#007

Wow, you all sure did turn out for #007. And sweet petunias, you kids used your imagation. It appears that the prompt of "I can't believe she didn't..." really helped get the juices flowing. So you'll probably see a bit more of that.

This week's highlight entry was from Jerry H. First, he had the catchiest title. And secondly, Jerry used fantastic detail. Specifically in regards to the eyes and make and model of the vehicle. Well, just read it, you'll see.


There's A Reason Studeabkers Are So Obosolete
By: Jerry H.

I can’t believe she didn’t open the clutch when she started the car. A 1955 atomic powered Studebaker XL47 isn’t like modern cars with voice activated engines and clean carbon monoxide power.
I told her, “Take the Ford”, but “No Daddy please the Stude is so cool. Coolness is a vital part of winning that scholarship to Harvard.” Well after battering her baby blues, a couple more oh daddies and pleases, I gave in. Then call came, midnight, Mill Valley Mall, car backfired, Daddy help. I don’t know who needs to have their butt kicked more, her or me.


Prank
By: Brad W.

"I can't believe she didn't think that was funny."
"Right?"
“Did she see you?”
“I don’t think so. I was driving pretty fast.”
“Could you see her face?”
“Yeah, bro. I watched her in the rear view. She was FREA...KING... OUT.”
“Oh, I know. She called me bawling.”
“What’d she say?”
“I could hardly understand her. It was nuts, man. She was…”
“Acting like she saw a ghost? Ha hahahahaha.”
“She peed herself.”
“What?!”
“Peed…..her pants.”
“Dude!”
“Yeah.”
“That’s awesome!”
“I don’t know, man. Peed-pants seems a little….”
“Uhhhh…awesome?”
“I don’t think so. I’m feeling a little guilty.”
“Whatever dude.”
“I’m kinda hungry.”
“Hop in.”
“Waffle House open?”
“Duh.”


“She’s Back”
By: Joe B.

“I can’t believe she didn’t call first.”
Tommy mumbled, staring down at his own vomit.
Gross.
And all over his leather Bostonians, too.
He planned on wearing sneakers, but forgot to pack them in the duffle bag.
The duffle bag. Crap. He left it back where she had energized.
“She shoulda called first,” he said aloud. He was sure he was done vomiting now. He wiped his mouth and inspected the splatter on his shoes.
He couldn’t look up. Not yet. He thought if he didn’t look at it, it would just go back to normal.
He hated her. This is what she does to him. And now she’s back.


Un-Happy Birthday To Me
By: Christopher D.

I can't believe she didn't get the red one. For months, maybe even years we have talked about this. We've looked at catalogs. We've visited every Light Up Car Show for hundreds of miles. Each and every time she asked, I told her I wanted one. Not only did I want one. I wanted a red one. Now here I am, on my birthday, in front of my friends and family, and I have to try and be excited about receiving the wrong lit car. I mean, the interior looks nice. It doesn't have many miles. But darn it, it's just not the red one!


The Bi-Monthly Pizza Party
By: Hannah K

I can’t believe she didn’t stay for this. I told her it was worth skipping her aunt’s party to see and it only happens every eight weeks. “Jimmy,” Augusta said. “No cars, not even cars that ‘glow in the dark’ are worth skipping Astella’s bi-monthly pizza party.”

That’s the third one this evening, driving out from behind the carwash as if they were born there.

“Excuse me sir!” the driver said.
“Yeah?”
“Could you direct me to the, um, ‘highway’?” I ambled over, “Where you headed, mister?”
“A coronation… I mean pizza party.”
“Pull out, turn left, and follow the signs.” I wish Augusta were here to see this.


When?
By: Tres K

I can’t believe she didn’t calibrate the stopping watch. She didn’t even check the time range. Now I’ve got some clean-shaven yokel starring in the side window. And she’s the one calling me careless? Untamed, maybe even undomesticated, but not careless. Drunk on my own cajones, she said. Right about that, I guess, but she’s never Zapped, never felt the tingle of a new When or the adrenaline high of the unknown. Shit… only 00:00:29 more till the skin cools. Then I’ll have to open that door and start dancing, start figuring out when I am. If I ever get back, I swear I’ll Zap that broad to 3018.


