Tag Archives: story

The blathering idiot and politics, part 1, I guess

Full moon

Maybe it was the full moon the night before … or maybe it was his girlfriend Zoey.

Maybe it was the full moon the night before, it being a blue moon, or maybe it was his girlfriend Zoey telling him he would never amount to anything, but the blathering idiot was out walking when came across a bumper sticker that read: “Pro-Accordion & I Vote!”

He saw one, then another, and another. It was the parking lot in front of a small storefront, but each of the cars had that bump sticker on it.

The blathering idiot looked up and in the store front window was a banner that said the same thing, and below it was a hand lettered signed that said: “Come join the party.”

It was the middle of the day, but the blathering idiot could use something to lift his spirits, and maybe a party would be it.

He opened the swinging front door. The bell above the door tinkled.

Everybody inside was hunched over his or her computer. There was one accordion in the room. It was up on top of a bookshelf.

A young woman with a clipboard trotted up to him. “Are you here to join the Accordion Party?”

She stepped even closer, the bottom of the clipboard pointed toward him. He surmised that either meant he was supposed to sign the paper on the clipboard or she was using it to shove him back toward the door.

“This is the Accordion Party?”

Pro-Accordion sticker

The blathering idiot saw them on several cars int he parking lot, and banner in the window proclaiming “Pro-Accordion and I Vote!”

“Pro-Accordion,” she said.

She pointed to the bottom of the sheet. “You need to sign here and print your name, address, and way to contact you there.”

“Why?”

“We have to keep track of our volunteers.”

“For the party?”

She nodded. The name tag on her turquoise blouse said: “Hi, my name is Lydia.”

“The accordion party?”

“The Pro-Accordion Party,” she said.

“There are no snacks?”

She shook her head.

“No music?”

“If we win.”

“Win?”

“The campaign.”

“Which one?” he asked.

“The big one.”

“Okay. Who’s your candidate?”

She sighed. “Our original candidate dropped out. Said he couldn’t fit it in around his busy schedule of playing weddings and polka dances, graduation parties and such.”

The blathering idiot had never heard of accordion music at a graduation party, but it had been a few years since he graduated and maybe things had changed.

“So, what are you going to do?”

“For a candidate?” she asked.

The blathering idiot nodded.

“We’re looking for one right now. Would you like to be it?”

He thought about that for a moment. Zoey had challenged him to do something.

“But I don’t know how to play the accordion,” he said.

“Doesn’t matter. You can learn as you go.”

“But I’ve never run for elected office before.”

She shrugged. “You can learn that, too, as you go.”

“Who will teach me?”

The young woman paused. She had large, wide set eyes and dark hair. “Probably, I will.”

If doing this made Zoey a little jealous, there might not be anything wrong with that, either.

“Okay,” he said, “I’m in.”

(To be continued, more or less.)

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Filed under 2012, blathering idiot, Photo by author, Story by author

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.

Spotted Dick

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….”

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Filed under blathering idiot, Saturday story, Workshop weekend

Writing tip Wednesday: Getting lost in a good story

86,400 seconds in a day

What are you writing with your seconds of each day of your life?

Each second a moment you can get lost in a good story or poem, writing or reading it.

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Workshop weekend: Sunday story: “Virtuosity”

I was somewhen gliding over Virtuosity when I woke up from my copy/paste coma. I was ten thousand bar stools above pay dirt, but the drinks had stopped coming long before the last sequence of route rot procedures was done. I tried to perk up with three quick and awful coffees and a Hershey’s kiss left over from my last intrusion into the real world, but it wasn’t helping much. The coffee was a tannic acid man’s dream, bitter and beyond redemption no matter how I tried to doll it up. And the kiss, well, I am a sucker for chocolate, even old chocolate, but this kiss had seen its last sweet pucker long ago, maybe even in a candy gallery far far away.

