A bird’s eye view of literature.
I’m a writer and I don’t get no respect. Just the other day my mother-in-law came to visit. She asked for one of my stories and I gave her the latest one I had written. The next day I had to go and visit her. I asked her how she liked the story. She said it wasn’t long enough.
“Long enough?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “There weren’t enough pages to line the bottom of my parrot’s cage. He’s not happy.”
Lydia walked up the blathering idiot and said, “We have a problem.”
The blathering idiot had been sitting quietly in a folding chair outside the small conference room in the storefront headquarters of the Pro-Accordion Party. Lydia had told him that his being selected the new PAP candidate was just a formality.
The simple formality had been going on for over two hours now, behind closed doors, with voices raised and what sounded like fists pounded every now and then.
The door was finally back open and Lydia was now standing and then sitting beside him, telling him there was a problem. This did not sound good for him going back this evening and impressing Zoey with his new-found status as candidate for high office, the highest office in the land, in fact.
“It’s like this,” Lydia said. “I didn’t anticipate that there would be a faction of the Pro-Accordion Party that believes we need to hold another nominating convention and nominate our new candidate that way.”
While he could understand the faction’s desires in this area, he also felt disappointed. I guess that showed on his face, because Lydia placed a hand on his arm as if cheer him up.
“The fight … I mean … discussion is not over yet.”
He nodded. He wasn’t sure if there was something he was meant to agree with.
“There is one thing you could do that would help and also bolster your chances of being the next candidate.”
“Name it.”
“We need a mascot,” she said.
“A what?”
“The other parties have mascots. One of them has a donkey. The other an elephant. We need an animal mascot. Other third parties that have tried to break into the election world have failed because they don’t have a mascot, an animal that people can readily identify with.”
“And if I find one—”
“Then I’m sure you will be the new candidate for the Pro-Accordion Party.”
The blathering idiot immediately headed out to find a mascot. But first he had to go to play golf. He had promised Xenia, Zoey’s daughter, a round, and since golf seemed to be a game the winners of the election were expected to play, he took it as a sign that he was destined for this highest office because he had, two weeks ago, scheduled this event. Or, rather, Xenia had scheduled it with him.
#
One of the holes at Sir Goony’s Go Karts and Minigolf. The snake is not the mascot.
Sir Goony’s Go Karts & Minigolf: Now Open Daily was bracketed by Prodigal Son Primary Care on one side and Exodus Chiropractic on the other. It was a slopping landscape of grass, concrete, fake grass, and fiberglass: rocket ship, Humpty Dumpty lokk-a-like, giant ape, and a very big, yellow, polka-dotted snake that arced above ground in a couple of different spots.
“So,” Xenia asked, “can this animal be dead or does it have to be alive?”
The question, coming suddenly, caused the blathering idiot to hit his ball too hard and it bounced around inside the small blue shelter, but did not go into the cup.
After thinking about a minute more, he said, “I don’t think they’ll be parading a live version animal around the campaign trail.”
He walked inside the structure and scrawled on the wall were the words: “Rich Folk Ain’t Bad if U Cook Them Right.”
Rich folk just can’t catch a break, except maybe in the kitchen. These missionaries of wealth and just like the missionaries of old who might have been eaten by the cannibals. But like the cannibals, the poor gotta eat somethin’.
“Well done,” he said to no one in particular.
Xenia stared at him for a moment, then moved up to take her shot.
At the next hole, the blathering idiot dropped his pencil. It rolled into the grass and as he bent over his shirt hiked up and his pants slumped down. He quickly straightened up and did his best to make sure Xenia didn’t see his red heart underwear.
She looked at him and cocked an eyebrow. “Are you ready for the tough campaign question?”
The question startled him again and he messed up his shot. The shot bolted into the fiberglass cave and ricocheted off the bumpy walls and one stalagmite. He had yet to break par on any of his holes. He hoped the tough question wouldn’t be about his golf game.
He turned and looked at this ten year old who was sometimes his ally in getting along with her mother and sometimes his general tormentor.
“And what question is that?”
“Do you wear boxers or briefs?”
“No.”
“Yes. Mom said that question was asked of guy who ran for this office.”
“Really?”
She nodded.
Zoey, Xenia’s mother, was not above a little bit of humor, but somehow this felt like a real, true question.
“And what did he say?” the blathering idiot asked.
Xenia shrugged her shoulders. “Mom didn’t say. I wasn’t supposed to be listening to the conversation anyways.”
The blathering idiot sighed.
“So, what would you say?”
The blathering idiot messed up his second attempt to get the ball in the hole in the cave. The hole was up a slight mound, like a big ant hill. Since it was a small cave and open at both ends, there was enough light. He never remembered seeing a hole like this on TV when they played golf.
He walked back out of the cave, past Xenia, but did not answer her question. What was next to his body was nobody’s business, up to and including even if he was going without any. Something he rarely did. This campaigning might be harder than he thought.
“You’re turn,” Xenia said.
It was then, as the blathering idiot came out of his deep thinking, and was pivoting to head back into the cave that he spied the mascot for the Pro-Accordion Party. It was standing right there beside, big eyes, sort of a cryptic smile on its face, and it even, already, had a red, white, and blue striped hat on its head.
(To be continued, more or less.)
Filed under 2012, blathering idiot, Story by author
A Brit, American, Korean, Frenchman, Australian, German, Israeli, Saudi, Malaysian, Columbian, and Japanese walk into an elegant bar for a drink.
“Sorry,” says the bartender. “I can’t serve you without a Thai.”
Filed under Monday morning writing joke
Not exactly the hot spot I had in mind.
I’m a writer and I don’t get no respect. Just the other day my mother came over for a visit. She’s a religious woman of sorts. She said she had something that she thought would help me write. She asked if she could hang it in my office. I thought maybe it was a poster with some writing quotes on it. I said okay. She hung it and then left.
When I entered the office, I found the item. It was a plaque. It read: “You are cordially invited to the theological place of eternal punishment.”
Below that she had placed a sticky note that read: “Love, Mom.”
Filed under cartoon by author, Monday morning writing joke, no respect
Mrs. Emma Jeane Johnston was buried by her husband and son, who preceded her in death.
I think the word to use in this case is “beside” and not “by,” but I don’t think Stephen King could have written it any creepier.
[Editor’s note: The above is an actual headline title or sentence from an article. Like a puca, every now and then and here and there these will appear. Just something to consider when you are writing.]
Filed under Uncategorized
Nothing in the vows says to have and to hold until imagination does you part.
My wife told me I had to stop writing. She said I was having more fun with my imaginary friends than I was with her. I said, So? Big mistake. Big mistake. I forgot what a wallup a real person packs. My oral surgeon said one or two more surgeries and I’ll be almost as good as new. I’ll only have to take the dentures out once a day.
You can’t try to do things; you simply must do them.
–Ray Bradbury
Filed under Ray Bradbury, Writers on writing
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.]
Filed under Monday morning writing joke
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
Q.: How many mystery writers does it take to change a light bulb?
A.: Two – one to do most of the turning and the other to give it a final twist at the end.
The mystery began in the most unlikely of places, and it was a shock to hear about.
[Editor’s note: Okay, so this one is a riddle. What would you expect for a mystery?]
Filed under Monday morning writing joke
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