Ethel the Nutcase
By John A.

I can't believe she didn't know that filling the carburetor full of plutonium would have this effect. True that Ethel has a fixation on Back to the Future and its sequels, but did she really think she could time travel in our car ? That goofy wife of mine. Just how am I going to explain this to the police ? And where is Ethel right now ? Sleeping. And hoping that when her alarm clock rings, the time machine on the nonexistent flux capacitor will be ready to transport her to God knows where. Or when. I knew that sleeping on large curlers would someday cause her to go off the deep end.


Bye-Bye Dream
By: Mary F.

I can’t believe she lost the glowing pink Cadillac.
“For your 30th birthday,” I said. “I’ll give you a 1955 pink Cadillac and have it converted into a glower”.
She is a living breathing Elvis fan who dreamed of owning a 1955 pink Cadillac. Her apartment is covered with Elvis memorabilia: pink Cadillac cookie jar, Elvis pink Cadillac montage, Elvis pink Cadillac key chain and every Elvis pink Cadillac item that she can scrounge up on e-bay. But she let the salesman buy her a few drinks, talk her out of the Cadillac, and then charge her to juice up her Grandpa’s old car.
She traded away her dream.


Fresh Paint
By Mark H.

I can’t believe she didn’t put the car in park… but really I can. She’s my achingly beautiful, Einstein smart and often laughingly absentminded wife. She “parked” the car at Lake Luminescence near our home in northern Minnesota to go jogging on the trail around the lake, aptly named for the unique light-emitting algae that coat it during the summer. Unfortunately, the car slipped gurgling into the lake before she was even around the first bend. By the time I arrived, it had been towed out, glowing like a casualty of Three Mile Island , as the luminous microscopic organisms transformed our ride into a shimmering, lime-green spectacle of light.

In Denial
By Linda Gail A.

I can’t believe she didn’t join me for a night to remember. I don’t know what it was that turned her off. I have the absolute coolest tricked out car. I replaced the boring metal with a clear plastic and filled it with the same fluid that’s inside a glowing lava lamp. I mean, come on, what other guy has that? So clearly, it’s not my car. But that only leaves me. Yet that doesn’t compute either. I hold seven degrees from top online universities, and I have a pet llama. I am so totally a babe magnet. It’s clearly an issue with her.


Shot Thru the Heart and You're to Blame
By: Jenny S.

“I can’t believe she didn’t leave the keys!”
Carl stooped over to get a better look inside. Geraldo just sat in the drivers sear, numb.
Carl had a thing for shady women and pyramid schemes. This was an issue that had plagued him most of his adult life. And as embarrassing as it was, he always signed on for another product.
This time was no different. Carl of course, had already paid his fee to join upfront and had brought Geraldo as part of the recruiting process. But with no keys, getting his friend to buy into The Mean, Green, Radio-Active Machine would prove to be a bit more difficult.

Unexpected Breakdown

By: Randy H.

I can't believe she didn't work faster. The results are in and what we've found is quite remarkable. The dye we ran through your system revealed an obstruction; an unusual one. So you're going to feel some bloating and tightness for awhile until we can flush your abdominal cavity. I am writing two scrips that I want you to start today. The first is a liquid that will get rid of that sputtering sensation and re-energize you. The second is a capsule that will break down all the gunk and help your system operate efficiently. Remember, no greasy foods. I want to see you again in two weeks. Any questions Mr. Goodwrench?

Thursday Juicer: Michael vs. Toby

The Office comes back to us tonight. Hence this video choice. One of my favorite parts of the story line is the mystery behind why Michael hates Toby so much. Humorous conflict and mystery are the two things we could all maybe wrestle with as storytellers.

