Twittering Tales #73

 

can i paint it?

what color?

i thought red.

no you can’t paint it red. we’d be the laughingstock. you paint a barn red.

all right, purple then.

what’s wrong with you? listen to me. paint it white. we do things right around here.

 

222 words
Photo by MabelAmber at Pixabay.com
For Twittering Tales

Bad Poetry Contest

Be My Valentine

I’ve got love instead of blood pumping through my heart.
It’s squirting out my auricles and ventricles and every other part.
It’s like romantic heart disease.
It’s like a heart attack of love unease.
It’s like love cancer causing pain,
then metastasizing to my brain.

Coming This September: The Antichrist

Mark your calendar. This September 15th, the Worldwide Christian Family Missions Network presents “Antichrist: The Reality Show.”

Six contestants will compete over six weeks and complete six projects. They’ll use every underhanded, dastardly, sneaky trick in the book (not the Good Book, of course) to succeed.

We all know that the world is going to hell, that the Apocalypse is due with Armageddon right behind it. The Rapture might be complete by this fall and some of us are going to be left behind. We’ll need our TV programs more than ever then.  Good news. The Antichrist will be in the house!

We’ve lined up six Antichrist candidates. It wasn’t hard. They’re all over the place. Google “Antichrist.” Recognize any of the images?

Our contestants aren’t crazy, except like a fox. They’re smooth. Slick. They’ve fallen but they can get up; they just don’t want to.

The winner’s prize: a superchurch built to his or her specs. (Yes, the Antichrist might look like a woman. Except for those cloven hooves!). When we announced this prize, it brought many true devotees of The Horned One out of their holes to audition.

First week: The Flock.  All six candidate Antichrists are sent out to gather their flocks of believers. There should be plenty of babes and hunks in each flock. There should be some rich folks in each flock. Actually, it would be best if everybody in the flocks were rich. Let’s avoid the 99%. They’re you.

Flock members must be demonstrably in their master’s thrall. Yet they shouldn’t be nuts. It’s a fine line.

Every week,  one Antichrist will be voted off the show by a jury of Catholic and Protestant clergy, Evangelical ministers, and members of churches you’ve never heard of. Everyone on the jury will have been accused, at least once, of crimes the Antichrist would be proud of.

Second Week: Money. The six flocks head out to spend the week gathering money. The personal wealth of flock members does not count. We assume that the Antichrist will have already taken control of all such assets on his own, during the enthrallment process. The flocks can steal money, grift it, embezzle it, print it, employ blackmail, pocket-picking, heists, strong-arm extortion, loan sharking and other forms of usury, protection rackets, bookmaking, you name it, just rake in the lucre. Pile up the scratch. Of course, each Antichrist is apt to fall back on his or her special talents and experience here.

Low flock is voted off. The producers will take charge of that pile of loot.

Third Week: Sex. Each Antichrist will spend Week 3 involving his or her flock in a series of bizarre, acrobatic, and crowd-pleasing sexual shenanigans beyond anything you’re likely to dream up in anticipation. Points for activities that Jesus wouldn’t do, crimes against nature, and behavior that causes you to say “Now that’s just going too far!”

Group sensitivity sessions should be interjected, so that flock members can relive what they’ve done, over and over again, to their delight or everlasting shame, depending upon that cup half empty/cup half full thing. Points deducted for police raids, disease, and defections from the flock of those who unaccountably come to their senses.

A third would-be Antichrist and his or her flock are dismissed this week. The producers will snag those among his or her followers who made them the most horny as they previewed the show. Deleted scenes will be sold to a porno company secretly connected to the network.

Fourth Week: Good Works. Hey, Antichrists. What can you do for the show’s producers? Last week’s good ratings, earned by your hour of wall-to-wall sex, aren’t going to count for anything this week. In fact, forget ratings. The time has come to step up and make us happy on a personal level.

What will it take? A cut of the money pie? Yard work and house cleaning for our wives? Or should you Antichrists turn your skills and the skills of your flock to the seduction of us producers ourselves? Whatever it is, it better be good.

Fourth contestant and flock are voted off. If the producers are insufficiently satisfied with this Antichrist’s offering this week – if the producers are plain pissed off by it – he or she will be consigned to the pit where the wolves are kept. To be filmed, of course.

Fifth Week: Politics. With all the fun out of the way, the show takes a serious turn in Week 5. The Antichrists must achieve dominion over the peoples of the world. The two remaining contestants have one week to do that.  How far can they go? How successful can they be? Control over Staten Island? Enslavement of the Teamsters? Dictatorship of the Mexican cartels?  Now is the time for our Evil Ones to really show us what they’ve got.