She walked into my room the way all sycophants do these days – with an air of predestination. She sat down in the old overstuffed chair next to the old overstuffed couch I was crouched on. She placed her legs in just such a position that a trigonometry professor would’ve been had pressed to explain, and it was all I could do to keep my eyes from triangulating on them. They were her best feature, but the rest of her was at least suborbital as well. She dressed in clothes with sharp angles, some of which would probably frighten an armadillo. Her lips were as full and shiny as a waxing moon and her hair gleamed as if it were a source of light all its own. In short, she was as textured as the night, and just as dangerous.

She dragged out a smoke and was about to light it.

“Not in here.” My head was a series of dots and dashes in binary world, and lighting up wasn’t going to help.

She pouted and then put them away. “The boss sent me.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

She looked perplexed, lost in the great heartland of non-sequitors, a trollop with a message trying to make connections with polarized plugs in a non-polarized world.

“The boss says—”

“I know what the boss says. He says it every time he sends one of you floozies down my rat hole with a message, and every time he promises me my freedom and every time he finds a way to wriggle out of following through. Tell Lucy, Charlie ain’t kickin’ at the ball no more.”

She looked even more nonplussed. I could just imagine one big minus sign stretched above her pretty little head, like a halo dancing black hole mambo with an event horizon. One day enough neurons might come burrowing out, Steven Hawking style, to make a moment of enlightenment, but age and propriety would keep me from waiting that long. After all, it’s not polite to stare indefinitely at a glacier, no matter how easy on the eyes.

[Editor’s note: not sure what to do with this. If I should pursue it or let it go. if you have read it, any thoughts or comments? is this an interesting beginning? Thank you for stopping by.]

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Filed under story, Sunday story, Virtuosity, Workshop weekend, writing

Workshop Weekend: Roadmap for this blog

In case you’re wondering, and even if you aren’t, I would like to take a few moments and explain the new layout I am adopting for this blog. I have decided to make at least every work day specific to something. For example, Monday morning writing joke will be a joke focused on writing or about writing. It might also be a limerick (though nothing too naughty) or pun, which is something I have a weakness for.

Next: CarToonsday will be a cartoon, usually based in some way around writing, but not always.

Writing Tip Wednesday will have writing tips. It could also have recommendations of writing books to try, or information about writing conferences, or agents looking for new clients.

Haiku to you Thursday will be a haiku. At least for as long as I can write what I consider to be good quality ones. Sometimes I’m sure I’ll spit out a clunker, but sometimes you have to fail in order to succeed.

Map

At times, the roadmap might be under construction.

Freeform Friday will be another poem, maybe not a haiku but something else, or writing such as a Blathering idiot installment, The Devil’s Dictionary, an essay. Maybe even something I haven’t tried before. Could even be another cartoon. (As if one a week is not enough.)

Story Saturday will be a part of a story. Something I am working on. Could also be a Found Story (photo with piece of writing about the photo). Could even be a whole story, if short enough. Or I may write something about my struggles to write stories, though I am sure that would get old and boring quickly.

Sunday? I may just take off. Or take off Saturday and make it Story Sunday. Or the whole weekend could be titled Workshop Weekend.

I have noticed on weekends there are usually fewer visitors to my blog. People are off doing other things, I assume. Plus a day off won’t hurt. I have a regular job, family obligations, and am working on a novel and short stories as well. On my days off, I aim for between 300 and 400 words of new writing on my stories or novel. So doing that and a blog entry can be tough. I might also skip a day here and there if I don’t have something that fits that day’s theme.

Certainly, comments and suggestions are welcome. And visits, too. The more the better. I aim to keep humor and wit of one stripe or another going on this blog. You may not be rolling in the floor laughing and sometimes you might even be rolling your eyes and groaning at the puns, but at least you’re not having to pay for the self-inflicted humor wound.

Last, but not least, thank you to all who have visited my blog and especially so to those who have linked up to receive notification when I post something new. I do appreciate it. Very much. Part of the reason for trying to more regularize the format is so that you know what’s coming.

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The blathering idiot and Internet dating

The blathering idiot and Zoey had decided to see other people. Well, Zoey had announced she was going to see other people. The blathering idiot saw other people every day, but that was not what Zoey meant. Reluctantly, he tried getting dates. Less than reluctantly, the women refused, some politely, some derisively, some laughing so hard they had tears streaming down their cheeks and nothing else to say. And those that did say something polite usually said that it was not about him, but about her.

