Quickie-Story 2.1; Tree Men

There once was an old man named Jim who lived in the trees. He liked to hang way up in the oaks and throw things at little boys. One day, one such little boy came wandering through the woods. The old man caught him out of the corner of his eye, and readied his bucket of pine cones. When the little boy walked under the tree where Jim sat, he stopped for a second, and looked up into the tree to see where the chuckling was coming from. It seems that Jim was unable to control his laughter, and had also wet himself at the thought of being able to hit the little boy with his pine cones. The little boy, whose name was Booyah, pulled out a gun. Jim farted and ran off. Booyah smiled. The squirt gun had proven useful. He silently thanked his father for suggesting it.

Moral: There is no moral.

Mini-Story #2: The Tomato Boy

There was once a little boy named Rodney who loved to eat dirt. One day after eating his daily handful of dirt, Rodney decided to eat a tomato for dessert. The seeds from the tomato began growing inside him and before long, Rodney had a tomato plant sprouting in his stomach. And now every time Rodney burped, he coughed up a tomato. Seeing the financial possibilities, Rodney's father built a roadside stand and began selling Burp Tomatoes, which he does to this day. The moral of the story is never buy tomatoes from a roadside stand, because they might have come from Rodney.

Mini-Story #1: The Chipmunk

Once upon a time there was a tiny chipmunk who wanted to drive a car, so he went to Driver's Training to get a license. Sadly, he failed the test and was mocked by all his classmates. The chipmunk was furious and, stalking from the room, stuck chewing gum in the lock so no one could get out. The chipmunk then made a fake license and stole a Lexus. Today the chipmunk lives in Hollywood and makes movies for a living. The moral of this story is that chipmunks are evil creatures and should be locked away before they manage to accomplish their ultimate goal of destroying modern civilization.

Your Characters Hate You

The Writer was eating his typewriter. Lest you think this disturbing, let me hasten to assure you that all was being done to ensure decorum. He was using a knife and fork, as well as a bib, which was tied neatly about his pale, fragile neck. His spectacles rode low on his long nose and his eyes, watering with the strain of many hours’ labor, flitted about, as if expecting some attack and not wishing to be caught unawares. Sweat beaded on his forehead, rolled down the length of his nose, and dripped onto the mangled remains of the typewriter. The writer took no notice of the defiling sweat, only continued eating.

He was, of course, quite insane.

Six hours before you and I began conversing, The Writer had been as rational as we and, as small a consolation as that might be, presented nary a threat. He had come to his established place of creativity brimming with ideas and eager to begin the day’s work. The opening paragraph went well, as did the entireties of pages one and two. Then everything came to a screeching halt. It wasn’t writer’s block, no...something far more sinister was afoot. His characters had come alive.

The story had been a mystery and The Writer had just reached the point where the ridiculously studly and cunning detective had finished compiling his list of suspects.

“I have finished compiling my list of suspects,” The Writer wrote (although it was actually the detective speaking!). “I shall now gather them in the drawing room and, through a process of brilliant deduction, force the murderer to confess before the assembly! Then I shall handcuff him to the water pipes and wait for this dreadful, but very mood-setting storm to blow over. Then I shall haul him before the magistrate, who will reward me with riches and gumdrops.”

The Writer looked back over the paragraph. He shook his head violently and looked again. That wasn’t what he had intended to write at all! It was far too early in the story to assemble the suspects. There were no clues, no hint of the murderer’s identity. There was no way the detective, Smoot by name, would be able to point out the guilty party.

“Don’t be so sure of that,” said a rough and nasally voice. The voice was surly and undeniably British.

The Writer looked down and saw a tiny figure relaxing against the side of the typewriter. “What?” The Writer’s voice sounded very dry and wavered humorously.

“You thought ill of me,” the little man said.

“Smoot?”

“In the ink. Ha!” The detective withdrew a pipe from his pocket and was on the verge of smoking it when he remembered that The Writer had written him out of the habit several stories ago. “A pity,” he said. “I rather enjoyed the stuff.”

“It was bad for your health,” said The Writer, who was beginning to recover from the initial shock. “What are you doing here?”

“I was bored living in the paper. Nothing to do, except remain as flat as possible and try to dodge those vicious hammers. Tricky business, that, especially when you’ve got a brilliant idea and start typing away like mad. Fortunately, you don’t get them often.”

“Well, I thought of you,” The Writer countered.

“Right, right. I’ll give you that. But then you made me forget my pistol in the last story. Otherwise, I’d have had the criminal long before the end.”