Sixth Week: The Final Battle. In Week Six, the surviving Antichrist takes on Jesus Christ Himself. Christ is not going to just show up and flash his SAG card. Instead, we’ll put out a casting call and a bunch of nondescript guys will audition. He’ll come like a thief in the night. We’ll pick Him because that’s how religion works.

The final battle will take place in our special iron-cage Pentagon. Both parties will be armed. Only one will walk away, but don’t worry about injuries. These are supernatural entities, or ought to be.

You might figure that Christ is bound to win. It’s in the Bible. However, the Lord moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform. Jesus might have to wait for the sequel.

WATCH: Man Appears To Kick Squirrel Into The Grand Canyon

(CNN)

My cameraman set up wrong. One more mistake like that and he’s gone, even if he is my dad.

He’s got one job. Document the kick. Film it clearly. If the word “appears” appears in the headline, you have failed.

What am I supposed to do? Kick a second squirrel? “Man Appears To Kick Squirrel Into The Grand Canyon And Then Definitely Kicks A Second Squirrel Into The Canyon”? Makes me look like some kind of nut.

Get with it, Dad.

But credit where credit is due. When I kicked an alligator into the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, Dad got it perfectly. My blood spurting into the water from the critter’s bite on my calf: red poetry.

I punted a opossum into the Old Faithful hole and Dad caught the animal on film going into the hole and then shooting back out again when the geyser went off. That one made the front page of Animal Rights Journal.

The Grand Canyon, though… You don’t want to mess that one up. I’ve got to go back. Not with a squirrel. I’m thinking a giraffe.

Then I’ll be ready for my magnum opus: a Cub Scout Pack, into Niagara Falls.

Sheriff: Victim’s Head Still Missing

(CNN)

We found a foot first. I think it was a right foot. I remember we found the foot and then found another right foot later and the coroner insisted that the second foot did not belong to the same body as the first foot. I remember I asked him if some individuals might not have two right feet or two left feet and he told me that no, they wouldn’t. I didn’t want to let it go, even when he pointed out that the second right foot was from a female, whereas the first one was from a male. Don’t they say guys all have a little female in them, which explains why when you’re in the shower, you can’t help checking out another guy’s equipment?

Then we found a left foot that the coroner said, due to its DNA, matched up with the first right foot. He also told me when I asked, that an individual with two male feet and one female foot would defy the laws of nature and would be ungodly. As a good Christian, I let the extra foot go at that point. We filed it away as Unidentified Body #2, Part #1.

Next we found the male individual’s coccyx. It wasn’t what it sounds like. At this point the coroner told me that this individual had experienced a grievous injury of some sort. You can lose both feet in a variety of ways. A train can run over them and chop them off. But then you go get some artificial feet and some crutches and life goes on. But if you lose your coccyx, it’s not like getting your boxer’s tail docked. You will be in a world of hurt. Hemorrhoids don’t compare.

This is the point at which we put that running checklist into the evening paper. This is the point at which Betty’s Doughnuts started offering $5 worth of crullers for each new body part found. And when the head became the only part left missing and unchecked in the list, Betty upped her award to $10 worth of glazed and House of Bamboo threw in an end table.

Lester Branchette the first-grade teacher contributed an artist’s sketch of the missing head – as seen from a rear view, hair color and curl based upon the found torso’s back hair.

Everyone in the community seems to agree that this thing – this search for the body parts and so on – has brought us all a little bit closer together and taught us all a little something about what the coroner likes to call “anatomy.”

 

 

This Cheeto Looks Suspiciously Like A Masturbating Man

[Headline, Huffington Post]

This Cheeto doesn’t look anything like me when I masturbate. Should I be worried? Huffington Post male masturbators are among the premier writers and news correspondents in the world, right? If this Cheeto looks like a Huffington Post writer when he masturbates, am I doing it wrong? Am I some kind of deviant or pervert? Or is that purvert? Or purvurt? Or, if you own a cat, purrvurt?

I never compared masturbation notes with, like, my priest. How does he do it? I have no idea. Masturbating makes me want to snack. Does that tell us anything? How many individuals masturbate and snack at the same time? Is that weird or normal? If normal, does it matter whether the snack is healthy or sort of junky? What about binging?

I did see a… what would you call it… a sex tape? Three hundred different amateur, or “amateur,” women masturbating (one at a time). I think… I think they were doing it sort of like me! Except that I’m a little more liberal with the lipstick and nail polish. I need a group! Do they still do groups? I looked into self-pleasuring groups and all I found was something called a “circle jerk.” Eww!

The Huffing Post is liberal, right? Left wing? Maybe I’m just a Republican masturbator. I am right-handed. This would assume that Republican men masturbate. In a dress.

