Category Archives: Tales

2109. A dog walk

(Iseult suggested I write a story about a certain topic. (Iseult is into Horror!) Here is my contribution).

It was a route I had travelled almost daily for eleven years; travelled on foot that is. You see every day for eleven years I had taken my dog, Vladimir, for a walk. He was the most loveable dog. Owners would say that their dog is loveable, but none are as loveable as mine!

The tricks he would get up to! Sometimes I think he even tried to talk. I once played a little game with him in the kitchen. I crawled on all fours around the kitchen island. He followed, and half way around, when I was out of sight, I changed direction. He thought that very funny! Half an hour later I looked through the window, and there he was playing the same trick on the neighbour’s dog. Round and around the maple tree they were going!

Anyway, that was Vladimir, my best friend. He was a Chow Chow-Collie Cross. Every day we went for a walk. Not once had we ever used a lead.

Suddenly, appearing out of the ditch at the side of the road was a zombie. I had never believed in zombies. I thought they were a silly literary invention. But I knew, from what I had read, exactly what it was. Vladimir looked but did not bark. Most strange. I was terrified. This was definitely a dead body reincarnated. It was long undead. It was rotting. It smelt like nothing on earth. And it was lunging towards me.

I’m normally quick witted in such an emergency. I didn’t really know much about zombies. Can they talk? Do they kill? Can they understand if I say something. After all, his face and ears were dripping putrid flesh. Could they still function?

 I said, “Good afternoon. Oh no, not another. My dog has already destroyed three zombies today, and the thought of having to sit and watch him destroy a fourth is starting to get depressing.”

It was a lie. The zombie knew it. It took no notice and continued to swing towards me. And then it happened…

Without warning Vladimir stood up on his hind legs. His fur fell off like he was discarding a jacket. His face was transformed. He turned into Vlad! Vlad the Impaler, known by some as Count Dracula. He swooped on the zombie and with his teeth gnawed off its head and stomped out its brains.

Next, as if nothing had happened, Vlad became Vladimir once more. You can tell when a dog smiles.

That night, Vladimir jumped on my bed to sleep at my feet as he had done for eleven years. As I turned out the light I heard him whisper, Don’t you ever tell a soul.

2106. In praise of underwear

It’s amazing in the modern era how people have become creative with underwear. There are so many varieties to choose from. To illustrate this, here are a bunch of celebrities modelling some of what is available. It is a delight to see them modelling underwear in a chaste manner that belies what lies beneath the surface. Modesty is a quality sadly missing in many undies’ ads.

1. Scented Underpants: They come in all sorts of smells. Clearly the wearer has chosen Hot Chili Pepper. It’s a very popular odour because it lends the eyes a certain wateriness which makes people think the wearer cares.

2. Equity Underwear: In the good old days women’s knickers could be frilly. These days a sturdier approach is required. Simple pleats are the order of the day, often with written suggestions as to how to get into people’s faces and live life to the Max. These undies scream equity – how to look like powerful women’s undies without descending into masculine toxicity.

3. Contoured Underpants: No! It is not a mistake that this celebrity is wearing her boyfriend’s underwear. As can be seen from the photograph these underpants are tight fitting and shaped to fit the contours of the anatomy. It is particular popular with the younger set, especially the Shit quad.

4. Think Outside the Square Underwear: Some people like to get creative. This model clearly has all sorts of nasty and suggestive words scrawled across his underpants. It is always a shame when such creativity is hidden, so it’s a particular joy that this model is able to wear it in a way that we can all share. Also the cut enables his nose to be stuck into all sorts of places.

5. Conundrum Underpants: A number of celebrities (one can only presume, but it seems certain) wear their spouse’s underwear. It happens most often when one gets up early and gets dressed in the dark (and they often stay in the dark throughout the day). Unfortunately this model’s spouse doesn’t wear undies so she has had to resort to wearing her own. And besides, power dressing includes underwear. Black black black (I’m talking about fabric). Indeed her undie-less-hubby conundrum is not only convenient but good for a laugh.

6. Fruity Underwear: Like the previous model, this model attempts to wear her husband’s undies as often as possible, for he appears to be a very creative man. With the oranges he possibly comes from Florida or Ecuador or somewhere. Thank goodness they weren’t bananas. Busy floridity underwear such as this ensures that dribbling goes unnoticed.

7. Ear Knickers: This model is often seen wearing his wife’s bra as ear rings. Brilliant! Nuff said. It is a reminder that Vincent Van Gogh cut off one of his ears to prevent such behaviour and people thought he was nuts.