Eventually, the blathering idiot turned to dating web sites such as “Oui, Hook U Up,” or OHUUP for short. Their tag line was: “We put the We back in Oui.”

For several weeks he logged in, and talked with several women, exchanging e-mails, photos, even details of things liked and things he wanted to do and try. But he was not able to get a date. At the last minute, they would have a reason why they couldn’t meet, even for coffee or a soda.

But they did keep suggesting he sign up for the Platinum Oui for a Week Club, guaranteed to get him Oui more attention.

He didn’t have the extra money for the POW Club.

He was feeling down, wondering what he was doing wrong, when he ran across Xenia at the downtown library. She was there with some of her friends and somebody other than her mother Zoey watching over them.

She asked how he was. He told her.

“Mom’s meeting some guy she met online.”

The blathering idiot nodded.

“Though I think she really misses you.”

In some ways, he missed Xenia more than Zoey.

“I think those web sites are bogus.”

He nodded.

“I have a friend whose dad tried several of them. He told my mom he was about to fly over to Russia to meet one he had chatted with online. But he began to wonder and after chatting with a few other women from the same site realized he had been talking to some sort of computer program.”

“Really?”

Xenia nodded.

“Said he was embarrassed to admit it, but didn’t want her making the same mistake. Said he thought about reporting them, but then looked at ‘that legal stuff’ he called it on the site and it said something about using staff members and bots to enhance customer satisfaction.”

The blathering idiot and internet dating

Some things are a (key) stoke of luck and some things are a (key) stroke of genius, and then some things are a (key) stroke too far.

When the blathering idiot got back to his computer, he logged into the web site, found his inbox had sixteen “oui notes” waiting for him.

Instead of reading them, he pulled up that “legal stuff” and though it was dull and at times difficult reading, he did find a section that read:

“OHUUP may, in its sole discretion, cause or allow you to be contacted by one or more Super Oui Profiles (“SOP”, “SOPs”) as a part of its “SOP” feature. A SOP may represent a person employed by OHUUP or an affiliate of OHUUP or an automated digital actor created by OHUUP. Nothing contained in an SOP is intended to describe or resemble any real person, and is included on the Website only for the personal enjoyment or entertainment of Users.

“Furthermore, SOPs are used to enhance your online experience, by (for example) stimulating communications with other Users, by introducing you to new or existing features of the Service, or by encouraging active participation on the Website. SOPs may also be used to monitor User activities and communications to ensure compliance with these Terms. In the event that the User responds to a communication from a SOP, the User may, but is not guaranteed to, receive one or more additional communications from such SOPs. Any communication between you and a SOP is for your personal enjoyment or entertainment….”

There was more, but he had read enough.

Another oui note showed up. And another. He glanced at them. Then he realized there must be some mistake. Something was amiss, or not really a miss. Somehow, he was mistakenly getting some woman’s “oui notes.” In this case, the blathering idiot decided, it was a not a bot her, but a bot him.

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The Kibitzer and The Kidd, part 8

[Editor’s note: Parts 1 – 7 of The Kibitzer and the Kidd are available by clicking on “Kidd” or “Kibitzer” in the tag section. This is science fiction western with more than dollop of humor and satire.]

888888

The Kibitzer couldn’t help himself. The flames were everywhere. Smoke embraced the air and made it suffocating.

He didn’t believe in the devil or demons – other than the ones you create or marry into – but the unholiness of the air made him wonder if there wasn’t something otherworldly afoot.

Then there was the quote running through his head, the one where the fat comedian turns to the skinny one with the big chin and doofus grin, and says, “This is a fine mess you’ve gotten use into.”

At a time of impending death, one shouldn’t be thinking of comedy, especially when you couldn’t remember the names of the comedians, especially the one with big chin and the doofus grin.

He heard voices beyond the flames, or at least thought he did. One voice kept yelling over and over: “Swallow the lozenges!”

