ Ozzie a wondrous spin.
But as it stands now,
I’d have to be more than a cow
To udderly grasp the glass teat, oh how?
And if I chocked the chicken
It might take a lickin’
And come round a pickin’
a row
with the cow
or a sow
somehow.
I'm not sure what to make of this offer on Twitter. If she thinks I am somehow one of these women in the guise of a not-so-slim-waisted man, she would definitely be disappointed.
As a recent member of Twitter, it sometimes surprises me what can get done with only 140 characters.
Take this offer, for example. Certainly the name should say it all: “Jenny Breastits.” But to further drive home the point, she is “@LovelySoftBoobs.” And if that is not enough, her description makes it absolutely clear what she loves.
What I don’t understand is why she wants to follow my tweets? I am not a woman, don’t have the naturally full items she is most interested in, and I possess a not so slim waist. If she thinks I am harboring any of these things, she is suffering from delusions I cannot even begin to fathom.
Twitter may have a limit of 140 characters, but it does seem that at times, all of those characters are odd.
Filed under absurdity, fun, humor, odd, puns, Random Access Thoughts, Random thought, sex, slim waist, social media, true story, twitter
The blathering idiot went to the dermatologist. Once the examination was over and the doctor had looked at his knuckle pads and his tinea versicolor, the dermatologist pronounced him a case of idiopathic medicine.
At first the blathering idiot felt insulted. While not the brightest bulb in the box or the sharpest saw on the rack, he did not consider himself an idiot, and he told the doctor so.
The doctor smiled, and then said, idiopathic means “modern medicine does not know the cause of either of your conditions.”
He then explained that for the knuckle pads, “we usually do nothing, unless they start causing you pain.”
For the tinea versicolor, a naturally occurring fungus that is in everybody’s skin, “it just runs a little wild in some people,” he gave the blathering idiot a prescription, then said of having two idiopathic conditions, “It just means you’re special.”
That made the blathering idiot feel better.
He then went to his local pharmacy to turn in his prescription. As he turned in the script, he saw a sign glued beneath the lip of the counter that read: “Select narcotics in time-delay safe.”
When the pharmacy technician took his prescription, the blathering idiot asked, “Which ones can I select?”
“Which what?” the tech asked.
“Which narcotics?” the blathering idiot said.
She looked at his prescription. “Your script doesn’t say anything about a narcotic.”
“But I can select one, right?”
She frowned. “No.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not supposed to get any.”
Select Narcotics in Time Delay Safe
“It does not.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Where?”
He pointed at the sign. “Here!”
“It does not—”
“Yes, it does.” Clearly this young woman had not heard that he, the blathering idiot, was special. “Come out here and see.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what? Read?”
She glared at him. “I can’t come out there. It’s against the rules. I am the only person on duty back here right now and the rules say I can’t leave my station.”
“All I want is what the sign says I should select.”
“I think you should go to another pharmacy,” she said and offered him back the script. To be sure he understood, she pressed an intercom button and asked for “special assistance” in the pharmacy.
Insulted when a guard appeared, the blathering idiot snatched the script and marched out the door and to the next nearest pharmacy. As he walked up to the pharmacy counter, he again found the words: “Select narcotics in time delay safe” and hoped he would have better luck here.
Filed under absurdity, blathering idiot, dermatologist, doctor, fiction, humor, idiopathic, puns, Random Access Thoughts, Random thought, tall tales, word play, words, writing
How come most of the “people” that want to follow me on this social medium are diet gurus, body part enlargement specialists, and get rich quick schemers? Don’t they know I’m a multi-plus sized coach potato with a sweaty beer in one hand, a twitchy remote in the other, and a wallet flatter than a left-over night of pleasure?
Filed under absurdity, beer, diet, guru, humor, Random Access Thoughts, Random thought, remote control, satire, social media, twitter, word play, words, writing
888888
The Cough Drop Kidd and the Kibitzer rode into town. It would have been in a cloud of mentholated dust, but because it was raining, it was in a slosh of mud and a cough laced with glycol. They were almost out of cough drops and the Kidd was not happy.
