Have you heard about the two literary agents who saw one of their writers on the other side of the street?
One of them said, “There’s the b@$t@^d who gets 75% of our earnings.”
[Comment: Sometimes life’s a matter of how you view things.]
Tag Archives: humor
Monday morning writing joke: Re-view
Filed under Monday morning writing joke
Workshop weekend: “My mother the DEET”
My mother the DEET
Just couldn’t be beat
on those Spring and Summer days
When the ‘skeeters so fine
would fly in and dine
on my flesh and be eager to stay.
I would itch and twitch
and conjure like a witch
and try scratching the bites away.
But that would only make worse
their evil curse
brought on by these biters’ ways.
I still use it now
so I won’t be cowed
when those bloodsuckers come my way.
If only the taste
would not make my face
twist up and turn my spit to clay.
Bo, oh no, you say
that’s not the way
to apply this wonderful DEET.
It is not a delicacy —
plain, fried or fricasseed —
so from my meals it should retreat.
But it’s hard to apply
to my skin, though I try,
with these bags taped to my hands and feet.
Filed under poetry by author, Workshop weekend
Workshop weekend: limerick: “Strange tale”
There once was a writer from Nairobi
who had a strange tale that she told me.
About the dark of night
when Aliens came for her “delight”…
and then produced copies, which she sold me.
It was a dark and stormy story….
Filed under cartoon by author, limerick, poetry by author, Workshop weekend
cARtOONSDAY rEDUX: tHE gREAT eSCAPE
Sometimes, plot happens.
[Editor’s note: Apparently, in addition to needing talent, I can also use an editor. I had an extra “y” dangling in the earlier version, which I only caught a little while ago. Possibly the best letter to have dangling at the end of a word considering the subject. Above is a slightly updated version, sans extra “y.”]
Filed under cartoon by author, CarToonsday
Monday morning writing joke: The best laid lines
The Queen was touring a Scottish hospital. She approached the bed of a patient who shouted out: “Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race!”
Another patient staggered up to her and sang “Should auld acquaintance be forgot.”
Turning to a doctor she asked if she was in a ward for mental patients.
“No ma’am,” he said. “This is the Burns Unit.”
[Editor’s note: look up the works of Scottish poet Robert Burns if you have trouble getting this pun. But, hey, it’s the closest joke I have that is in any way related to writing and the Olympics, which used to have poetry competition as an event. Sadly, no more. Not in the modern Olympics, which I like could use a little literary lift.]
Filed under Monday morning writing joke
Workshop weekend: Saturday story: The blathering idiot and Spotted Dick
The blathering idiot darts up to a stocking clerk in a grocery store.
“You’re Spotted Dick, where is it?”
The male stocking clerk looks at him. “Come again?”
“Your Spotted Dick,” the blathering idiot said. “I need your Spotted Dick.”
“But I don’t have one.”
“One? One what?”
“Spotted dick, sir.”
“But you’ve advertised that you do.”
The clerk’s face turns red.
“I have not!”
“Yes, you have.”
“No I haven’t!”
“Yes, you have advertised that you have Spotted Dick.”
The clerk blushes. “That’s not what I advertised, sir.”
The blathering idiot stops, looks at the young man, a couple of small clusters of acne on his check and chin, and slowly realizes he may have been misunderstood.
He spots another clerk. This time a woman. He walks up to her. “Have you Spotted Dick?”
“Have you tried aisle nine?” she says and then quickly walks away.
Canned Spotted Dick; find it at your local grocery store. Just be careful whom you ask.
“Thank you.” The blathering idiot walks over to aisle nine. It is an aisle of coffee and tea and some drinks in pouches, but there is no Spotted Dick. He stomps up and down the aisle twice and is about the curse this store, the earth, even the universe itself when a woman walks by, Spotted Dick in her cart, near the top, the name in plain view.
His face lights up. He points at the can. “Madam, do you know what you have?!”
She looks him up and down. “It’s not what you think.”
“I know what it is.”
“It’s not disgusting or lewd.”
“Where … did … you … find it? I must have it.”
“It’s the last can and you can’t have it.”
“It’s the last can and I can’t have it?”
“That’s right.”
“No it’s not. It’s the last can and I can have it.” He reaches forward, snatches it out of her cart, and runs to the front of the store. He hears the woman wailing and sobbing, screaming to anybody and everybody that somebody has her Spotted Dick.
The blathering idiot is almost out of the store when he is stopped by an off duty police officer working as a security guard. The blathering idiot has his Spotted Dick firmly clutched in his hands. He told the checkout clerk he didn’t need a bag. Zoey was waiting. It was all she wanted to patch things up between them. It was British, she said, and she wanted to help celebrate the Olympics. She showed him the ad and off he dashed to the store, barely getting his clothes on.
“Sir, I need to see some ID,” the security guard says.
“What?” the blathering idiot asks. “I paid for it fair and square.”
The guard nods. “I’m sure you did, but I still need to see some ID. I’m afraid I am going to have to cite you.”
“For what?”
The guard looks down at what the blathering idiot has clutched in his hand. Then he looks down below that. “Sir, your fly is open and several people have spotted … have seen your spotted….”
Filed under blathering idiot, Saturday story, Workshop weekend
Freeform Friday II: Limerick: “Poet from Maine”
There once was a poet from Maine
whose haiku would cause others in vain
to say that they could do, too,
the verse and rhythm that he knew,
but it drove many who attempted insane.
Filed under Freeform Friday, poetry by author, rhyming poetry
Freeform Friday: Limerick: “Mumpsimus”
There once was a man called Mumpsimus
who when he spoke, wasn’t quite one of us.
He’d say Hello for Good bye,
or Good Night at noon high.
But we knew he was kind when he cussed at us.
Filed under Freeform Friday, limerick, poetry by author
Random acts of poetry: Limerick: “Quills”
There once was a man from Ft. Wayne.
Whose bride nearly drove him to abstain.
Little sex, no thrills –
She was all “porcupine quills” –
Until he sang songs with bawdy refrains.
Filed under limerick, poetry by author, Random acts of poetry
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