The Kibitzer wasn’t sure what to make of the voice. The fire was loud and crackling. He never realized how much noise a fire made. If there was a hell and there were people in it and it was composed of fire, the people would not be able to talk to each other. Would not be able to listen to their own thoughts.

He felt for the lozenges. They were in a paper sack in his shirt pocket, but they felt soft, like warmed candle wax. Not yet liquid, but would soon be.

A new wall of flames sprouted up around him, forcing him to run further into the stable.

“Trust the lozenges.”

It sounded like a woman’s voice.

He heard the whinnying of a horse. The Kibitzer glanced around. He thought he had freed all the animals, except himself.

“Trust the lozenges.”

This time the words came with an image. It was the comedian with the doofus grin. The fat comedian with the small bowler hat standing next to him was breathing fire at him, smoke spewing out of the comedian’s ears. But the skinny comedian kept the same big grin.

The lozenges felt very soft when he touched his pocket.

Flames were everywhere. The air was hot, smoky, and unbreathable. But he was still breathing. Sweat flowed off the end of his nose.

The Kibitzer reached for the lozenges. Nobody was going to rescue him. Not now. Not ever. Not even the Kidd.

He heard the whinny again. Louder this time. Followed by kicking.

He had the lozenges out. They were oozing out of their wax paper wrappers and onto his fingers. The liquid was warm, but he could not feel its warmth.

He brought his fingers up to his lips.

The wall in front of him exploded inward, toward him. A part of the wall hit him, knocking him backwards, toward the wall of flames.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t feel. He wasn’t sure he had swallowed. And as he started passing out, he heard the fat comedian say, “Well, Kibbey, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”

Except the comedian wasn’t talking to him, unless he was a … duacorn?

(To be continued.)

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Filed under satire, science fiction and western story, story, The Kibitzer and The Kidd

Found story: The Last Bookshop

The last bookshop man in the world sat alone in his small store. There was a knock on the door. Startled, he looked up from his science fiction book to find the woman of his dreams standing in the doorway, wearing very little at all. And though she was an android, it had been a long time, so he proposed something indecent to her.

Chair in the last bookshop

The last bookshop

She smiled at him, not without some sympathy, then said, “Not tonight, honey, I have to reformat.”

She then turned and left the room.

He put the book back on the shelf and went to another section.

#

The last bookshop man in the world sat alone in his store. There was a knock on his door.

Before he could answer, the door swung open and a man in a fedora with a tommy gun barged in and started spraying the room with bullets.

The man with the machine gun aimed high, but was bringing his aim lower and lower, yelling over the noise that “The Boss” had sent him to get “the dame.” So where was she?

The last man barely had time to dive to the floor and even then he heard one speeding over his head.

The gun ran out of bullets. The man with the fedora backed out of the room and disappeared.

magazine from the last bookshop

Old magazine from the shelves of the last bookshop


The bookshop man slowly picked himself up, limped to the door, and shut it. He could not be sure if the man with the gun was another android, but he put the Hammett novel back on the shelf just to be safe.

#

The last bookshop man in the world sat alone in his store.

This time a Conan-like brute with a broadsword did not bother to knock, but kicked the door open and charged into the room, swinging. He hit books, slicing the spines, knocking them off the shelves. He hit shelves, splintering wood, embedding his sword.

He yelled something about a woman, or that’s what the last man thought he heard.

Because the room was small, Conan-like was having trouble getting a full, strong swing of his massive sword. Still, as he stomped toward the last man, the last man was not sure how he would escape this one. The same thing preventing this Conan type from getting a complete swing of his sword was also prevent his escape.

The last bookshop man was sure this was going to be his last. Then the scantily clad android woman appeared in the door and announced, “I’m reformatted.”

The Conan-like man jerked his sword out of the shelf, turned, and lunged toward her.

She squealed in an almost mechanical way and ran away, the muscle-bound Conan-like in determined pursuit.

The last bookshop man slumped into his chair and waited for his heart rate to return to normal.

#

The last bookshop man in the world sat alone in his store. This time, there was a lock on his door. This time, he was reading haikus.