Who makes Cheetos, anyway? What the hell is wrong with them? Cheetos make your fingers totally orange, especially if you suck on them (the cheetos) and get them wet. You eat a bag or two whilst masturbating and what have you got? Soiled briefs. And a wife who wonders why your underwear is stained with the orange residue of… what?

I remember my fifth-grade teacher grabbing me by the shoulders and shouting at me, begging me, pleading with me, ordering me, commanding me to only masturbate in the nude, ever. Take off your pants and your underpants, for the love of God! she would shout. I can hear her now. What was that all about?

I spoke to Horace Pourous about his famous Cheeto collection. Added my voice to those of others urging him to place his remarkable collection in the hands of a responsible museum. During my visit, I saw the Cheeto That Suspiciously Resembles A Woman Masturbating, the Joined Cheetos That Suspiciously Resemble A Couple Having Sex (Man/Woman), the Joined Cheetos That Suspiciously Resemble A Couple Having Sex (Gay), the Joined Cheetos That Suspiciously Resemble A Couple Having Sex (Lesbos), the Joined Cheetos That Suspiciously Resemble A Couple Having Sex (Man/Sheep), as well as the Cheezit That Suspiciously Resembles A Penis, the Cheezit That Suspiciously Resembles A Dildo, the Cheezit That Suspiciously Resembles A Vulva, and the classic Cheezit That Suspiciously Resembles A Cheezit Giving Birth To A Cheeto. Like me, Horace has orange stains on his fingers and his fly.

Man Tries To Throw Wife Off Bridge, Instead Falls Himself: Police

[Headline, Huffington Post]

I wasn’t trying to throw my wife off the bridge. I was trying to strangle her. Then I was going to throw her off.

Our marriage has been troubled.

If I just threw her off, the drop wasn’t going to hurt her and I couldn’t depend on the gators to finish the job. Look at me. They only got one foot, one hand, and half a buttock.

If I had thrown Agnes off alive, I’d have her stumping around the house on one foot now, trying to cook and clean with one hand and unable to sit and rest without pain. She would have been unbearable! Not that she isn’t anyway.

I explained all this to the police. So did Agnes. They understood that the whole affair was an accident. Or a failure, from my perspective. But Huffington’s stringer down here, Audet Duplessis, covers a thousand square miles of swamp and bayou and and you can’t tell her anything. Which is why I arranged to meet her on the bridge later, to give her a blow by blow recreation of the events that had transpired.

I tried to strangle her and took my second trip down into the drink. That’s how I lost another half-buttock, my car keys, my eye glasses, and one ear.

How do you keep your new glasses on without an ear? i haven’t figured that one out yet.

And yet, here comes the next Huffington Post headline.

“Man Tries To Throw Reporter Off Bridge, Instead Falls Himself: Police”

She knew I was trying to strangle her. What else did she mean at the time when she said, “Ggggggggggggggg!”

I’ll give Audet this. She came out there with me again when I promised to behave. And then here comes the next headline.

“Man Tries To Throw Self Off Bridge, Instead Falls Himself: Police”

37 Things In Your Home To Get Rid Of Right Now

[Headline, Huffington Post]

1. Anything dead that you aren’t going to eat.

2. Anything that will incriminate you or other family members in a felony.

3. The thing farthest back in the ice box.

4. The monster under the bed.

5. The dust bunnies (aka “slut’s wool”) under the bed.

6. Uncle Charlie.

7. Great-grandma Myrtle

8. Broken glass on the floor, especially in front of the sink and around the toilet.

9. Any chair that no one has sat on over the past year.

10. Make that the past, oh, six months.

11. The contents of any drawer unopened in the past five years.

12. Glassware from the very back of the top kitchen shelf.

13. Spices you’ve never used, such as epazote, fenugreek, and machalepi.

14. All those wedding gifts stored in the attic.

15. Bottles of alcoholic products with less than a quarter-inch of fluid in the bottom.

16. Hair in the bathroom sink and tub. Once it has fallen out, it’s of no further use to you.

17. Any homeless people living on or about your premises without your knowledge or permission, although you don’t want to be a meany about it. Perhaps sit down with them for a cup of coffee or a cocktail, discuss their situation, see what you can work out. Try to make it win/win. Maybe they can babysit your newborn infant, for example.

18. Speaking of newborn infants, don’t throw out the baby with the bathwater, ha ha.

19. Old hair nets.

20. Unmatched socks. Be ruthless.

21. Solved rebuses.

22. Solved mazes.

23. Solved crossword puzzles.

24. Those annoying unsolved interlocking iron rings.

25. Any toilet brushes with the bristles worn down to nubbins.

26. Engine blocks in the garage, if you’re absolutely sure that you’re not going to go ahead and rebuild them.

27. Used motor oil.

28. Dead batteries.

29. All those spare vacuum tubes in a shoebox in the closet.

30. Anything tangled that you’ll probably never untangle.

31. Anything broken that you’ll probably never fix.

32. Something that you’ve always hated but nobody else in the house does. Take it out in the dead of night, whatever it is, and smash it to flinders. Spend a few minutes gloating over the remains.

