This
page includes several of the humorous ballads/poems I have
written to date. Many of them are derived from people I have known and/or stories
I have heard. Some I just made up. Those that have been published are indicated.
I
Hope You Enjoy Them
There are a lot of words on this page, and it might take a few seconds to load, so be patient.
The Plot (New Classic Poems … May 2005)
Birthday Surprise (New Classic Poems … May 2005)
The
Truth Of It Is (New Classic Poems … May 2005)
While walking on the
beach one day on
A man, while lost in
meditation tripped and fell -- almost.
This woke him from his
reverie. He stopped and looked around
at
weathered wood and withered weed all strewn out on the ground.
Beside his foot, a
glassy lump had nearly caused his fall.
Half-buried
in the sand, an urn with soiled and murky pall.
He bent to see just
what it was. He brushed away the sand.
He pulled it free, then heard a voice. "Your wish is my command."
He dropped the urn, and
turned to see a turbaned ghostly shroud.
"I thank you
friend for freeing me." A voice came from the cloud.
"For that I'll
grant you any wish. Just one though, I'm afraid.
Ask any thing your
heart desires. You then, will be repaid."
Surprised and somewhat
startled, the man cowered, and then fell.
The Genie laughed.
"So what's your wish? You don't have time to dwell."
He picked himself up
off the ground, not sure just what to say.
Was this a trick, or
was this real? Was this his lucky day?
"Okay," he
said. "I'll play your game. Here's something you can try.
So build a bridge from
here to there. To get there I can drive.
That is my wish, and
your command. It's yours now to contrive."
The Genie looked away
awhile, then turned and said, "I can't.
With all the wisdom that
I have, this wish I cannot grant.
Concrete and steel
could not be found, enough to build this span.
Why don't you wish the
normal things? The ones I know I can."
"All right,"
he said. "I have one more. I've yearned this all my life.
For more than thirty
years I've tried to understand my wife.
In fact I've never
figured out the things that women think.
So that's my wish; to
understand this age-old missing link."
The Genie turned away
again; his hands raised in the air.
He chanted loud, in foreign
tongue. He wailed and pulled his hair.
Then turning back, in
pleading voice, said, "Master, I implore.
That bridge you want?
What would you like? Two driving lanes or four?"
I've come to notice lately that around me things have changed.
I'm not sure when it
happened, but I find it very strange
that every time I take a
walk, it's uphill all the way,
and seems to be much farther
than it was just yesterday.
They're building
stairways steeper now than those they used to build.
My groceries seem much
heavier, though bags are but half-filled.
And someone's hiding
things of mine. They're always going astray.
Then strangely they show
up again, within one or two days.
Why am I always stiff and
sore? This thing I can't explain.
Perhaps the kinds of food
I eat are causing me this pain?
Or maybe it's the water,
full of chemicals and stuff?
I'm taking twenty pills a
day. Maybe that's not enough?
You know the collar
labels that are sewn inside our shirts?
Well, mine now all read
size eighteen. The truth of it sure hurts.
A fifteen would still fit
my neck, however I must face
the fact that it would never
fit around my bulging waist.
I've always been a
stubborn sort. I don't always conform,
but now I'm more congenial,
or so I am informed.
Not true. My nodding head is not a sign that I agree.
My glasses have five
lenses, and I'm scanning just to see.
Seems bathroom scales are
now being made with much less quality.
I don't believe the
number on the dial that I see.
I'd call the factory if I
could, and tell them what I think,
but I can't read the phone
book with its tiny printed ink.
Most people seem much
younger than I was when at their age?
I'm sure that I was more
mature when I was at that stage.
Yet, friends of mine
who've always been the same age as I am,
seem older now, and frailer;
some no longer give a damn.
I saw an old friend just
last week. She'd aged, her pallor gray.
She did not recognize me,
and she looked the other way.
This morning as I washed
my face, the mirror looked back at me.
It seems that mirrors are
not being made the way they used to be.
I think I know what's
happening. I've got it figured out.
There's not too much that
I can do. Of that I have no doubt.
Long life has schemed
against me; a conspiracy; a plot.
It beats the other option
though, so I don't want it stopped.
The Match
Now Bill McDuff and
Pete McGee had been good friends for years.
They'd chase golf balls
around the course then go have a few beers.
Their clubhouse talk
was all about the great shots that they'd made;
the
putts just missed; who'd had the luck. The loser always paid
One day in jest,
McDuff said to the boys around the table,
"You might agree
that McGee's game, is something of a fable.
I don't know quite what
game he plays. It's not golf though," he sighed.
"The foot wedges
he likes to use do wonders for bad lies"
The boys all had
a laugh at this. They knew that this was fact.
"McDuff," said
Pete, "they say a pot can't call a kettle black.
We've all watched you
set up your ball wherever it might be.
At least when on the
fairway, I have never used a tee."
And on it went
for several pints with barbs, and taunts, and shots,
until McDuff said
"That's enough! You've hit a tender spot.
McGee, I've got a
hundred bucks. A game we're going to play."
"You're on'"
said Pete. "We'll play the ball where it lies all the way.
Next day at
So they could see each
other's shots they'd use a power cart.
McGee stepped up and
teed his ball; the first ball of the round.
With mighty swing and
forceful stroke, he pushed it out of bounds.
McDuff drove
well; short club to green. Two putts gave him a par.
"Bad luck,"
he chuckled, knowing things were going well thus far.
Things didn't change.
By number nine McDuff was up by five.
He won the next two
holes as well. The match now just alive.
On number twelve his drive
was pure. Out long and straight it went.
McGee's ball sliced to
the cart path, And sat on hard cement.
Complacently, McDuff
declared, "So move it, I don't care.
The rules allow you
some relief, but me ... I'd play from there."
McGee knew this was his
last chance, and
sweat formed on his brow.
McDuff was cool. He
walked away. It hardly mattered now.
He went to where his
own ball lay, then looked back just in time
to see McGee's first
practice swing, and hear a rasping grind.
McGee had one more up his
sleeve. This thought had him inspired.
With scrape and grate,
his practice swing
brought sparks, and rain of fire.
Another
practice, then his shot. The ball rose from the blaze.
It hit the green,
rolled in the hole. He stood there quite amazed.
He drove back to
'the Duffer'. He had had a bit of luck.
He thought there was a
chance now to not lose his hundred bucks.
McDuff looked up.
"Good Shot," he said. "What did you use? Which stick?"
McGee grinned back,
"Oh, one of yours. I think it was your six."
McDuff was mad.
He lost his cool; the hole; then all the rest.
The match was drawn and
no doubt, that was surely for the best.
That night at home,
with cloth and stone, McGee shined up his six.
He'd used his club to
play that shot. 'The Duffer' had been tricked.
The
Truth Of It Is
(An episode in one of life's greatest adventures
... marriage)
A painted moon hung full and high, it's blush subdued, yet bright.
A darkened car, with headlights blurred, rushed through the lonely night.
The occupants, myself, my wife, were speaking of our
speed.
Upset, she griped, "Please slow it down. There isn't any need."
I pushed the pedal even more. "Why don't you just relax?"
I'm doing fine, and I'm just driving slightly more than max."
The party had been fun that night, and I was feeling fine.