#006

Everyone seemed to take a different spin on the mud picture. That was refreshing! It you combine our stories together, you have one depressed, lonely Mudman with clear pores. Fantastic.

Linda's our feature story this week, if only because she can spell Chateu Le'boint. So.... French. Even though the main character in the picture was obviously a male, Linda added that interesting perspective that only a female can appreciate - getting rid of dry, itchy skin. This is my kind of man.

Sidenote: my husband actually took this photo on our vacation to the middle of nowhere. We can upon a fantastic little festival in Brementon, OH where they were enjoying many hours of mud volleyball......

Sunbaked
By Linda Gail A.

When I read the ad promising to cure dry flaky skin, I jumped at the chance to finally rid myself of living an itchy misery. I went to the spa at the Chateu Le’boint and ordered the revered mud treatment. I was surprised to find out the treatment takes 7 hours, but only on sunny days beginning at 10 a.m. The technician applies the mud and then you endlessly walk in the hot French sun. Finally they crack you; with the mud goes your flaky skin. Only no one mentioned that you might want to remain on the grounds. The looks from locals were priceless.

Reluctant Hero
By Mark H.

I am Mudman, defender of the weak. I could have been bitten by a radioactive spider, but noooo, I had to fall into a radioactive mudpit. Sure, I can vanquish a dozen bad guys with a torrent of mud from my fingertips. Gets in their eyes and up their noses. Really something to see. But you ever try to get a date when you look like this? I mean, where you gonna find a Mudwoman? And then at parties, they make me stay outside. And my boss complains that I smudge everything at work. And pigs chase me for the mud. And…well, it’s just a tough life for ol’ Mudman.

Out Of Touch

Randy H.

I've never really played football in a mud bowl before, at least not intentionally. That was a well deserved break from the research paper due tomorrow. I don't know what to write anyway. My brain is all locked up. Moore always assigns these ridiculous topics and wants citations. I didn't expect to see Janie out here. I wonder if she saw me? Good thing I added those ab sets last night. I hate doing abs but it was well worth it. It's a wonder Janie didn't tackle me herself. Girls like to play hard to get.Hey Ryan, can I hitch a ride?

Mud Slinging
By: Jenny S.

Tom’s therapist had told him he needed to find an extra-curricular activity. After he discovered his wife was playing her own version of Twister with their exterminator, Tom broke off relationships with everybody he knew, including his mind. He found solitude in torturing his ex’s favorite pillows – oversized, overpriced, crush velvet – and slinging mud at her in online chat rooms.
After all the pillows had been destroyed, Tom decided to heed his therapists advice. After aimlessly driving around, he saw his answer. As each mud filled balloon burst against his skin, the pain grew more and more intense. But Tom was grateful for a different reason to cry.

Thursday Juicer: Ira Glass

Here is Ira Glass of "This American Life" talking about the building blocks of a great story. I love this guy. Love his voice. Love how carefully he chooses his words on his radio show. Love the way they tell stories and how they take one theme and take a bunch of truly unique looks at said theme. Check out their podcast here. The two building blocks he discusses are Anecdote (sequence of events) and Moment of Reflection. Good stuff here, enjoy. Part two is good as well.

#005

So Hurricane Ike visited the Tri-State this weekend. According to Willie on 700WLW last night, so of you may not even have the electricity to read this entry until Saturday. Lucky, lucky you.

Mark's entry is our blog of the week. It's funny and very descriptive. It's not just a chair - it's an oversized chair. It's not just a mug - they're heavy and empty. No one wears ties. I can visualize what this office looks like, how the office staff is dressed. When you can almost include your audience in with the story, you've got a great story. You shouldn't just tell a story, you should involve the audience. They should never be confused on where the story is taking place or who the main characters are. Great job this week, Mark.

Worse Than Fees
By Mark H.