33. Whoa. Don’t let #32 get out of hand there.

34. It’s time to start looking at your personal situation. Why are you relying on us to tell you what  to do? We’re not your mother!. You’ll notice that “Take out the trash” isn’t on this list. Did you do it? No? You’re hopeless!

35. That picture on the wall in the living room… No, the other one… Do the world a favor. Burn it.

36. You listen to Rush Limbaugh? Throw out all of your radios.

37. Go out on the front porch, turn around, step back inside, and begin grabbing objects one by one as you encounter them. Carry or push each one to the door and chuck it out onto the porch… Jeez, you’re doing it! I was just kidding. You really are impossible.

Florida woman, 81, arrested for feeding bears lots of dog food

[Headline, Huffington Post]

Feed a bear a can of dog food for lunch and the bear is hungry again at dinnertime.

Teach a bear to hunt down, kill, and eat a dog and the bear… well, it’s still hungry again at dinnertime.

But you don’t have to keep opening cans of dog food for it! The bear is self-sufficient! It can go out and kill a dog and eat it without you picking up a can opener. Is that so hard to understand?

But look. Once all the dogs are gone, all you’ve got left is cans of dog food. And a lot of hungry bears. If you don’t feed the bears, because they can’t open the cans for themselves, what with having paws instead of hands, whom do you think the bears are going to eat next? People! When my electric can opener broke, I was damned lucky to come out of it alive!

This all started when the highway patrol pulled me over with a truckload of dogs.

“Do you need all those dogs?” said the patrolman.

“Does a bear poop in the woods?” I said.

You see, the whole misunderstanding came about because of the ambiguity inherent in the words “dog food.” After my close calls with the cans, I decided to eliminate the middleman and just give the bears dog food, i.e., food made out of dogs, i.e., what I said above. Only, when the dog population waned, I had to start trucking them in.

This seemed easier than teaching the gators to eat the bears.

While in the pokey, I did figure out how to handle this bear situation. It’s so simple! Teach the bears to open the cans of dog food!

If you’ve ever watched the My Little Pony shows, you know that animals without hands can still manipulate just about anything. Flutterfly and Pinkie Pie always use a toothbrush at bedtime, for example. I’ve seen them do it. They hold the brush with their little hooves somehow.

Also, when you’re planning to live with the bears (not the Care Bears, ha ha!): get married, so that if you do run into a situation where the bears are going to eat a human, you’ll have one handy.

Man forced to have enemas gets $1.6M

[CNN headline]

I got the $1.6 million, so I guess I can say a word or two on the subject.

What is the main point here? What have we learned?

Have you ever received an award of  $1.6 million? No? Then shut your pizza-hole!

What we have learned here is, and forget the taxes, that’s a whole different conversation, what we have learned here is, what can you get for $1.6 million?

I know what you can get for  $1.6 million. Not much. In Silicon Valley, you can’t buy a  doghouse for $1.6 million. $1.6 million isn’t squat. You spend it and it’s gone and you’re no happier than you were before the enemas.

What I mean is, an enema, you’re outraged, you’re uncomfortable, they tell you to hold it, hold it, hold it, until you’re like, really? More? What are we waiting for here? What is this, a contest? Book of world records? Just let me sit on the pot for chrissakes! I’m a grown man!

Then you get your $1.6 million and go out and look at the big houses. The mansions in town. It’s expected. You’re holding  $1.6 million, what are you going to do? Open a savings account at .002% interest? No, you’re supposed to buy a damn mansion.

But around here with the young techies, you can whistle for a mansion,  all the chance you’re going to get one. Go find six bedrooms with separate baths, a nice pool, servant quarters. For your piddling  $1.6 million, maybe you get the quarters.What I mean is, an enema, you’re outraged, you’re uncomfortable, they tell you to hold it, hold it, hold it, until you’re like, really? More? What are we waiting for here? What is this, a contest? Book of world records? Just let me sit on the pot for chrissakes! I’m a grown man!

Then you get your $1.6 million and go out and look at the big houses. The mansions in town. It’s expected. You’re holding  $1.6 million, what are you going to do? Open a savings account at .002% interest? No, you’re supposed to buy a damn mansion.

But around here with the young techies, you can whistle for a mansion,  all the chance you’re going to get one. Go find six bedrooms with separate baths, a nice pool, servant quarters. For your piddling  $1.6 million, maybe you get the quarters.

Now I’m back in, going for another $1.6 million. I’m getting better at holding it.