Why did she have to spoil it now? Why did she have to whine?
As I looked in my rear view mirror, I saw some flashing lights.
"That's great," I said. "Here come the cops." The siren
pierced the night.
"I told you so. You've done it now," her scold, more like a wail.
"We can't afford a ticket. Worse, they might throw you in jail."
I pulled onto the shoulder with the police car just behind.
How would I get out of this mess? Then something came to mind.
I would deny, plead ignorance. I couldn't help but smile.
I thought I might just pull this off if I could use some guile.
The officer came to our car. I rolled my window down.
"What's up?" I asked. "Is something wrong?" He looked at me
and frowned.
"I'll need to see your license, and your
registration please."
"No problem," I responded. I was trying to seem at ease.
The cop looked at his paperwork, then took it to his
car.
I turned, looked at my wife, and said, "I'm doing fine so far."
With manner stern, the cop returned. "You were going much too fast.
Your speed was over ninety when your vehicle went past."
"That's crazy. There's no way," I said. "You've made a big
mistake.
I'm always careful of my speed. The law, I never break."
My wife leaned forward, "What a line. You always drive too fast.
I've told you that a hundred times. Your luck's run out at last."
I couldn't quite believe my ears. She was out of control.
The cop had heard the whole thing, just when I'd been on a roll.
"Excuse me. Let me handle this," I snapped back at my wife.
"Just sit back please, and shut your mouth." My words cut like a
knife
The officer looked in the car. His flashlight's beam
was bright.
"I see you have no seatbelt on. For that, I too must cite."
"I must have just removed it, Sir," more sheepishly this time.
"I swear. I always wear my belt." I buckled up in mime.
"Hah, what a joke," my wife spoke up. "You
never wear your belt.
When I ask you to buckle up, you say it leaves a welt."
"That's it, you stupid woman! We will settle this at home.
Why can't you keep your big trap shut?" My mouth began to foam.
The cop then motioned, "S'cuse me Mamm, will you please step outside.
You wait here Sir. We won't be long." When out, the
policeman pried.
"Are you all right? If you would like, I'll throw him in the
clink."
"No, I'll be fine. He's harmless. He's just had too much to drink."
There are some things
that really are not what they seem to be.
We sometimes make
assumptions based on what we think we see.
This happened to me
recently; remembered with a smile,
how
much our way of life has changed in just a little while.
I'd gone out for a walk
one day, and felt the need to eat.
A Golden Arches
beckoned me to give myself a treat.
I ordered a Big Mac and
Fries, then sat down eagerly.
Nearby a man and woman
sat. They were quite elderly.
I noticed they had just
one tray, with one meal for the two.
A quarter-pounder, fries and drink, with two straws to sip through.
I watched him cut the
hamburger into two equal shares,
then
count the fries and give to her one half of what was theirs.
The old man then began
to eat from his side of the tray.
The woman smiled, and watched
him dine. Not one word did she say.
I must say that I felt
quite bad that it had come to that.
I didn't think they did
this just to keep from getting fat.
I'd heard that many
seniors had a tough time getting by.
The cost of living had,
in fact, near bled their pensions dry.
I turned to him and
asked if I might buy another meal.
That way they both
would have their own, and better I would feel.
"I thank you son,
but we're just fine. We've been wed fifty years.
Most everything is
shared with us. It's not what it appears."
"
But what of you?" I looked at her. "Are
you not going to eat?"
"Oh yes, I
will," she smiled and said. "When he's done with
our teeth."
Young Jamie'd been a
father now for just about five years.
His wife and he had
done quite well through baby's joy and tears.
His 'Daddy's girl' was
growing fast. She'd soon be going to school.
He answered all her
questions, and he told her all the rules.
One day as he was
sitting back in front of the TV,
his
little girl came up to him and asked quite solemnly,
"So Daddy, what's this
thing called sex? I don't know this new name."
He swallowed hard, then haltingly began to best explain.
He spoke of birds and
bees and things, and from where babies come.
He wanted her to
understand, although she was quite young.
"But tell me why
you want to know?" he asked. She looked perplexed.
"Cause Mommy said
that dinner would be in just a few 'secs'."
The Excuse
Now Clancey McGinty
loved to play golf. A duffer he was, so to speak.
On Sundays he'd play;
his schedule was such that he'd only get one game a week.
At
His regular tee time
was set up for
It would take him
four hours to circuit the course. He usually was finished by
Before heading home
he'd have lunch and a beer. He always sang the same tune.
His routine was just
that; it was always the same. He'd arrive home just after One,
Say hello to his wife,
fall asleep in his chair, as his game in his mind was rerun.
There was cause
for concern on the part of his wife when one Sunday he broke this routine.
When he didn't show up
as the clock went by One, she assumed he was somewhere between.
By Two
she was worried. He should have been home. Delayed, he would surely have
called.
By Three
she was frantic. Where could he be? Her worst fears could not be forestalled.
By Four her concern had turned into ire, upset by Clancey's
neglect.
Just like a man to not
think of his wife when a call would affirm his respect.
When McGinty walked in
at
He faced a tirade that
he could not evade. No doubt he was not in her grace.
When she finally
calmed down, she quietly asked, "Where in the world have you been?"
Clancey looked up, his
palms raised in front, "My Dear, things are not what they seem.
I'm sorry I didn't
think to phone home. I won't use sweet words to cajole.
The strangest thing
happened today. I'm afraid things got out of
control."
"I'd just
finished lunch. The boys had all left. was drinking
the last of my beer,
When a woman came by and
sat by my side; a good-looking redhead, I fear.
She asked me to tell her what golf was about, and what was the point of the game.
She had no idea; she
wanted to learn; to her golf was only a name."
"So we
talked for a while of the game and its guile, and why it was such an
attraction.
I was flattered that
she had asked me for help. Her good looks were quite a distraction.
At some point she asked
me if I wouldn't mind, would I teach her to hit a golf ball?
So we went to the range
for some knowledge exchange; it seemed she was truly enthralled."
"She wanted
to buy me a drink, she declared, for my time, and my expert advice.
She wanted to offer me
something, she said, and a beer hardly seemed to suffice.
So we went back inside.
I accepted the bribe, then a look of alarm crossed her
face.
She'd missed her ride
home, she exclaimed with a gasp. Could I give her a ride to her place?"
"It
seemed to me that I'd played a small part in her missing her chance to get
home,
So I told her I could,
and I should, so I would. I'd prefer it to driving alone.
When we got to her
place, she invited me up to share with her one more cool drink.
The day had been hot. I
was already late. I wasn't quite sure what to think."
"She made me
a drink. We sat on her couch. 'Would you like something else,' she then said.
I'll not lie to you,
Dear; I'm sorry to say that I soon found myself in her bed."
"In your
dreams," said his wife, with a scowl on her face. "Enough of your lying, and tricks.
Why don't you just tell
me the truth, and admit that you played thirty-six."
Jaques'
job took everything he had. Sometimes he would get stressed.
And
when he did, he'd lose his edge. He'd not be at his best.
He'd
need to rest, but didn't like to lounge, or stay in bed.
"Why
don't you get some exercise? Go golfing," a friend said.
