Unloose the Zeus
upon these Olympic games.
Make room for his use;
to leave him out is our shame.
He’s the reason for the season,
be it winter or be it summer.
To ban him is but treason
and nothing short of a bummer.
Unloose the Zeus.
Do it now, I command.
And don your birthday suits,
play the games as originally planned.
Filed under 2016, 2021, humor, Poetry by David E. Booker, Saturday, Silly Saturday
The blathering idiot was not sure what to make of the new rest room sign.
There had been complaints about how some of the blathering idiot’s co-workers had been mistreating the restroom facilities, so management had devised a new sign to help everyone understand. It was all in pictures in the hopes that there would be no confusion. Still, the blathering idiot had a few questions.
He understood that an “X” through the drawing meant do something or that is was wrong to do something. And from the new chart, he saw that it was okay to sit on the commode. Though all it looked the man was doing was sitting there and resting. His pants did not look pulled down and he was sitting too erect to be doing anything. A man needed to lean forward a little more when he pooped. And good luck if he tried to pee while sitting that way.
The second drawing puzzled the blathering idiot. Why would a man pour marbles into a commode?
Then there was the third drawing. Was that man praying?
As for the fourth drawing, he wondered why any man would try to ride a commode like a jockey. Had somebody at work really done that?
And then there was fishing in the commode. He had never thought of that. But certainly what was in there was not usually worth fishing for to begin with. Even he knew that. Unless, maybe, you accidentally dropped something in before doing anything else. What do yo do then? Call your supervisor?
As for the last drawing, it was the oddest of them all. It looked like a man squatting back from the commode and taking aim with an object or some sort, maybe even a child’s toy like a missile or torpedo, and trying to aim it at the commode. Did he mean to blow up the commode? Was he trying to throw into the commode something that he hadn’t been able to get to come out until he gave up sitting on the commode the way the man in the first drawing was? He did look a little like he was squatting, after all.
The blathering idiot pondered this poster until he couldn’t come up with any answers that made sense. He went to his supervisor for guidance, but all his boss would say is that it was being used in the Olympics and that if it was clear enough for them, it should be clear enough for everybody working for him.
The blathering idiot felt it was going to be a long shift.
Filed under blathering idiot
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
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
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