It was long after “banker’s hours” had ended for the day. The officers of First Boar Bank sat around the large mahogany table in President Ty Twaddy’s personal conference room. Suit jackets adorned the backs of the oversize chairs, ties were long ago discarded, heavy coffee mugs emptied as they stared at the photo of the unidentified man straining to take his cash from one of the bank’s ATMs. “But sir,” pleaded the vice-president again, “our customers are SUPPOSED to withdraw their money. They use it to, you know… buy things.”

“No! I won’t have it!” Twaddy railed over and over. “This meeting is finished! Raise the ATMs another foot!”




Magic Potion
Mary F.

Some predicament, trying to manage when you’re 3 feet tall. It’s all your fault, Bertie – you and your old buddy, Dr Fink.
“Honey,” you said, “we’re having a little clinical trial. Dr. Fink has developed a new drug that could help you lose your little tummy.”
“You mean my big belly. What did this discovery do for the other people who tried it?”
“It’s new, Sweetie. We need to try it on humans – but it’s safe.”
Ha, safe. They should use it to cure overcrowding in prisons since it shrinks people to half their size. Hope I can deposit this before someone sees me.


Bad Day
Randy H.

After explaining to the executive editor that he had been writing such anonymous columns for two years, Tom still didn't understand why as an AP writer his name wasn't published, identifying his authorship.

Feeling slighted and misunderstood, Tom thanked his boss for listening and exited. Tom stepped outside, looked at his watch, and with the rest of his day open decided to self soothe with a bite to eat. First he needed cash. Seeing an ATM, Tom angrily wondered how a machine he couldn't even reach could be credited to "Jeanie" while his writing read around the world would remain with no name. Tom's appetitequickly vanished.

The Dowry
Tres K.

Jack was getting desperate. This should have been easy; plant the seeds, climb the stalk – just like his family had done for generations. But things, apparently, had changed. He located the giant easily enough, living off Vine Street. There wasn’t any goose but Jack did find an ATM card in the big guy’s wallet. In spite of the changes, giants hadn’t gotten any smarter; his PIN was on a Post-it note stuck to the back of the card. Now all Jack had to do was reach the machine, punch the buttons and withdraw the gold. Yeah, right… Still, Mr. Peep had promised his daughter’s hand, if he made it back.

Thursday Juicer: PostSecret

PostSecret is an amazing experiment in storytelling. People share their secrets via postcards. Amazing how much is communicated in so few words using a tiny 4x6 canvas. Some of these are very painful to read- just so you're aware. But they're inspiring on so many different levels.

#004

There's been some very interesting stories coming in about the Dracula Cha-Cha. Some seem to have nothing to do with good 'ol Dracula. Soooo, that's different... But I really liked how Randy took something ordinary and created it into something fantastic. Everyday characters, but he twisted it into a news story with phenomenial results. Excellent job, Randy!!!

Fiasco
By: Randy H.


LIVERPOOL-- Today marks the anniversary of the debut of a musical phenomenon that never materialized. It was at Stanley Field 35 years ago that Bob McFadden and his Transylvania Polka staged an event that was utter failure. Bob McFadden himself became a laughingstock among musicians and entertainers worldwide. This concert was a marketing disaster as the event was dubbed the new rage in youthful entertainment. The album titled Dracula Cha-Cha had become trendy in the US as teens filled dance halls dressed in Halloween costumes. Looking to capitalize globally, marketing executives looked to England. Less than 100 spectators attended this concert and McFadden went on to produce children's music.

Try out these other tasty treats...

Blonde Bride
By: Mary F.

Look at me, a real doll. Gorgeous curls, golden hair, and skin like ivory. Perfect is the word to describe me. No wonder the Count wanted me for his date. Who wouldn’t? Lucky dog, I say.
I feel creepy. It’s only the first dance, my absolute favorite, the Transylvania polka. He’s dead white and talk about cold – corpses are warmer than him. Those are fangs, not teeth. I heard he was weird.
Maybe I should leave soon, really soon. It’s so dark – who blew out the candles? Where did everybody go? Does he really have 3 brides? What was that again, the blonde is number 4. NOooooo.