“Kibitzer,” he said between sniffles, “go get us some.”
“I’m only here to watch,” the Kibitzer said, “and for the popcorn.”
The Cough Drop Kidd pulled his six-shooter and pointed it at the head of Kibitzer’s horse. “You wanna observe riding or walking?”
The Kibitzer’s horse’s ears flicked back and forth as if trying drive away a fly. The Kibitzer blinked a couple times and finally said, “I’ll go watch the apothecary mix up a batch.”
The Kidd nodded and raised the barrel of his pistol skyward. “Be quick about it. I’ll be in the saloon getting a hot toddy. A little honey will help my throat.”
888888
The Kidd entered the saloon. It was beat up ol’ place with chairs that had legs that didn’t match and a bar rail so wobbly it had a hand printed sign hanging from it that said: Donut touch. That means u.
The floor creaked to the point he was sure it was talking to him, saying something like, “Donut go there.” But he paid it no heed as he stepped toward the bar. This part of the Wild Side was full of things that spoke when not spoken to. Some said it was haints. Others said it was spirits. And some even said it was bottled spirits. Even though he was wet all over, the Kidd was parched.
“Hey, dandy boy, wipe your feet. What do you think this is, your corral?”
A few people looked his way and a couple of folks chuckled, but most kept doing the mopping and card playing and lying they were doing before.
The woman yelling at him was tall and a little on the heavy side, which meant this business had been good to her. The Kidd liked that about her. She was standing behind the bar, so thus far what he liked was only from about the waist up. She was wiping out a glass.
When he was up near her, he whispered, “I’ll have a hot toddy.” His voice was about gone.
“Well, I do declare,” she said, “the dandy wants a hot toddy.”
“A what?” somebody at the bar asked. His back was to the Kidd, so the Kidd didn’t know what he looked like.
“A toddy. A hot toddy.” She said the words again and winked back at the Kidd. He wasn’t sure if it was a friendly gesture, or a twitch.
The man turned around. His face was as scuffed as the floor and as beaten up as the chairs. Tobacco juice ran out of one of the corners of his mouth. One eye was lazy and one earlobe looked as though a coyote had chewed on it.
“Dandy,” the man said, spitting on the floor, “we don’t serve your kind.”
It was that moment that the saloon went quiet, except for the gentle swinging of the saloon doors and the floor saying, “Told you.”
“Package,” a voice said. “Package for a Cough Drop Kidd. Is there a Cough Drop Kidd here?”
All eyes turned toward the Kidd.
The Kidd turned toward the delivery boy in his granny spectacles, gray cap with a black bill, and clothes too starched and too new to have been worn much in this town.
“One D or two?” the Kidd asked, lightening still flashing just outside the saloon doors.
“Ah,” the delivery boy looked down at the package, “two.”
“Good. The Kid with one D works the lower territory south of the divide. We call the divide the D-M-D for short.”
“And for long?” the boy asked.
“His D ain’t that long,” some cowboy shouted.
The others in the saloon chuckled.
The delivery boy turned bright red, dropped the package, and skedaddled out of the saloon, getting immediately struck by a lightning bolt. The box hit the floor and broke along one of its sides. It bulged open, spewing books across the hardwood, every last one of them different, one of each and each one about vampires.
“So, you a blood sucker, Dandy?” The floor-faced man stepped away from the bar and his hand rattled toward his holster. He had rattlesnake rattles in a band around his wrist and his hand twitched slightly.
The Kidd glanced around. The card games had stopped. The lying had stopped. Even the moping had stopped. The woman behind the bar twitched him another smile and then ducked down behind it. She moved quick for a big woman.
This town is cursed, thought the Kidd. But he didn’t have much time to think anything else. The floor-faced man’s hand was at the top of his holster.
Below are two haikus. The first one is written by Bob Deck, who posts at least one a day on his twitter account. His Twitter account name is bdeck. The second haiku is my response to his.
Email offer boasts
“Luxury Bronze Spray Sculpt Tan”
stupid as I look?
Your body now bronze
Success and neighbor envy.
Talk in muted tones.