"Why
not," he thought. "It had been years since he'd last played the game.
And
then, he had been lousy. It was not his claim to fame
So
there he was, about to hit his ball from the first tee,
When
came a man with friendly smile. He seemed most
neighborly.
"I'm
Pat McBaird," the man declared. "May I join you today?"
"Why
don't you go ahead instead?" Jaques said, somewhat dismayed.
"I'm
really quite a hacker. I am sure I'll hold you back."
"Let's
play," said Pat, "and if you wish, I'll help you with the
knack."
They
hit their balls; Jaques' low and short, Pat's high and straight and long.
Jaques
scuffed his next, his third as well.
Each time something went wrong.
He
scored an eight. "Not bad," said Pat. "Let's work on this a
while.
"I
think that I can fix your swing, and help you with your style."
They
made their way around the course. Each hole, Pat offered tips.
By
number six, Jaques' stance was fixed; his posture, and his grip.
By
number nine, his swing looked fine, with tempo, style, and grace.
By
number twelve, his chipping and his short game were in place.
They
worked on putting for a while. It's where most hackers choke.
Pat
showed him how to read the green; the slow and easy stroke.
Jaques
birdied on the eighteenth hole, and as they left the green,
he
said "Thanks Pat, your teaching is the best I've ever seen."
As
they shook hands, Pat smiled at him. "There's something you should know.
This
lesson cost you eighty bucks. You see ... I'm a 'Golf Pro'."
Jaques
scowled then smiled, "I'm too a Pro.
I work at Church St. Stephen.
Come
visit sometime. Bring your folks. I'll wed them. We'll be even."
The Stone
Many people had come to
As they lined up to
speak, each offered a toast to help their memories renew.
His banker, his lawyer,
accountant as well; they all had good things to say.
And well they should,
for the final estate would surely be making their day.
By the time they
were through, there wouldn't be much left for
The last few years
To make it work he'd
had to sell the house, the cars, and the boat.
Whatever was left would
go to pay bills. Tillie would sure be cleaned out.
But the party was
on. The best of the year. He'd asked that it happen
this way.
Tillie had set the
whole thing up. She'd made sure that he had this big day.
People had come from
near and far to pay their last respects.
Most
invited, others not. Some crashed it, I suspect.
"What a
wonderful man my husband was," Tillie raised her glass of red wine.
"I think of Dear
Sidney, with a lump in my throat; a gentle man, thoughtful, and kind.
Close to the end I was
called to his bed, and he whispered to me his last words."
"Three wishes I
have. I've written them down." His voice could hardly be heard.
He handed her
three thick envelopes. "These wishes to you I behest.
Please carry them out
just as I've said, and peacefully then I will
rest."
She took all three of
them from his hand, and promised his will would be done.
And then with a smile,
he left this world. She opened Envelope One.
"Envelope
One contained ten thousand bucks, with a note," she said with a sigh.
"Buy me a casket
that's sound and well sealed, so alone I may putrefy.
I don't want worms and
other such things to be able to make their way in."
"And there it
stands folks, hermetically sealed." The coffin was made of thick tin.
"Envelope
Two contained one hundred grand, with a note," she said with a smile.
"Spare no expense
when planning my wake. You won't have to reconcile."
"So strike up the
band and swig back your drinks, but remember why you are here.
This money's been spent
for your enjoyment, so to
"Envelope
three contained one million bucks, and a note that with you I now share.
"Buy me a stone to
sit oer my head. Buy one for yourself if you dare."
"
Well you've all seen his stone. Do you want to see
mine?" She raised her left hand in the air.
And
showed them her ring of diamonds and gold. "I think
that my stone I will wear."
The Final Bet
Now this is the
story of partners and friends, Johnny and Sam were their names.
Best friends they'd
been since boys in school. Their lives had progressed much the same.
High School, then
college, marriage, then kids. Their law firm was much in demand.
For thirty-five years
they'd stood at the bar, retiring at sixty as planned.
From the time
they were kids they'd loved to play golf, but they'd loved to bet even more.
They always gave each
other a match. Their skills much the same, and their scores
Neither made money no
matter the bet; a dollar, a five, or a fin.
At the end of each year
a tally would show they'd both had their fair share of wins.
When they finally
retired it didn't change much. It just gave them more time to play.
The bet was the thing
that turned these guys on. Their goal was the other would pay.
As they got older their
scores went up too, but still, they kept the same pace.
No matter how much it
hurt when they played, they always wore their game face.
One day they
agreed that they'd had enough. They'd play golf just one more time.
When this game was done
they'd hang up their clubs. To this they were surely resigned.
This would be it; one
game to decide which one of these two was the best,
With one final bet of
one thousand bucks; enough so their nerves it would test.
For this final
game, two caddies they'd use to carry the clubs and keep score.
Johnny and Sam would
use a golf cart. They rarely walked anymore.
On One, Two, and Three,
Sam took three fives. Johnny played these with three fours.
At the turn Sam was
forty, John thirty-nine; one stroke between their two scores.
On Ten and
Eleven, Sam's total was seven. John had some trouble; took nine.
On Twelve John played
well, and beat Sam by two. John was ahead, and felt fine.
On number Fourteen, Sam
made up the stroke. By Sixteen the lead he'd
reclaimed,
but
as they walked up to the tee at Eighteen, their scores were exactly the same.
Both of them hit
good drives on Eighteen, a par five with trees on the
right.
Sam's
second shot landed short of the green; John's, in the woods, out of sight.
They went to the trees.
Sam helped him look for a while, then walked to his
ball.
John and his caddie
searched a bit more. Would a lost ball be Johnny's downfall?
Sam chipped his
ball up on to the green. It stopped one foot from the cup.
He smiled; feeling
good; a tap in for bird. Too bad about Johnny's bad luck.
"I found it,"
yelled John. "I just found my ball, and I've even got a good shot."
"So hit it
then," Sam hooted right back. Give it the best that you've got."
John looked
at his line, then set up on the ball. Two branches he must go between.
He swung, the ball
rose, it hit the top branch, caromed up, flew the trap to the green.
It ran to the hole, hit
the pin and dropped in. Sam grimaced. He knew that he'd lost it.
He turned to his
caddie. "I can't say a word. I've got his lost ball in my pocket."
Home Work
It had been a long day,
and John was worn out. He pulled the car into the drive.
He'd left that morning
just before six, and now it was just after five.
He had a tough job;
lots of pressure and stress, dealing with clients all day.
When he got home at
night, he liked to relax in his chair in his usual way.
The first thing he saw
as he shut off the car was a bike in the garage, on the floor.
His wife's car was
parked outside in the drive, with a wide open passenger door.
His youngest child
climbed out, on the run. She was wearing pajamas it seemed.
"Hooray," she
cried, as she came to his car. "It's Daddy," she loudly screamed.
Then the other two
kids, in pajamas as well, all covered in mud, head to toe,
came
from the house in a race for their Dad, both crying their sad tales of woe.
They'd had a big fight,
and the youngest was hurt. The other declaring no blame.
They both talked at
once; one through her tears; their stories were not quite the same.
John looked around. The
yard was a mess. There were empty food wrappers and such
strewn
everywhere. His flower garden crushed; the one he had prided so much.
