2663. Final exam

It had been a long four years for Eldridge. He wasn’t the brightest star in the sky but he worked hard at his studies. He wasn’t thick either. He was of average intelligence pursuing a fairly challenging cytological degree specializing in chromatids of metaphase chromosomes.

His final exam was coming up. Eldridge studied like there was no tomorrow. A science laboratory in his very city was after a young, enthusiastic technician specializing in chromatids of metaphase chromosomes. Eldridge applied and got the job provided he passed his final exam. Such a promise made Eldridge study even harder.

Well as luck would have it Eldridge passed his final exam with flying colours! Unfortunately the laboratory had moved to China. Three years later Eldridge was still stacking shelves in a supermarket.

2662. A Goodnight Sleep

Dominic had looked forward to his new bed being delivered. He had ordered it online and for a few extra dollars the furniture shop would deliver a bed base and mattress. It was a simple single bed; there was no need for something big and fancy.

For the last week or so he had slept on the floor on a pile of soft folded duvets. His old mattress had sprung a spring. He didn’t even know that mattresses these days still had springs. A sharp pointed spring had popped out through the worn king size mattress in the middle of the night. He had rolled over and the spring cut his arm; not too badly, but it took him a while to work out what had happened.

The bed arrived! Dominic set it up. An early bed was on the cards! He was overly tired. The duvets on the floor had not provided restful sleeps.

Dominic slept soundly. He turned in his sleep. His sleeping mind had not adjusted to a less-wide bed. He fell on the floor, hit his head on the lamp stand, and died.

That is why this story is called “A Goodnight Sleep” and not “A Good Night’s Sleep”.

2661. An accidental death

Errol explained to the policeman that the shooting of his wife had been an accident. He had simply taken his handgun to clean, and before he could even check to ensure it was bullet-less he accidentally pulled the trigger. The bullet hit his wife who slumped dead over the dining table. She had been placing a freshly washed table cloth.

The body was still slumped there in a pool of blood. Errol had immediately phoned for the police.

The local policeman arrived. Errol was still holding the handgun, he was so shocked. Even though he knew that Errol wasn’t dangerous, the policeman called for backup. That was when Errol accidentally shot the policeman. He slumped over Errol’s wife’s corpse.

That’ll teach them both from having an affair.

2660. Intergalactic mining

Of course the abundance of diamonds and platinum on the exoplanet meant that diamonds and platinum were practically valueless there. From the point of view of Earthlings however, the planet could be viewed as a goldmine (in a manner of speaking). That is why Anselm Bloemendal had landed on the planet with a pick, a shovel, and a cardboard box.

Anselm’s private spacecraft couldn’t take a heavy load, but a boxful was more than enough to make him filthy rich on Planet Earth.

One of the hazards that Anselm had learnt from previous visits was the prowling curiosity of the local intelligent beings. They looked a little like large lizards and were forever getting in his way. This time Anselm came prepared. He had brought a gun. The first lizard to bother him would get shot. That should keep them away. However it took the shooting of seven lizards before realization set in that from the lizards’ point of view, distracting the Earthling was not a safe thing to do.

Some members of the local Council of Lizards had suggested that the Earthling be killed, but the Lizard President forbade it. “Stay away from it,” the President had said. “But if it comes near you without cause then kill it instantly.”

Anselm’s mining soon filled the cardboard box. He returned to his spacecraft. The spacecraft wouldn’t start. Its solar panels couldn’t harvest enough energy from the pathetic sun which the exoplanet circled. Anselm would have to seek help from the locals.

2659. A national census

Hello every person. This is part of the national census being conducted on the evening of March 9^th. You have only four months to fill it out. Given the sensitivity in today’s world of many of the questions asked in yesteryear, today’s census has only the one question.

Question 1. What a catastrophe! What a shameless display of irresponsible devastation! What wreckage! Mindless debris! Kitchen scraps of pseudo-intellectual rubble! Higgledy-piggledy unmitigated nonsense! Sacks of mouth-spewing garbage!

We respect your right to say what you think, but…

Get a life, you retarded hedgehog! You aphis-ridden raspberry bush. Nest of rotten skylark’s eggs. Broken peacock’s tail-feathers. Dead mosquito-glutted dragonfly’s stagnant creek. Dinosaur turds. Murderous lump of foul jelly. Shakespearian sonnet. Amorphous hunk of incontinent confectionery. Dried-up udder of a moose bull’s mother. Stag plaque. Duck’s bladder. Armpit of bottled quince jelly. Ashtray.

With your opinions have you ever thought of running as a candidate for (enter the name of the Political Party you most detest)?