“That was the point,” The Writer said. “The story would have been a hundred words long.”

“Well, it would have saved me a lot of legwork, wouldn’t it? Always thinking of yourself, that’s what your problem is. Here I am, running down various indulgers in crimey things, getting all dirty and sweaty, while you sit smugly at a desk and tap away with your wretched fingertips. It’s not fair, I tell you!”

(to be continued, if Smoot allows it.)

Dad's Prose or Where It Comes From

Well, time wasters, it's been awhile since your old FooDaddy done posted on The Blog. I have to come clear with you and admit something that may, at first, seem shocking. I know most of you look to me as your moral leader; someone whose shining platinum example can be used as a yardstick to measure the yard of your own life, but try to keep in mind that I am only human. An exceptionally strange human, but one nonetheless.

There was once a time when I thought this would never happen to me. *takes microphone from stand and wanders meaningfully through the crowd* I was all like "pfft! That'll nebber happen to me! I's immortal, like the Easta Bunneh!". And folks? I said it just like that too. *grabs random person about the biceps and, vibrating with emotion, directs laser of pure mental anguish into their nostrils* Just. Like. That.

*scampers lightly back to podium, replaces microphone* But I'm proud of it now! No longer must I shuffle through the darkest and backest of alleys, with my head between my knees and my feet in my pockets! No more will I shy away from conversation at parties I've somehow sneaked into!

I speak of joining an elite social group, time-wasters! I am one of Them! Of They! I'm a member of The Washed, of The Bathed! Of the No Longer A Stinky Man with a Personal Cloud of Flies!

It's exhilarating, although I miss my flies. Especially Edward.

So that's why the posts have been few and far between. I promise I'll crank it up as soon as I learn how to do this whole "showering" thing quicker (it's always hard to condense a brand-new routine).

Who planted this heretical idea in my head, you might ask? Why, my father! He leaned across the table, into his curry chicken, and swatting flies and apologizing to the other diners, said:

"Boy. There is a way..."

And he said it all mysteriously, too, which got my attention. He told of the wonders of "soap" and how the almost magical "surfactant" properties of this wonder goo turn water from something that one squirts at one's cats to keep them from destroying things into something that greatly curbs one's odor emission. I listened raptly and stinkily, and when he was done, I was a changed blogger...

Dad's a beardy man. Always has been. As a child, I can remember it being full of candy. That probably says more about my current state of mind than it does about my upbringing...we'll come back to that later, maybe.

Candy-bearded or not, my father was always telling me things.

"Don't sneeze or cough on your hands--do it in the elbow of your shirt. You wouldn't believe how many people think that spewing evil microbes all over the hands they use to touch other people and their possessions is somehow polite. If I catch you doing it, I'mma grumble at you."

And...

"Always make sure there's a nightlight on in the bathroom. You cannot achieve lock-on in the dark, so you'll wee all over the floor. If you turn on the big light, you'll get blinded, and then you'll wee all over the floor. Here's a replacement bulb and some paper towels."

Then there's the writing advice I've had occasion to satirize. This was not his first piece of writing advice, though.

He found this email he'd sent back in 2004 for some reason, and I doubt I gave it the attention it deserved. I post it here because it is (a.) interesting, and (b.) informative. Anyone who knows me well enough will be nodding and making some form of "mm hmm!" noise when they've finished reading.


As I was peeing, getting ready to go home, my body, ever up for humiliating comedy, did one of those "dying duck" farts-- you know, the kind that musically does a descending third, from E down to middle C, or maybe farther (heh). You never can tell with farts; it would be difficult to notate them. Anyway, this fart sounded so sad, so resigned to its fate, that a phrase popped into my head, which could be the ending of a short story:

As she said this, he realized it was the end of the world, and he'd have to start facing it immediately. No one spoke. All the happy yellowness that had been part of the day suddenly drained from it. Again there was a crushing suffocating pause where neither of them could think of anything encouraging to say.

Then, he farted.

It was a dying duck, it was Shakespeare's "dying fall", it was the ultimate Oh Darn, it was the horn call from a Requiem Mass; it sounded like nothing so much as the Fart of Utter Despair, or perhaps the angel Gabriel, astride the planets, blowing the Fart For The End of Time.

It stank like it, too.

She ran away, and was never seen again. A stunned owl fell out of the sky.

'Why am I still standing here like a stunned owl?', he thought. And he took off his glasses."

That's it. Based on a true fart.


True story? I'd bet my cats on it. There's owls in that library, I have no doubts.