"Be quiet,"
he yelled! "What's going on? Where's your mother?" He had a bad
feeling.
He ran to the house,
front door open wide; charged in. His senses were reeling.
Inside the front entry
he looked all around. Chaos and mayhem in reign.
An open juice bottle
lay on the floor. On the carpet a scarlet red stain.
In the front room the
TV was blaring. The stereo turned up as well.
Toys and kid's clothes
were strewn all around. He detected a rather ripe smell.
Where was his wife?
There wasn't a sign. He loudly called out her name.
He went to the kitchen,
the source of the smell. The odor was pungent and game.
Dirty dishes in sink;
counters spilling with food; a gaping wide open fridge door,
and
a present from Bowser, their three month old pup, in a putrid, brown pile on
the floor.
He leapt over the dog as
he ran up the stairs. He was frantic to locate his wife.
Perhaps she was ill, or
had fallen, or worse. He was worrying now for her life.
He tripped on some toys
in the hallway up stairs, fell into their bedroom door.
"Hi," said
his wife, looking up from her book, as he picked himself up off the floor.
Bewildered, he asked,
"What's going on?" In pajamas, she lounged in their bed.
"Not much,"
she replied. "How was your day?" she asked with a smile, and then
said,
"You know every
day when you come home from work and ask, "What did you do
today?""
"Well today I
didn't do any of it. Maybe now you'll believe what I say."
The Strangest
Thing
I know this sounds strange, and hard to believe, but I ask that you
please hear me out.
The story is true, and
when I am through I hope I've removed any doubt.
My tale begins simply
enough. I was tired. I'd been working quite hard.
So I went to my Club
for a quick round of golf. I'd finish my work afterward.
There was no one
around so I played by myself; a good chance to work on my game.
I wish now that someone
had been there with me. What happened is hard to explain.
I'd finished Hole One,
was approaching on Two, when a frog jumped up near my
ball.
I paid no attention,
took out my wedge. "Ribbit, Nine," said the frog with a drawl.
No way, I
thought; too close for a nine. "Ribbit, Nine," said the frog once
again.
"Okay," I
said. "I'll give it a try," and I hit it right up by the pin.
"Wow," I
exclaimed, "You sure know your stuff." I putted it in for a bird.
"Was that just
good luck? Can you do it again? What club should I use on the third?"
"Ribbit,
Three Wood," the frog replied. Once more not the club I'd have picked.
I swung at the ball. It
landed the green, then rolled right on up to the
stick.
It almost stopped, but
changed its mind, then dropped in the cup for an 'Ace'.
What could I say; this
was my lucky day; a talking frog not commonplace.
And so the game
went; the frog picked the clubs; I would then make the shot.
When finished my score
was a record for sure, thanks to my bloat-throat mascot.
"Thanks very much.
What else can you do?" I turned to the frog and asked.
"Ribbit,
The frog then
hopped up into my hand. "Ribbit, Let's go,"
it said.
So we went to the
airport and got on a plane. It rode in my bag overhead.
When we arrived we went
to the Strip. "Ribbit, Mirage," it declared.
"Ribbit,
Roulette; Ribbit, Three Grand; Ribbit, Black Six, if you dare.
A Sucker's bet,
the odds were high. The chance of a win not good.
Three Grand was a lot.
I had to have faith. I hoped I'd not misunderstood.
So I made the bet; the
whirling wheel spun, and lo, when it stopped I had won.
A man came by and gave
me a cheque, when I told him that I was done
When the frog and
I got up to my room, I was still somewhat tongue-tied.
"What can I do to
repay you," I asked? "Ribbit, Kiss Me," it replied.
I did, and the frog
transformed to a girl, naked, her youth in full bloom.
And Your
Honor, that's how this girl, but fifteen, was up there that night, in my room.
The Golden Rule
Now Mary was a
joyful girl, a smile was always near.
Her voice was like a song
in spring, with lilt, and crystal clear.
She went to church each
Sunday morn, sang in the choir as well.
At school the Nuns all
fancied her. They called her Evangelle.
They thought she
was an angel sent down here to the earth.
Her future had been mapped, it seemed, from the moment of her birth.
She planned to be a
Sister too, when she was fully-grown,
A Bride of Christ would
be her life; since childhood she had known.
At eighteen
years, arrangements made; her schooling now complete,
with
bag in hand, and not much else, she came to Convent gate,
They welcomed her and
took her to her room, cold, stark, and bare.
A single bed, a table;
she could only stand and stare.
When called to
see the leader of these quiet, gentle folk,
she
noticed that the Sisters here rarely ever spoke.
The leader was called
Mother. Her eyes were soft; she smiled.
"Welcome to our
home," she said. "Welcome here my child."
"Thank you
Mum, I was wondering if ... " Mary tried to say.
"Remember
child," the Mother said, "you're here to
learn and pray.
While cloistered in
this Convent silence is the golden rule.
There's little need to
speak at all inside the vestibule."
"Off you go
young Novice, and remember not a word.
Come back and see me in
one year. Your voice will then be heard."
"I'd like to get a
few things for ... " she tried once more to say.
The soft eyes now a
cold hard glare; Mary was dismayed.
The days, the
weeks, the months went by. The rules had been established.
Work and pray, learn
and say no words or be admonished.
The Convent life was
frugal. The meals were just enough.
She'd never dreamed
that life in here would ever be this tough.
She worked it out
though; did her best; excelled at all she tried.
She would not fail; she'd
wanted this; she would not be denied.
A year had passed when
came a note to come and see the Mother.
Mary made a list of all
the things she hoped that she could cover.
"Welcome
child," the Mother said. "Relax and sit awhile.
Please tell me how you're
life has been within this domicile."
A
chance to speak, to talk aloud. She hoped there'd be
no censure.
How much should she say
to her? How much should she venture?
"Mother, I
must tell you that I have found it hard
to
get by without speaking while here within this ward.
I'd like a few things
for my room. It's very dark and dreary.
My mattress is so lumpy
I can't sleep, and I'm so weary."
"Remember
child, we're very poor. We haven't got a lot.
You're going to have to
make do with exactly what you've got.
Off you go now Sister,
and remember not a word.
I'll see you in another
year. Your voice will then be heard"
She went back to
her quiet life, her frustrations subdued.
She prayed; she worked;
she studied hard. This was her purview.
Another year had gone
by when the Mother called once more.
She'd only ask one
thing this time; in earnest she'd implore.
"Welcome
child," the Mother said. "How are you, my dear?
How have you been
getting on while here for this past year?"
"Mother, I'm aware
we're poor. I don't want to presume,
But I need more heat;
I'm always cold when e'er I'm in my room."
"You're
right my child. We don't have much. Have you so soon forgot
what
I told you just last year; to do with what you've got?
Off you go now Sister,
and remember not a word.
I'll see you in another
year. Your voice will then be heard"
The next year
passed in quiet. The Mother called again.
Mary now had planned to
leave, but how would she explain?
"Welcome
child," the Mother said. "Why do you look so sad?
Where's that pretty
smile of yours? Are things really so bad?"
"I've tried
to do my best while here," Mary said, head down.
"I'm going to
leave; I just can't cope." Mother's face now frowned.