8. Bamboozled Underwear: Some celebrities try to imitate the previous model but with little success. Which ear do I hang onto? Which side? Then what? It should also be noted that white is not the most advisable colour for an old man.

9. Undies for the Incontinent: This model has lots of problems, one being incontinence. Several layers of fabric prevent a lot of people from spying any spillage of crap.

Of course, many of you will aspire to imitate these models as wearers with creativity and propriety. May you do so with aplomb!

2105. In praise of a teacher

Wallace was fastidious about punctuation (especially apostrophe’s). He was fussy about grammar. He was finicky about spelling. He was choosy about writing style. He was picky about neatness. He was meticulous about fonts. He was particular about handwriting. He insisted on using “arse” in England and “ass” in the United States. He was adamant on using “pernickety” in England and “persnickety” in the United States.

He was a painstaking pernicious pernickety pang in the proverbial. He was a pain in the arse.

Two P.S’s:

I am going to (probably) have a couple of days off from blogging as I’m a bit busy doing something else. Yes! Wouldn’t you like to know? Actually I’ve run out of ideas so I’m having a break.

Secondly, I won! I won! I won! Thank you Chel.

2104. Blood stains

Wilfred had knocked his big toe on the leg of a chair and there was blood all over the wall to wall carpet. He managed to stem the dripping of blood with a plaster and then noticed he had some blood on his arm. How on earth did that happen? He had stubbed his toe, not his arm!

The clean-up turned into a major event. If blood isn’t fairly quickly cleaned it can be difficult to get rid of in carpet. He kept dabbing it with wet towels. Goodness, there wasn’t that much but what a mess! Why his wife had to choose light grey carpet was anybody’s guess.

Eventually all was done to satisfaction. Tomorrow his wife would be returning from visiting her mother in a distant town. Hopefully things will have dried sufficiently for her not to notice.

Next time he stabs a “hospitality call girl” he’ll make sure he’s in the kitchen with a linoleum floor.

2103. Georgina’s son was a genius.

Georgina’s son was a genius.

“My son is a genius,” Georgina said.

“I can’t believe how clever your son is,” said Isabella.

“I’ve never taught anyone of this quality before,” said Gertrude.

“He’s a walking-talking brain,” declared Herman.

“Does he get his quickness from his mother or his father?” asked Natali.

“He devours knowledge like a dinosaur devoured whatever it was they devoured,” said Angelo.

On and on went the rave statements about what a genius Georgina’s son was. And it was true. He was indeed the most boring person anyone had ever met.

2102. Enough to make you sickle

When will the rain stop? Sabrina gazed out the window and sighed. The summer school break was about to begin. She had enough problems finding things for Travis to do when the sun was shining. But a summer of rain? Goodness.

Travis was a boy who liked his own company. He wasn’t forever going and playing with friends. He liked to do things on his own, such as mowing the lawn and picking fruit. He liked fixing things and working out how things worked.

Sabrina was not keen that he spend all his summer time sitting at the computer. And there it was; the summer break had begun! And rain, rain, rain.

Was that a break in the clouds? “Why don’t you mow the lawn even though the grass is wet?” suggested Sabrina. So he did, and after half an hour the lawn mower died.

Rising to the challenge Travis purchased an old sickle. He read on line how to use it safely – with a sweeping arm motion away from the body. Before long he got the knack of it. Rain or not, he couldn’t wait for the grass to grow! The place was a picture.

“How do you manage, with all this rain,” asked many a passer-by, “to keep your place so tidy?”

“Travis uses a sickle,” said Sabrina proudly.

It wasn’t long before someone reported Sabrina for allowing her son to use a dangerous implement. Social Services called. Such irresponsibility trusting a boy with a hazardous sickle.

Yeah, like a motor mower is any safer.

2101. Murderous suburb

Gail’s husband of forty-two years had recently died. He had been a prominent lawyer in the city where they lived. Gail had never warmed much to the city, but her late husband was born and bred there, and his roots firmly and permanently placed them continuing to live there. Over the years the standard of living in their suburb had plummeted. It was now riddled with thieves and pimps, and homelessness was commonplace. Over Gail’s forty-two years of living in that suburb there had been roughly about the same number of murders. It came down to a murder a year. Disgraceful, and a little terrifying.

“At last you will be able to move away from that wretched hell-hole,” wrote one of Gail’s friends. Other friends agreed and voiced as much.

But Gail was adamant. She was staying put. “There may have been forty or so unexplained murders over the years,” said Gail, “but I’m pretty sure there won’t be any more.”