Our Song
By: Linda Gail A.

I hadn’t seen the old vinyl in years when my grandson pulled it out of a dusty pile.

“Grandma, what’s this?” he asked holding it up.

Memories surged back. I’d bought it the night after the Ghoul’s Ball at Sharonville High; the night I met Wolfgang. He was dressed as Dracula and when he whispered that he wanted to suck my blood, I knew he was special. The song playing became our song. 62 years later, 59 of those as man and wife, the memories are just as fresh as that night.

“It’s just a record dear,” I share keeping my memories to myself.


The Maple Street Shindig
By: Melissa F.

It was time once again for the “Annual McFadden Halloween Extravaganza”, so named by the host. Obligingly, the whole neighborhood would attend. Over the summer Bob had learned Photoshop so he decided to take the party to a new level: a souvenir photo based on costumes. Louise and the girls were reluctant guinea pigs.
They thought last year’s “extravaganza” had gone as low as it could: “dress as a farm animal” where everyone had to finish every sentence with the sound their animal made. Since there wasn’t much talking or mingling, they had hopes this year’s event would be cancelled. No such luck for the McFadden clan…or the neighbors.


Veiled Perdition
J. Arns

Little did Melanie know that she was invited to the castle for more than a festive ball; and this would be her last. Ironic that she enjoyed the polka in the arms of her seemingly magical and alluring partner. Her naivety, surpassed only by her beauty, drew her into the lurid underworld of forbidden passions. She arrived in the small burg an innocent tourist, unaware of the macabre events which forever marred many a damsel before her. Poor Melanie. Never would she leave the epitome of hell into which she was thrust to return to the safe and loving arms of her fiancé. She would instead remain a prisoner of the castle - forever.


The Dance
By Mark H.

Count Dracula loved to cha-cha. It helped him forget about the world out there that condemned him for the occasional little bite on the neck. But he was not nearly as confident as everyone assumed he was. In fact, he was quite shy, but he had to keep up appearances. All he wanted to do was ask that beautiful creature to dance. “Does she even know I exist?” he thought. His heart pounding, a bead of perspiration on his forehead, he spread his cape, bared his sharp canine teeth, and nervously blurted, “Hi, I’m Drac, would you please dance with me?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she whispered. “Let’s cha-cha.”


Trading Jam
By: Shay

Montreal in the fall nipped at Genevieve's face. Life bustled at the farmer's market where she was stationed, selling her family's famous jams and jellies. She moved her hands in her pockets. She saw familiar faces.Bob was not familiar. Sure, Hollywood used Canada for its backdrops. But normally, its stars didn't stray off the set for preserves.He saw her.His swagger. His persuasion. His charisma. His new star -- Genevieve -- was hooked.She played his role.Montreal in the fall nipped again. The poster that hung on her bedroom wall showcased a moment in time when she traded jam for a life that never gelled.


Back At Home
by Brad W.

Rod walks into the kitchen and gives his wife an exhausted, obligatory kiss on the cheek. He tosses the newly pressed LP on the table. It clinks against the saltshaker. His wife stops peeling her newly picked carrots and looks toward the noise infraction.

“Rod! You’re new album! I didn’t know it was finished!” She says, excited and hurt at the same time.

“It’s not. The pizzicato is still all wrong. It reeks of Stravinsky. It’s trite, unoriginal garbage.” Rod opens the fridge and waits for his wife to affirm him.

“Stravinsky would never think of doing Transylvania polka.” She wrongly encourages.
“Exactly.” Defeated, he grabs the milk. “Nobody would."


This Moment
By: Jenny S.

Dracula nervously whisked away the beads of sweat that had begun to form on his pale forehead. His clammy hands shook as he ensured his perfectly gelled hair was still in place.
"You can do it. You can do it, brother", Dracula muttered to himself as he swung open the gymnasium doors and stepped onto the freshly waxed wood floor. The smell of sweaty teenagers hung densely in the air.
Ever afternoon he had holed himself up in his room practicing for this hour. Sure, there had been "The Monster Mash" and "Werewolf in London", but no one had ever seen or heard something as daring as "The Dracula Cha-Cha".