"That's fine by
me," the Mother said, "You will not be detained.
It seems that since you
first arrived, you've constantly complained."
A Golfer's Lament
(It's
so hard to get a good tee time)
I
played a game of golf today, the weather a delight.
The
breeze was fresh; the rays were warm; there were no clouds in sight.
An
early spit of rain had passed to moist and soft the green.
It
was the finest day so far; the best this year I've seen.
I
played with Paul. We play each week to test our nerve and skill
We
wager each and every time. The bet, a five buck bill.
We
started shortly after ten. We always walk the track.
When
A
road runs by the seventeenth. The traffic moves in shuffle.
The
rumble of this road is close; cacophony's kerfuffle
We
seldom ever notice, though. We maintain concentration
until
today. A hearse went by with cars all in formation.
As
somber session slowly passed, Paul moved his cap to chest.
He
raised his arm and waved good-bye. His eyes were sad, depressed.
"So
what's going on?" I asked. He said, "It brings me close to tears.
I'm
going to miss her. We'd been wed for almost thirty years."
Wurd Pouer
God's gift to me was
wundrus voyce, but not the gift to rite.
I new it wen just a we boy, wen pomes I wood recyte.
As I gru older, I was
yused by men to crouds provoke.
With pashun I coud say
the wurds ritten by uther foke.
Then I got into
politiks, and soon got elekted.
Sometymes I tryd to
rite the wurds I wanted to be sed.
I had a staf of riters
tho, who smyled and gave me theres.
"Just say these
wurds," thay'd say to me. "You have the savware fare."
I now have more tyme on
my hands. I am Pryme Ministur.
My offise has a grayt
big desk compleet with compewter.
And now I rite all my
own wurds; with staf I just confur,
becuz
my riting program has a bilt in spel chekur.
*** Memo to Depewty
Pryme Ministur … get spel chekur ficksed. ***
Teacher's Pet
The school year near over, the middle of
June.
The Grade Three class would start holidays soon.
Their final exams were over and done,
The year-end party had just begun.
The kids were excited; a hullabaloo,
with
goodies to eat, and games to play too.
They'd brought their teacher presents that day,
To thank her in everyone's own special way
Mrs. Gobbett stood proud; they'd all made the grade.
The good ones, the bad ones, not one would
she trade.
She loved one and all, and they loved her as well.
So much, they could barely not blurt
out and tell
what
gifts they had brought her. She made it
a game.
Before she would open each one she would name
just
what the gift was. She'd make them a bet
of a hug
that she'd guess each one's gift secret.
Young Sara came forward, her gift held up high.
Mrs. Gobbett said "Thank-you," then smiled. Sara sighed.
She knew Sara's dad was a florist by trade,
but
before she would guess, she'd play out her charade.
She held it, and shook it; she squeezed it as well,
then
said, "It is flowers. I'm
sure. I can tell."
"That's right.
How'd you know?" Sara said
with a shrug.
"Oh just a wild guess. Now give me a
hug."
Then
"I don't think you'll guess this, and I'll win the
bet."
Mrs. Gobbett said, "Thank-you, I think that I
might,"
since
She held it, and shook it, and squeezed it as well,
then
said, "It is chocolates. I'm
sure. I can tell."
"That's right.
How'd you know?"
"Oh just a wild guess. Now give me a
hug."
Little Matthew came next. "Can you guess what this is?"
She might guess the rest, but she'd never guess his.
"Don't shake it; it's fragile," he said with a
smile,
"And it's only been wrapped for a very short
while."
Now young Matthew's folks owned the local wine store,
so she
smiled as she picked his gift up off the floor.
" I think that I'll guess it.
I think that I know."
She held it up high, looking up from below.
The box had a leak, which she touched with
her finger.
She smelled it, detecting a slight taste of ginger.
"Is it wine," she inquired? "No, it's not," he replied.
She tasted it then.
What could be inside?
"
She took one more taste. He laughed loudly and wild.
"I give up. I
don't know?" Matthew's face shone
with glee.
" Surprise," Matthew said!
"It's a puppy from me."
Paddy's Pot of Gold
'Twas a glorious morn
on the Emerald Isle, and Paddy had gone out to play.
He played the front
nine in near record time. He hoped he'd be done by mid-day.
On number sixteen his
ball found the trees, so he made his way into the woods.
He'd look for a while.
He'd find it, he hoped. He'd save those two strokes if he could.
He was looking around
under brush, under twigs, when he spotted a man on the ground.
Out cold, maybe dead,
with a bump on his head. Beside him, the ball. It was
found.
"My
goodness!" he said. The bump was dark red. "My ball must have hit
him, I fear."
He knelt down beside.
The man was alive. Each breath brought a moan he could hear.
The man was quite
short, dressed all in bright green, red hat, and a long crooked nose.
He opened his eyes;
shook his head in surprise, as Paddy was leaning quite close.
"Who are you?
What's going on?" the little man asked, as he rubbed his head with his
hand.
"It seems,"
Paddy spoke, " That on my last stroke, my ball,
on your head, it did land.
"Okay", the
man said. "You've captured me fair. 'Tis a Leprechaun
that I am.
Three wishes I'll grant
you. Those are the rules. The dream of every man."
"No thanks,"
Paddy said. "I just can't accept. I'm glad though that you are all right.
He picked up his ball,
said goodbye and then left; down the fairway and soon out of sight.
The Leprechaun thought,
"Now there's a good man, but he caught me and I have no choice.
I'll grant him the
wishes that I would ask for. My will onto him I will foist.
A golfer he is, so a
great one he'll be. And also, ... unlimited money.
As for his sex life,
he'll be a new man. The young girls will all call him honey."
For over a year, from
the woods on 16, he watched Paddy hit balls long and straight.
One day as he hid,
Paddy passed fairly close, so he called out his name, "PADDY, WAIT!"
Paddy turned back; came
over, and said, "How are you doing my friend."
"Just fine I
am," said the little green man. "My greetings to you I extend."
"And how is your
game? Are you hitting it well?" "Great," Paddy said. "Under Par."
"My first gift to
you," the Leprechaun smiled, "even though you were not aware.
And how is the money
holding out? Do you find that you have enough?"
"My pocket is
magic. Each time I reach in, there's always more of the stuff."
"I gave you that
too," the little man said. "And your sex life, how has it been?"
"Pretty
good'" Paddy said. Sometimes twice a week. I'm
popular with the Colleens"
"That's it, twice
a week," the Leprechaun asked? Is that all the sex that you've had?"
"Well my parish is
small," Paddy said with a smile, "and you know, for a Priest that's
not bad."
A Debt Barely Paid
This
tale I hope will tickle your bone; your funny bone, I mean.
It's a story of Charlie,
John, and Colleen, and some good-natured guile a'tween.
Charlie, a bachelor,
lived up the street from John and, and his new wife Colleen.
Colleen was a beauty; a
thing to behold, with a body that still was eighteen
When she worked
in her garden, in short halter top, the neighborhood men gave a smile.
They'd all come outside
to work in their yards, then stand there and ogle a while.
Colleen knew well her
effect on these men. Delighted she was with this power.
Whenever she went back
in to her house, the men would go in and cold shower.