Please post this completed census form in the envelope provided.

2658. Oh that’s terrible

It wasn’t a good time for Beatrice. She found herself dreaming of what she would do if her husband of eleven years would pass away. They had plenty of money. They had drifted apart. She would perhaps go on a world trip. She would buy a new wardrobe just for herself. She would sell the house and buy a property with a little lake. There was so much to dream about.

Of course she knew she shouldn’t indulge in such fantasies. Her husband’s death would be a sad time; a very, very sad time. But wouldn’t it be wonderful to be independent again and do whatever she liked when and where?

It was a Thursday and husband Vaughan was driving home. He had just been to the doctor. “I’m sorry,” said the doctor, “but it’s terminal. I would give you a month at the most.”

Vaughan arrived home. He told Beatrice. Beatrice’s heart missed a beat. “Oh that’s terrible,” she said.

2657. Leaving for college

There was so much to do before Eileen and Bill Blyth would leave in the car to take daughter Hazel to college. It was the little things that were the biggest nuisance. There was no spare tube of toothpaste, so Hazel had to take the household’s tube. A piece of luggage had snagged as it was being put in the car and had to be snipped and tidied. Should we or shouldn’t we put the laptop in a suitcase wrapped with protective clothing?

And Mother Eileen was in a panic. She had had years to prepare, but everything seemed last minute stuff. The hem of Hazel’s top had frayed. There’s no time to sew it; just cut it with the scissors.

Has anyone seen the scissors? They searched. They looked everywhere. Father Bill was getting annoyed. Hurry up. We’re already half an hour late in leaving. These things don’t matter. Scissors or no scissors, we’re going.

They tumbled in the car, Hazel in the back seat. Ouch! She sat on the scissors.

2656. Oh to be six again

(Note: This story (some will be pleased to hear) is the final politically incorrect posting for the time being!)

Dear Principal

I have included a list of the names of the boys involved. I had asked my class of six year olds to colour in a picture. It helps with the development of their co-ordination. Only one – ONLY ONE – used a black crayon. The rest coloured in the picture of a pixie with every other colour under the sun.

You will be glad to hear that I immediately sent these boys to the infirmary for castrating. The only boy not sent was Angelina Peasbody who not only used the black crayon hitherto mentioned, but requested that from now on we use the name of Angelo.

I know that in future we will both feel safer roaming the corridors of the school.

Anitx Cleanx
Teacher-of-six-year-olds

2655. Slavery through the ages

(Note: Continuing the politically incorrect week…)

There was great excitement among those of the town’s History Society. Sir Stephen Cavendish, the famous historian and Oxford don was coming to speak. He had asked for a topic to speak on that might interest them, and given the topicality of the subject and the fact that there were a considerable number of African Americans in the Society, they asked the Professor to speak on “The History of Slavery through the Ages”.

The Professor began: “Good evening. The first thing to note is that throughout the history of humanity the majority of slaves have been White.”

A riot ensued. The Chairwomen declared the meeting over.

2654. An astonishingly resourceful idea

(Note: Over the following few days these stories will have a decidedly political bent. A fiction writer does not necessarily agree with his or her characters’ observations. Fiction is written with “a voice”. It is not necessarily the author’s own. That’s what I reckon anyway…)

Myra Cozens has come up with an astonishingly resourceful idea. It circumvents the necessity of rewriting books of note; for example, the removal of that shockingly sexist and terribly unhappy Heathcliff in “Wuthering Heights”. We all know that Heathcliff was ill-fated because he had to sublimate his transsexual proclivity. It’s perfectly obvious that the sometimes-narrator of the story, Mr. Lockwood, was obsessed with and in love with Heathcliff. When Catherine says “I am Heathcliff” we know exactly what she means. If the whole entanglement of the novel could be simplified and everything called what it is then the novel might be able to be taught in our schools.

Myra Cozens’ astonishingly resourceful idea does away with the contemporary necessity of having to remove Heathcliff from “Wuthering Heights” altogether. Not to mention that horrible drunken sot in “Jane Eyre”, Edward Rochester. In fact most of the characters in “Jane Eyre” need purging from its pages.

The list of books goes on and on. Is there a book that does not need to be revised?

The astonishingly resourceful idea is to publish these novels on black paper with black print. It does away with every novel that drips of xenophobia and obviates the dominance of whiteness on every page. What a boon this will be! What a saving! No more expensive editors paid to cull offense-oscity from the pages of the classics. Let us purge the need for purging pages! The future is black print on black paper! Such a simple idea! Thank you Myra Cozens!