[Editor’s note: inspired by a visit to Central Street Books, dealer in old and rare books, in Knoxville, TN.]

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Filed under bookshop, Found story, Photo by author, story, writing

The Kibitzer and The Kidd, part 7

[Editor’s note: Parts 1 – 6 of The Kibitzer and the Kidd are available by clicking on “Kidd” or “Kibitzer” in the tag section. This is science fiction western with more than dollop of humor and satire.]

888888

Al Wayne handed the Cough Drop Kidd a hot toddy. They were in Wayne’s private office off the mezzanine in the saloon.

Given the scuffed look of the saloon, this office was opulent with upholstered seats and an intricately carved fireplace mantel. There was no fire in the fireplace, and the Kidd wondered if it worked. Wayne assured him that it did, but that he rarely used it because it was an inefficient way to heat and added to the carbon footprint.

Wayne handed the Kidd a copy of his book, Global Warning. The Kidd wasn’t quite sure what to do, a warm drink in one hand and a cold tome in the other.
He laid the book on a side table by the chair, He was almost certain he heard the table sigh and mutter, “Oh, no, not another one.”

“Drink up,” Wayne said, raising his own drink to his lips and taking a sip. “It’s not often we get a toddy drinker in this town. It’s good to have a little sophistication every now and then.”

The Kidd didn’t think of himself as a sophisticate, only somebody with a sore throat from coughing too much.

“What about what the Kibitzer said. Is it true?”

Wayne smiled.

“That Bonnie can whip up some mighty powerful cough drops. Sometimes a whiff of those apothecary fumes can make you say things you normally wouldn’t.”
“So, it’s not true?”

Wayne shrugged. “Many folk around here have claimed they’ve been struck by lightning and then resurrected some time later. I don’t put much stock in it myself.”

The smile on Wayne’s face didn’t ease the feeling of disquiet the Kidd felt rippling just under his skin. Particularly since it was at Wayne’s insistence that the Kibitzer had to sleep I the stable on the edge of town. Not that it was a large town, and a few of the buildings only had facades and nothing behind them. One or two had signs that read: “Coming soon,” but nothing else. At one point in their travels together, the Kidd had heard the Kibitzer use the term Potemkin Village and he wondered if this might be that. The name of this place was Potomac. But there was no river nearby.

“You haven’t touched your toddy.”

The Kidd quickly took a sip. It was tepid now, but still tasted amazingly good. He took a second, long sip.

“Now, I have a question for you, Mr. Kidd.”

Kidd smiled. He rarely heard anybody call him Mr. Kidd. Kidd or hey you was more likely. For the moment, he couldn’t remember what the Kibitzer called him. Probably nothing he wanted to repeat.

Kidd wasn’t his real name, at least not the real name his parents gave him. But he abandoned that name shortly after he abandoned them.

“My question is in your travels have you heard anyone mention or met anyone by the name of John Gore?”

At that moment, the floor-faced man barged into the room. He spotted The Kidd and curled his lip.

“Fire. There’s fire down at the livery.” He said it breathlessly, but not in a good breathless way.

The Kibitzer, the Kidd thought.

“Save my horses. My prize Walkers,” Wayne said.

Wayne was at the door, shoving the floor-faced man out in front of him.

The Kidd put down his toddy on the book and headed for the door.

“Don’t forget your book,” the table said.

The Kidd hesitated.

“Take it, fool,” the table said.

The Kidd snatched it from under the toddy. The cup tipped over and smashed against the floor. Breaking china and escaping toddy skittered and splashed about.

“Oh, Mr. Wayne’s going to be mad. That’s not eco-friendly.”

The Kidd didn’t hear the table. He was down the stairs and almost to the saloon’s swinging front doors when two dark figures stepped in front of him, blocking his way. The Kidd tried going around them, but they would have none of it.

(To be continued…)

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Filed under humor, kibitzer, kidd, science fiction and western story, storytelling, The Kibitzer and The Kidd

Nothing and the Philosopher

Do Nothing and do it one piece at a time.

Doing nothing should not be rushed.

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Filed under Cartoon, humor, Philosopher