Now one Sunday
morn, with sun shining bright, to golf our John had gone.
Colleen finished up in
the yard, and went in to shower, and fresh clothes to don.
She'd no sooner
stripped, and was into the wet, when the doorbell dingled downstairs.
She ignored it at
first, but it rang several times. She'd have to go see who was there.
Colleen emerged,
grabbed a towel from the rack to wrap her body, bare.
Downstairs she went,
and opened the door. Charlie, the neighbor, was there.
"I see you've been
having a shower," he said, as he looked at her with a smile.
"I hope this is
not inconvenient, but, could I come in for a while?"
"No,"
she said, "not right now. Were you wanting to
speak to John?"
"I was," he
replied, "but that's OK. I see that's a towel you've got on.
I was wondering if, for
one hundred bucks, you'd open the towel to your waist?
It's a look that I
want. I'm willing to pay, and then I will leave post haste."
At first
she was flustered. What should she do? One hundred bucks was a lot.
What harm could it do?
He'd just take a look. He'd promised to touch her not.
She knew she could use
the extra cash, and she wouldn't be fully undressed.
"OK, she said, but
just a quick peek," and removed the towel from her breasts.
"I
knew they'd be nice," Charlie remarked. "I see that they're firm, and
yet soft.
For another one hundred
bucks would you let the towel fall all the way off?"
She'd gone this far.
"Why not," she said, as the towel dropped clear to the floor.
He had a good look;
gave her two hundred bucks; said goodbye, and walked out the door.
Colleen
went back to her shower again, surprised at what she'd done.
It was worth it, she
thought, to have some cash; and it had been a little fun.
Maybe she'd buy that
dress she liked, the one with the low cut back.
She'd have to speak to
Charlie though. He'd have to cut her some slack.
A little
while later John arrived home, tired from his day on the links.
Colleen had made him his
favorite meal. Her conscience was guilty, methinks.
When asked of her day,
and how it had gone, she mentioned that Charlie'd come by.
"Did he pay me the
two hundred bucks that he owes?" John asked, as she broke down and cried.
Birthday Surprise
It's funny about humour, and the things that make us smile.
To some, what is amusing, is to others course and vile.
This is a story guys might like. Some girls might take
offence.
They just don't see the humour when one speaks of flatulence.
This story's of a friend of mine. Some parts of it are true.
It's tragic, and yet funny. It depends
your point of view.
It talks of love and sacrifice, temptation, and surprise,
and
how our fortune can unfold when we open our eyes.
At school he was one of the boys. To strangers he was Art.
We called him by his nickname though. To us he was 'The
Fart'.
He'd earned this nickname aptly, and he liked it. He was
proud
of how
his special talent made him stand out from the crowd.
When very young he'd learned to love molasses home-baked
beans.
He ate at least one serving every day throughout his teens.
He knew if he ate just enough, his stomach would react,
and
how when he recycled them, to all of us distract.
His sphincter was a fine tuned tool. It had distinctive tone.
With volume, pitch, and timbre, he could make it sigh or moan.
Sometimes we’d see him rise up on one cheek, but hear no
sound.
Sometimes he'd rip it, bark, or quack, the smell always
profound.
He was a hero to us guys. No one else had his skill.
He was a party favorite. He could perform at will.
He had a little problem though. He couldn't get a date.
The girls just didn't understand, nor did they
'preciate.
He could have had a girlfriend if he'd just stopped with the
beans.
But so far he had still not met the lady of his dreams.
So he kept up his artistry, his analgesic voice.
It was his thing. It's who he was. No girlfriends were his
choice.
Then one fine day it happened, and she came into his life.
He knew as soon he met her that someday she'd be his wife.
He gave up beans and courted her, proposed, and she agreed.
As long as he could guarantee from his bane he'd been freed.
They wed, had kids, a boy, a girl; joined church, and PTA.
He often dreamed of home-baked beans, but never went astray.
They prospered. He worked in the bank. They bought a home in
town.
His boyhood nickname long forgot; his repute was renowned.
It seemed that all was going great. His life was a success.
But life sometimes plays tricks on us. It lies in wait, I
guess.
We all have weaker moments, and sometimes our guard comes
down.
That's when the Devil laughs at us, and turns our smile to
frown.
The day that Art turned twenty-eight, with some boys from the
bank,
they
went out to a pub for lunch. Three jugs of beer they drank.
Some beans were placed in front of him. He never had a
chance.
The smell too much, he wolfed them down. His gut began its
dance.
Within an hour of back to work, a smell reeked through the
place.
The like of which took breath away, its source they could not
trace.
By three the bank had closed its doors, the staff not feeling
well.
They were sent home, the fire hall called to source the
pungent smell.
Though Art knew well whence came the smell,
the truth he would forsake.
Though guilty, he would not admit; his repute was at stake.
His stomach spoke as he walked out, a rumbling of ripe gas.
He knew though, that within two hours this flatulence would
pass.
As Art had left for work that morn, his wife had been
precise,
"Do not come home till
So he set out the long way home. A two-hour walk he'd take.
By then he should be over the results of his mistake.
All the way home he spread good will. No one walked close behind.
By five, when he at last arrived, his farting had declined.
His wife met him at their front door with blindfold he must
wear.
She led him in, and sat him down upon dining room chair.
Something smelled good. He knew it well, the scent of fresh
baked beans.
Had his wife, for his birthday, cooked the soul food of his
dreams?
She moved to pull the blindfold off. The phone rang in the
hall.
She made him promise not to peek while she answered the call.
As he sat there sniffing the air, he felt his stomach churn.
He felt a big one coming on, and had no-where to turn.
He shifted, moved up on one cheek, and let go a great
RRIIIPPPP.
It cut the air. The smell was bad. His nose began to drip.
He had to dissipate the stink. He waved his arms around.
This movement brought the urge again, and one more loud, rude
sound.
He stood and flailed his arms around. He had to clear the
air.
He heard his wife hang up the phone, so sat back in his
chair.
"And now for something special, dear. I hope you’ll be surprised."
"I’ve made you suffer long enough." She uncovered
his eyes.
He was surprised, and mortified. Her secret, you might
guess.
Around the table, trying to breathe, were eighteen dinner
guests.
'Twas a beautiful day in September.
The leaves had just started to turn,
Eddie, his wife, and
their six year old son, for the lake and a picnic did yearn.
They had loaded their
car with towels and suits, and a basket of food, pop, and beer,
and
headed on out for a day in the sun; perhaps the last one of the year.
"What a
wonderful day for a drive," Eddie said. He smiled, and looked at his mate.
Eddie Junior, in back
was happy as well. To get there he hardly could wait.
A
day at the beach, a romp in the surf, and maybe a sandcastle too.
If they got there
early, they hoped they would get a spot with a Bar-B-Que.
As they hurried
along they all sang along with a tune on the car radio.
"What's this up
ahead?" Eddie scowled, as he said. "Construction!"
He started to slow.
For
there by the side of the road stood a man with a flag that he waved, then held
up.
He was dressed all in red,
even cap atop head, and he signaled for Eddie to stop.
Eddie pulled up,
and rolled down the glass. The man came up to the car.
"What's up?"
Eddie asked. "I hope these repairs don't go on very far."
