Claudia and Johnnie had been married for a good number of years. Over time, things that Johnnie did, little mannerisms and habits, began to annoy Claudia. Why, for example, did he always have to brush down the seat of the sofa before sitting down? The same for getting into the car. It was driving Claudia nuts.
There were other things too. The big annoyance was that he was older than she was. He had retired and stayed at home all day, while she still went to work. Talk about lazy. She almost pined for the day when he would pass away and she could live an independent life the way she wanted it. His fastidiousness was a constant aggravation.
Claudia thought Johnnie was eating unhealthily at lunch time when she wasn’t there. She began to prepare and leave healthy food for him to eat; organic fillings with gluten-free bread rolls, supplementary vitamin pills, non-fatty meats, and so on. No salt of course; never any salt.
After several months, Claudia discovered that Johnnie wasn’t eating the stuff she had prepared. He was eating junk food and hiding her preparations in the trash. No wonder the poison hadn’t worked.
Jocelyn had always envied those who won the silver platter at the annual village greyhound racing derby. Every year, for the past eleven years, she had entered a dog in the premiere race and not won a thing. This year it was going to be different. She had prepared for this race for more than two years.
An unfortunate thing, however, was that when her new greyhound puppy was born she named it Toilet. Some people have no idea if you ask me. It was a cruel name; even for a dog. But Toilet it was. Jocelyn insisted. How pathetic is that?
Fourteen dogs lined up at the start line, including Toilet. Off they went! Toilet was lagging behind the other thirteen.
“GO TOILET!” screamed Jocelyn.
All thirteen opposition stopped to do their business. Toilet raced ahead.
Jocelyn took the silver platter home. She changed her dog’s name to Victorius.
Hi. My name is Austin and I’ve decided to start a blog. I am interested in photography and the picture below is a snap of my ingrown toenail. I couldn’t decide whether to put it on my Blog or Facebook or Twitter or LinkedIn or whatever and in the end decided to put it on everything. The photo is a bit out of focus and that’s because my phone is fairly new and I get muddled between phones as I have 11 phones and it gets confusing.
My friend Bergitta has 17 phones. I said to her, what the hell do you want 17 phones for? But she seemed to think it was a good idea.
Here is another photo. Again it’s not completely in focus so I’m not really sure what it’s of but I think it’s probably a picture of Bergitta herself. I will text her to ask her if it’s her. She will know.
I have just finished reading (yeah, I read) Bruce Goodman’s autobiography Bits of a Boyhood. It’s about growing up in rural New Zealand. I liked it – and as a bonus it can be read in two different ways – both free. Click HERE to read it online as web pages, and click HERE to download it as a pdf.
Now if you’ll excuse me, that’ll be Bergitta texting back.
Yeah – it’s her in the photo with some of her friends. Apparently I’m in it too so it’s a selfie.
Arnold had no idea when he got out of bed that he’d be electrocuted by the toaster that very morning.
His early mornings always followed the same pattern: rise at twenty minutes passed six, fill the kettle with water and place it on an element on the stove top (it wasn’t one of those automatic turn-off kettles; it was an old-fashioned kettle that whistled when it was time to take it off the heat source), put four slices of bread in the toaster, and pour a little bit of milk into one of the two cups.
Arnold’s wife, Janet, always stayed in bed until a few minutes after the kettle whistled. She would leave just enough time for the tea to draw and the toast to toast. Arnold, for forty-eight years, had always called out the same questions from the kitchen to the bedroom:
“How many slices of toast do you want, dear?”
“Two as usual, thanks dear.”
“What do you want on the toast, dear?”
“Honey as usual, dear.”
Janet snuggled up in the warm bed for the few remaining minutes. She would stay there for a little longer than usual.
An optimistic saga with three alternative tragic endings to choose from
Fred had a nice set of coffee mugs – all with sort of old-fashioned adverts on them. There were twenty-one mugs in all. He loved them. He kept them on a shelf in the dining room, just high enough to reach with a stretch. His wife hated them.
• One day, as he was standing under the shelf an earthquake struck. A mug fell off, hit him on the head, and killed him.
• One day, as he was in the dining room his distraught wife threw a mug at him, hit him on the head, and killed him.
• One day, Fred came home and had a nice cup of coffee and a cookie. Nothing could be more relaxing. Unfortunately he choked to death on the cookie.
Let me get one thing straight. You jokers, all you jokers who want to be rich, it’s no fun being rich. It’s no fun being famous. I might be a film star but life’s not all a bed of roses. Let me illustrate.
Yesterday my wife walked out on me, and tonight I’ve got my first date since. I’m pretty excited about it, as she’s a fairly well-known person and has both looks and money. A celebrity. The money bit suits me down to the ground, especially since the now-ex-wife will try to get at least half of what’s mine.
It’s important that I impress, so I thought I’d pick the new woman up in a brand-new Lamborghini. A white one. Well, the stupid car dealer had only one Lamborghini and it was red. You’d think with a cash sale they’d make a bit of an effort. There wasn’t time to search around for a white Lamborghini because I need it tonight, so I bought the red one. And now I have to go and change my entire wardrobe.
My student life ended abruptly, or shall I say, comic-apocalyptically, with the postmodernist classic by Joseph Heller, Catch-22. It happened when I wrote a chapter for my doctoral thesis that would soon be abandoned, on the anti-war anti-novel with an anti-hero gripped by existential absurdism. What I posited in the chapter was Joseph Heller had transmuted a rather mammoth graphic comic into pages of plain text with a devastating effect. Rarely before, the human brinkmanship manifest in the madness of war, bureaucratic idiocy and capitalist avarice was dissected with scalpels of black humour and rank irreverence at such epic lengths. The Catch-22 was a war-cry to end all wars in favour of reason and rationality fabricated by the society, no matter which club the critics sought to include the book in —absurdist, comic-apocalyptic, existentialist, black humour or counter-cultural zeitgeist.