Polka Nights
By:Tres K

Vlad looked at the old polka album fondly. Those certainly were halcyon days, he thought ? Friday nights at the Moose lodge, Saturdays with the Elk?s. And the women? their long hair barely hinting at beautiful necks beneath. He?d done a lot of dancing over the years; formal colonial balls, jitterbugging at the sock hop, on the Ballroom floor in a tux. Now it was Salsa. He liked the beat and the ponytails certainly gave a nice view, but nothing was hidden; the nakedness left no mystery, no hint at things to come.Maybe it was the hair, maybe it was the beer? he still longed for those Polka nights.


Cha-Cha-Ching!
By: Christopher D

The class sat anxiously in their seats awaiting the announcement. Life was about to change for one of these ghouls. Miss Fortune walked through the classroom door, and peered out over the students. Frank was nervously tightening his bolts. She could see Marcus Mummy had already sweat through his dressings. She made them wait long enough. It was time."The winner of this year's 'Name The School Pageant After A Student' musical is...the Count!"Dracula jumped to his feet and let out a yelp. He knew he was suddenly $500 richer and now had to meet with the local composer, Bob McFadden and put the finishing touches on the Cha-Cha.

Thursday Juicer: Readin' is good

My apologies on the latency of this Thursday's tidbit of inspiration. I am on vacation. I sat out on a lake reading Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policemen's Union. If you've yet to read anything by the Pulitzer Prize winning, Mr. Chabon I highly suggest you pick up The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. It's a dazzler. Anyways, all that reading is maybe what reminded to find this little commercial and share it with you. It's pretty cute. Can I call it cute? Perhaps it's been awhile since you've spent a few hours in a good book. Perhaps this weekend could be a good time to get back on that wagon. It's either that or "pre-season" college football.

#003

Great job this week, guys! It was really awesome to see what a different take each of you had on the photo. Personally, I thought this weeks photo was kinda difficult because of how detailed it was.

The thing I appreciated about this week's winner was how descriptive she was with everything from the comics to the characters thoughts. I really felt like I could have been in the room with them all. Way to go!





Untitled
By: Natalie S.


The fair was in town. Sprinkles heard there were squirrels that could waterski. Sculptures of cows made entirely of butter. Cotton candy bigger than your head. Your head!
That morning she brought him his white loafers with the paper. "Ah yes, the fair," he said when he saw them. Sprinkles whisked her tail. "Just let me finish the paper and we'll see if we can't make it out."
Sprinkles lifted her head off the shag carpet. He was still on Mary Worth. There was still Rex Morgan MD, Prince Valiant, Gasoline Alley. And the crossword! She laid her head back down and sighed. Cows! Made entirely of butter!

**********************************************************
Little Things That Matter
By: John A.

Seventy-six year old Bart Schoenstein planned to spend the rest of his life on a ranch with his beloved wife Wilma until tragedy struck and changed his idyllic picture. He dreamed of living out west, so after retiring last year, they left their native Connecticut and headed for Manzanita, Arizona. Their move to the desert was just what the doctor ordered for Wilma. Or so they thought. Wilma's pancreatic cancer claimed her life 6 months ago, leaving Bart lonesome and deeply depressed. Dementia unfortunately destroyed his memories, his only solace now found in his beloved farm animals, most having free reign of his abode. Life continues on the ranch, without Wilma.

Misunderstood
By: Melissa F.

Misu was contemplating her fate. How had she wound up here with Mr. Edwardo and Camelle, the rag mop with bows in her hair? Wasn’t it just short months ago she’d been traveling the states with Bobo on her back? Now, every day Misu was expected to perform the tricks that Mr. Edwardo had taught her—roll over, beg, fetch. As Mr. Edwardo sat reading his paper with the rag mop beside him, Misu was expected to lie obediently at his feet. When would this near-sighted, agoraphobic millionaire realize he’d made a mistake and return Misu to the circus…or at least feed her some oats and not a dog biscuit?