The man looked in and
said with a smile, "I'm hoping that I can entreat.
The 'Red Bastard' I am
of this fresh macadam, and I'm sure needing something
to eat."
"No
problem," said Ed, "If that's all you want." He reached for the
basket of food.
He gave him a sandwich wrapped
freshly in foil, trying to maintain his good mood.
"Thanks and
goodbye," said the man dressed in red. "Don't be driving too fast.
There's construction
ahead. It'll take you a while before you finally get past."
Eddie pulled out;
stepped hard on the gas. He now had to make up some time.
He hoped they would not
be held up again. They then passed a large traffic sign.
'FINES WILL BE DOUBLED WHEN MEN ARE AT WORK'
the big yellow sign boldly read.
"How long till
we're there," Junior whined from the back? "Sit back and
shut-up," Eddie said.
They were moving
along at a good rate of speed when a 'SLOW-DOWN' sign
appeared.
Then a man by the side
of the road with a flag, dressed all in green, with a beard.
He signaled for them to
stop the car. Eddie braked, and moved to the curb.
The man approached.
Eddie rolled down the glass. "What now?" He was getting perturbed.
"The 'Green
Bastard' I am of this fresh macadam," said the elf-like man with a smile.
"Could I bother
you for a drink today? My water's been gone for a while."
"Here's a
Coke," Eddie said, as he reached in the back. "Now, please let us get
on our way"
'Thanks," said the
man. "Don't drive too fast. I hope that you have a nice day."
Eddie sped up.
They'd be late now for sure. Today there'd be no Bar-B-Que.
"Oh
No! Not again," Eddie looked up ahead. A man
stood there dressed all in blue.
He was waving them
down. Eddie skid to a stop. He was thinking things very unkind.
He decided that they
had had quite enough. He'd give him a piece of his mind.
He rolled down
his glass as the fellow came up. This guy, he was going to confront.
"I know; let me
guess; the 'Blue Bastard' you are. What in the Hell do you want?"
"It seems you were
speeding," the cop scowled right back. "And for that you'll receive a
citation.
Now if you'd be so kind
to please try to find your license and registration."
Young Rob
Young Rob was a golfer,
a good one at that. His skills were exquisitely honed.
With crisp long drives,
and putts on a string, he usually played in the zone.
It was nothing for him to
shoot under par. He'd break it most times he played.
His handicap hovered
just around scratch, and his swagger was oft on display.
Now Rob had been
playing since just a young boy. His father, the local golf
pro.
He'd learned the game
early and practiced a lot, but still there was much more to know.
For years, while in
school, he worked at the club learning the craft of the trade.
His goal was to follow,
and maybe exceed the footsteps his father had made.
I remember the time,
with bets on the line, that Rob and two other young tigers,
With wager agreed were
on the first tee, when up to them came Pat, his father.
"Can I join you
boys?" Pat asked the group. I see that you are only three."
"I suppose you
can," Rob looked at his friends. "It doesn't matter to me."
"How many strokes
will you give me today?" Pat asked Rob with a smile.
"I can't hit the
ball quite as far anymore, and I know that you smack it a mile.
With a seventy-five
I'll know I've played well. You'll probably shoot under par.
So give me three
strokes and we'll play for five bucks. We'll see if there's jam in that
jar."
"All right!"
said Rob. "That's fine by me. I've another game on with these boys.
They've been getting a
little cocky of late, and their egos I plan to destroy.
They're
needing a little humility. It's a lesson I'm planning to
teach.
But I don't mind taking
a fiver from you. In fact, it'll be five from each."
So the match was alive.
They all hit good drives; then onto the green; all made par.
Rob birdied the next.
His stroke was pure text. The others were even thus far.
On three, four, and
five Pat's game took a dive; down three in their little contest.
At the turn to the back
it seemed a ransack. Rob three up on all of the rest.
The tigers were
harnessed. Rob knew they were tamed. He'd muffled their roar for now.
But his father, he
knew, had not been subdued. He'd keep on the pressure somehow.
As they moved round the
back they humbled the track; all four of them even on each.
As they stood on
eighteen, they looked to the green, Rob wondering if he could reach.
"What do you
think?" he mused to his dad. "If I keep it well right, can I clear?
I'll be
needing a three to beat you today. It's the trees in my path that I
fear."
"I know one
thing," Pat solemnly said, "When younger the trees I could fly.
But I can't anymore.
I'll be playing for a four. At my age I'd never get by."
Rob moved to the tee,
his big stick in hand, and swung it with all of his might.
His timing was perfect;
his swing was sublime. The ball flew with great length and height.
While nearing the trees
on its path to the green, a summer breeze rustled the branches.
The ball seemed to
slow; caught the trees; fell to creek; and with it, the last of Rob's chances.
As they walked off the
green on number eighteen Rob cursed his bold strategy.
For all of his trouble,
he'd taken a double, and the others had all made a
three.
The tigers were even.
Rob owed Pat a five. His ego had taken a fall.
"However,"
Pat chuckled, "When I was your age, those trees were but five feet
tall."
Harry's Bad Luck
This is a story of Harry
and Beth; or perhaps their story's end.
Married they were for
many a year; partners and best of friends.
A
devoted wife through all of it; support and loving care.
Now, as Beth sat near
his bed, she cried, then said a prayer.
Harry soon would leave
this earth; slowly slipping away.
Three days in a coma
now, his pallor was quite gray.
He lay there in his
hospital bed with tubes, and drains, and such.
Beth looked at him, then cried again. She loved him Oh so much.
Then he seemed to come
around. He'd done this once or twice.
His eyelids slightly
fluttered. His hand moved; cold as ice.
Beth reached out and
took his hand. "Harry, I'm right here."
He sighed, and slowly
moved his lips; then murmured, "Please come near."
As Beth moved close
beside him, he whispered in her ear,
"There's something
I must say to you before I leave, my dear.
You've always been
there with me, throughout all the bad times.
I have to tell you
something now before my last bell chimes."
"When I got fired
from that great job, you were there to give support.
When my business failed
and I was down, you were there for my comfort.
When I got shot and
nearly died, you were right there by my side.
When we lost the house
you told me that we'd take it in our stride"
"And now that I'm
about to pass, you're still here to sustain."
"It's all right
dear," she gently said, "Right here I will remain."
"No please,"
he gasped. "Please go away!" Her face was horror struck.
"I've finally got
it figured out. You bring me real bad luck."
The Nursing Home
Kathleen Savon was
getting on; turned ninety last July.
An Independent lady,
she continued to defy
her
daughter's best intentions. She did not desire to move
into
a Home for older folks. This plan she disapproved.
The problem was she
fell a lot, and could not live alone.
A nurse came by two
times each day. She came right to her home.
One time she fell;
could not get up. She lay there on the floor.
In pain, she called out
loudly when the nurse knocked on the door.
The nurse helped to
convince her she should give a Home a try.
There wasn't much
choice anyway, and there was one nearby.
The people there would
care for her. For nothing would she want.
A
hairdresser, a library, a church, and restaurant.
Her daughter, who was
quite relieved, brought Kathleen to the Home.
They toured the place,
and met some folks. She would not be alone.
Before her daughter
left that day, she helped Kathleen unpack.