2100. My fishpond

(As some of you know, for a significant Story Number, I sometimes lapse into reality. Here then is Story 2100 to celebrate Story 2100!)

I thought I would tell you about the time I set out to make a fishpond. It was the first time I had downloaded plans for anything from the internet – and in this case it was how to make a fishpond. It was at a boarding high school in Christchurch where I taught and lived as a house master. I asked the principal of the school if I might make a path through the lawn that was next to the Administration Block. He was more than surprised when I turned up with a tractor with a frontend loader!

The plan was to make the work of art over several weekends. I had multitudinous helpers as every boarding student and his dog wanted to help. The first thing was to dig a hole – no deeper than the Christchurch City Council stipulated before it required safety fencing.

The next thing was to gather rocks to create a tumbling waterfall. Then it was a question of installing an underwater pump and hoses with a secret hole drilled through the bricks into the Administration Block to plug the pump into an electric system! After that it was a question of mixing concrete and creating the tumbling waterfall and pond itself.

The final thing was to landscape the piles of dirt and make a higgledy-piggledy path through the area.

Volunteers arrived with shrubs and pond plants from goodness knows where. One parent donated a little garden statue. Another parent arrived with three goldfish even before there was water in the pond! Oh! I forgot to mention that along with the pump I had installed a water fountain and under water and garden lighting, all on an automatic time switch.

When all was done, things were turned on. I have memories of two comments. One from the headmaster who stood looking at it in wonder and said: “I thought you said you were just making a path.” The other comment was from a neighbouring high school. A team had come to play rugby. After the match the visiting team members were standing looking at the pond. One boy said: “Why can’t our school have one of these?”

Tragically, 14 years later the Christchurch earthquake struck killing 185 people. It also unfortunately destroyed the fishpond.

2099. Putting the garden to sleep

Haralambus (known as Harry) and Hughina (known as May) Pfahlert were well into their retirement years. Harry’s main interest was the garden. With late autumn approaching he had been busy tidying the garden so that at the end of winter all the back-breaking work would be done and it would be less of a hassle come spring.

Well dear, said Harry to May after two weeks of extensive labour in the garden, all is done. Everything is weeded. Everything is fertilized. Leaves are dug in or burnt and the ashes hoed in. Mulch has been spread. Shrubs sensitive to the winter cold have been covered. I might be weary, but I’m well satisfied. The garden has been put to sleep. Let it snow! Let it snow!

It was such a pleasure in winter to view the snowed-in garden through the living room window, with the log fire roaring away and the smell of cinnamon buns cooking in the oven. All done! All done! One could enjoy the order of it all and look forward to the chaos of new life!

It was such a pity that Harry died in his sleep that very night.

2098. An interview with Silenus

Interviewer: What a thrill! I have the opportunity to interview Silenus. Silenus is an old drunkard who taught Dionysus how to party. Dionysus is the Ancient Greek God of Wine. Silenus himself is the God of Dance, the God of the Wine Press, and the God of Drunkenness.

Good evening, Silenus. Thank you for agreeing to be interviewed.

Silenus: My pleashure. It’s not often I can afford to take time out from dwinking to indulge in a bit of interfornification, if that’s what ya call it. I had to shneak away from Dionysus to do thish interview. Last time I shneaked away he changed this guy’s ears into donkey’s ears. At leasht that’s what I remember. Dwink? It’s not just wine I’m the god of but other shtuff as well like whishkey and vodka. Shherry. When I go to the dwink shhop I always look at the label not to see what type of booze it is but to check on the alcoholic percentage. That’s why I’m not fond of beer. Ya have to dwink a lot of beer to get dwunk and then I end up pisshing in my pants half the night. Not that I wear pantsh as ya can see. So how ya doing?

Interviewer: I’m fine thanks. And I was wondering if…

Silenus: One of the things people don’t know is that mosht of the gods up here are fucking pisshheads. Pisshhead is a Britishh term meaning ya get totally dwunk mosht daysh. It’s alsho used in Aushtralia and placesh like that. So anyway, mosht of the gods up here are pisshheads. I taught mosht of them how to party – it’s my job – but a good number of them these days know how to party a lot more than I taught them. Aphrodite has her work cut out all day every day and there’s not much I taught her I can tell ya. When I vishit her she’s busy busy busy. I don’t know how she fits everyone in.

Interviewer: Do you still operate in teaching people how to party today or was it something you did only in ancient times?

Silenus: I’m busy in the modern world. I did a good job on Hunt…

(The interview seems to have been suddenly and mysteriously terminated).