Filed under bronze, call and response, fun, haiku, humor, poem, poetry, Random Access Thoughts, Random thought, tan, word play, words, writing
If I tried to marry Truth and Beauty, would I be any the wiser, or would I have simply committed philosophical polygamy?
Marriage of Socialism and Satan blamed for bizarre barrage of bad press over sandwich give away by Pennsylvania franchise.
Prayers called for by all right-minded Christians in the Chicken Sandwich Slinger’s hour of need. “Don’t get caught waffling,” one supporter intoned, “or you will fry in Hell.”
No official comment from the poultry wing of the political spectrum. Some say they have been bullied into submission and cower at the thought of speaking up for fear of being squawked. “We have decided to lay low on this one,” an inside source said, speaking anonymously on background. “This entire situation is all fowled up.”
“This is not egg-actly what we had hoped for,” C.T., founder and president of Chicken Sandwich Slinger, said when asked about it two weeks ago. “But we stand behind our independent franchise slinger’s actions in offering free sandwiches to legally married couples. Man and woman couples. We prayed about it and have decided to carry this idea nationwide and will be offering one free Chicken Slinger’s Sandwich to couples holding a valid marriage license.”
Unsubstantiated reports show an increase in online requests for ministers’ licenses, with the largest spikes appearing in the San Francisco, New York, and Atlanta areas. When asked about this, 84-year-old C.T. said it was “a feather in our cap,” if the increases were due to his promotional idea. “We’ll yet put the gay ol’ time back into marriage,” he said. “Even if we have to do it one Chicken Slinger’s Sandwich at a time.”
There was no immediate response from the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender Alliance.
More details as they become available.
The blathering idiot was about to take a flight. He rarely flew, so he was particularly concerned with the possibility of not landing, or not landing correctly. Especially with the recent spate of air traffic controllers falling asleep, discussions of Christian Armageddon/Rapture, Mayan End of Time, and general pronouncements from certain pundits that America was on the wrong track and headed for its death, he didn’t want to get caught short, though he wasn’t quite sure what short was or why getting caught short was a bad thing. Did that mean getting caught tall was a good thing? The blathering idiot was of middling height, so where did that leave him, he wondered.
The blathering idiot made all the arrangements. He wrote out a will, though he wasn’t quite sure how to test it so it could be will and testament. He made provisions for somebody to take care of his dog. He left a love note for his on again, off again, maybe again girl friend Zelda, and a few words of advice in a note for her daughter Xenia. He hoped that she would understand to definitely NOT take any wooden nickels. Though he had never seen one himself, he heard they were a bad thing. If nothing else, it might mean you’d one day reach your hand in your pocket and find you had a pocket full of splinters.
After all the other arrangements were made, there was still one the blathering idiot had not made: his epitaph. He had thought long and hard about this. What to say that would sum up his life in a few words. He spoke with different religious leaders of different faiths and even looked in several holy books, but nothing quite suited him.
He looked up epitaphs of famous people. He didn’t quite understand the one that read: “All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.” But maybe he would after he was dead. He looked at the epitaphs of the not-so-famous people in big graveyard near his house. (He did not discuss it with Zelda. Things were off again with her and what she would probably recommend would not be what he would want resting above him for eternity, particularly if her last words when they broke up were any indication.)
He asked a few of his friends. One said say something witty. Another said, why say anything at all?
As the flight time was fast approaching, in an act of desperation, the blathering idiot consulted books and documents. Over and over again, a certain set of words kept appearing. He wasn’t quite sure why there were on the pages they were on. These pages were often blank, except for these words. Maybe this was a sign. Also, he had not seen them on a gravestone before, so they might have the advantage of being one of a kind, and the blathering idiot liked the idea of being one of a kind.
The person who would have his headstone carved in the event of the inevitable looked at the words and then looked at the blathering idiot oddly. Finally, he shrugged and said, “It’s your funeral.”
THIS SPACE INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK
Filed under absurdity, air, Armageddon, Blank, blathering idiot, Cartoon, Christian, End of Time, humor, imagination, Mayan, Random Access Thoughts, Rapture, satire, traffic controller, words, writing
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