She'd come to see her
in two days. She promised she'd be back.
Next
morning after breakfast, which they brought right to her room.
A nurse came by with flowers,
some pink lilies in full bloom.
She gave Kathleen a
nice warm bath, and then she set her hair,
then
took her to the common room, and sat her in a chair.
The chair looked out a
window, with a garden just outside.
A garden much like hers
at home, with lilacs just beside.
Some other people, much
her age, had gathered in the room.
Perhaps this wouldn't
be so bad, and not all gloom and doom.
While sitting in her
reverie daydreaming of times past,
she
started to tilt sideways. All the nurses were aghast.
So
two rushed up behind her to help stop her pending fall.
She turned and gave a
dirty look. They had a lot of gall.
The nurses backed away
once more. Kathleen sat straight again.
With all of this
attention this place really was a pain.
Then once again she
tilted. This time to the other side.
Once more the nurses
rushed to her, their service to provide.
This happened several
times that day. Each time they kept her straight.
She tried to shoo them
off of her. She was now quite irate.
She didn't think she
liked it here. She didn't want to stay.
When once again her
daughter came, this thought she would convey.
She woke up in the
morning. She had calmed down by this time.
A bath, some food, some
loving care, her daughter came at nine.
"So how are things,"
she asked her Mom? "Okay, ... just one bad
part,"
Kathleen replied.
"I'd like it more if they'd just let me fart."
Moving
Day
This
is a timeless story, though it has a little twist.
Though circumstances vary, I am sure
you'll get the gist.
The lesson we might learn from this. To
all men, please be warned.
It's tough to get the better of a woman
you have scorned.
______________________________________
Marie and Ted had now been wed for more than twenty years.
Of late though, things had not been good. Marie had shed some
tears.
Her husband had decided that he wanted a divorce.
He'd found a younger woman, and this issue he would force.
He wanted a quick settlement. There must be no delay.
His girlfriend wanted to move in, and move in right away
The tears she shed were not for Ted. That's not why she was
sad.
She didn't want to lose her home, and she was fighting mad.
He gave her three days to move out, and he was quite
explicit.
The house was his, his family home, and she had no claim to
it.
He'd found another place for her where she could live in
style,
until
they reached a settlement, but that would take a while
She spent the first day packing up all that belonged to her.
He told her that at least for now, he'd keep the furniture.
The second day the movers came and took her things away.
She sat, that night, in silence thinking how she'd been
betrayed.
She hadn't given up hope yet. He was in for a fight.
She'd thought of something that would work. At least, she
thought it might.
She sat down for a final meal the eve of the third day.
Some caviar, some garlic shrimp, a glass of
Chardonnay.
She took the shrimp and caviar, and mixed it in a bowl.
With bowl in hand, revenge in mind, she took a little stroll.
Into each window's curtain rod, this mixture she then poured.
She smiled when done. This battle won. She might yet win this
war.
The next day Ted arrived back home,
his sweet young thing as well.
It was true bliss for a few days, till they perceived a
smell.
They aired the place. They cleaned, they mopped. They checked
vents for dead mice.
Each day the smell grew worse and worse. It wasn't very nice.
They pulled up all the carpets. The exterminators came.
But after all was said and done, the stench remained the
same.
Ted's sweet young thing was quite upset. They moved to a
hotel.
There was no more that he could do. His house, he'd have to
sell.
Six months went by. No offers came. His price kept coming
down.
The word was out: un-sellable. It spread beyond the town.
His hotel costs were building up. His sweet young thing was
sad.
And then she left. How quickly things had gone from good to
bad.
He called Marie and asked her, "Would you like to move
back in?"
She told him she'd be glad to, but it wouldn't be with him.
"It's much too late for that," she said, "I'm
no longer your spouse.
But for one tenth of
what its worth, I'll gladly buy your house."
Ted knew that she could never know how bad was
the decay.
He told her that he would agree, if she would sign today.
Marie agreed, the papers, signed. Their home was hers alone.
Her strategy had worked, it seems. For nothing she'd atone
Next day she stood out on her porch and watched Ted's movers
work
As they brought out his furniture, she could not help but
smirk.
When taking down the curtains, they had gagged at the vile
smell.
"Please don't forget the curtain rods," she said.
"They're his as well."
The
Triple Filter Test
One
day, way back in ancient
A
student came and sat beside. He spoke in a hushed tone
"Oh
Socrates, I've heard some news. It brings me much dismay.
I
feel that I must pass it on, though it be mere
hearsay."
"Before
you do," said Socrates. "There's something I need say.
Are
you sure that I want to hear this gossip you convey?
It
seems that you can hardly wait to get it off your chest,
but
first we will subject it to the 'Triple Filter Test'?"
"The
'Triple Filter Test', my lord? I know not what you mean."
A
lesson at this time and place, not something he'd foreseen.
He
wasn't sure now if he should pass on this news, or not.
"What
is this test, Oh Socrates? It's nothing I've been taught."
"The
test first looks for truthfulness, and so I ask of you
This
thing that you would tell me, are you sure that it is true?
"Well,
no," the young man said to him. "It's just what I've been told.
Does
that mean I can't tell you? Must this rumor I withhold?"
"Perhaps.
Lets look at filter two to see if yet you should.
Is
what you are about to say going to be something good?
I
hope you'd not say something bad that you weren't sure was true."
The
young man shrugged. "It's not so good, but I just thought that you
..."
"Not
true, not good. There's but one more. My point, I hope you'll see.
Is
what you want to tell me going to be of use to me?"
The
young man turned his eyes away, and then he bowed his head.
"It
seems my news has failed the test. I'll say not what was said."
We
know that Socrates was wise, and held in high esteem.
Perhaps
the best philosopher the world has ever seen.
No
doubt, he knew a lot of how a man should live his life.
He
never knew that Plato, though, was foolin' with his wife.
Then
again ... maybe he did!
While walking for some exercise, I felt the need to eat.
I noticed a nice restaurant, I entered, took a seat.
I noticed at the table next a gorgeous redhead sat.
She looked at me. I smiled at her, then we began to
chat.
Quite suddenly she raised her hand. A sneeze she tried to stifle.
Her glass eye from its socket flew like shot from out a rifle.
Reflexively, I raised my hand and caught it from the air,
and handed it right back to her with gentlemanly flair.
"Oh My," she said. "I'm sorry," as she popped it back in
place.
"I hate it when that happens," then a smile came to her face.
"Please let me buy you dinner. Will you join me while we dine?"
"Why thank-you. I would like that?" This was turning out just fine.
We talked, we ate, we had some laughs, then left to
find a bar.
When there, she bought two rounds of drinks, and bought me a cigar.
She told me all about her self. She wasn't too complex.
She loved to have a good time, and she really enjoyed sex.
On cue, we went to her place, where we soon were in her bed.
The sex was great. What can I say? It's better left unsaid.
I woke up the next morning to a breakfast feast, gourmet.
This woman was incredible, much more than a good lay.
"You know," I said, "You're perfect. You're the woman of my
dreams.
Are you this nice to every guy you meet. Please pass the cream."
She smiled. "I very rarely bring a man home to my bed.
It's just because you happened ... to catch my eye." she said.