No Pets Allowed
By Mark H.

When it came to interior decorating and pets, Carlo marched to the beat of a different drummer. Homer was his little buddy, and no “No Pets Allowed” rule would keep them apart. He felt a little guilty that Homer had to stay inside the small apartment out of sight, but in fact, Homer had grown accustomed to eating his apples and carrots in the dining room with Carlo. Negotiating the bathroom was a little tricky, but he was a very smart pony. “Don’t worry,” Carlo sighed, “one day you’ll be able to play outside again.” “No hurry,” Homer thought, “I really like the way this carpet tickles my belly.”


Untitled
By: Stephanie H.

juniper couldn't muster the energy to roam the fields as she once did, happy and free alongside jack. instead, she laid on the same shag carpet next to the same leather boat shoes she nuzzled with each day.
the house smelled stale. it was warm in its familiarity.
she hardly remembered the way the long grasses tickled her stomach near the ravine, or how the hose felt when they'd come back to the house sticky with damp earth. the locusts always showcased a full orchestra in late august.
the evenings were thick as life eked out its last moments before nightfall.
herman was just happy to have the company.

Oh Brutale Solitude
By: Kristopher H.

“Hmmmm. Esther won’t be back from her mother’s until Tuesday, and bras are half off at Penny’s. I’ll see what Merle is doing tonight.”

-Thoughts creep into my mind like this when I cut my bagel at an awkward angle, or when I take my coffee five minutes after two instead of at two precisely. This only happens when Esther leaves for extended trips-

“Maybe the sun isn’t the sun at all. Maybe the sun is the not-sun.”

“Perhaps Esther’s preference for light grays and creams mixed with brass ISN’T all the rage in Kansas.”

“Is that a pony at my feet?”

“Are you my pony?”

-Be my pony. Please-


For Sale
By: Randy H

After returning from his customary morning walk, Wilbur regrettably ignores the crossword puzzle and quickly skips to the classifieds in search for a piece of replacement furniture.

"Let me see," Wilbur anxiously sighs. "SLIGHTLY USED OAK BUREAU," "GLASS TABLE TOP- 1 OWNER," "SINGLE DOOR WARDROBE," he mumbles under his stale, early morning breath.

As his eyes scan the columns, Wilbur's mood suddenly improves. "This is it!" he says out loud.

"FOR SALE – Antique Peruvian Coffer. Perfect addition to a collection. Functions great as a coffee table or for general display. $50 OBO."

Wilbur's thoughts turn to his dysfunctional piece, "I wonder if the seller would consider a trade?"


Rectory Spectacle
By Linda Gail A.

While waiting for the annual pet blessing with Mutt and Prissy, I’m often struck at how inconceivable a room I find the parlor at the rectory. In a home where single men live, you wouldn’t expect to find tapestry, flowers, or shag carpet. I always pictured starker living quarters for my priests; at least masculine decor. But then again, I did come over rather late one night to confess and found Father Pat in a pink chiffon robe. Oddly, Mutt adores the shag rug, and every year he lies down in sheer bliss to await his heavenly blessing.

Ozzie & Harriet

By: Jennie O.

Circus was his way of life. Grateful man was he.Parents died when he was but a tiny lad of three.Long and lean like his papa, thankful for that gene.Became the stilted man and Ozzie was his name. Married the bearded lady who did constantly complainHoped in time his gratefulness would her tongue tame.“Lovely today “, said he. “Hot as heck” ,said she.“Beautiful rainbow!”-“Bad storm!”“Room’s just perfect.”-“ I’m too warm.”“Complaints might make you a little hoarse,”“For that you’d be grateful, of course!”Count your blessings don’t be aloofAs she began to nag there was a “POOF”Neigh Nag neigh nag