1697. The unbald prima donna

(There is a tradition in folk tales, oft overlooked or frowned upon, of telling the occasional story that is complete nonsense, utter silliness, foolish to the nth degree. For the next three days, today included, the stories will attempt to be in that genre. I’ve always been rather partial to the style.)

Matilda had the most beautiful singing voice, but she was so shy that no one ever heard her sing. Every day she would sneak outside to behind the farm barn and sing arias from famous operas.

One freezing winter’s day it was so cold behind the barn that the music Matilda sang hung in the air. There were literally frozen notes unflinchingly dangling in the sky. Matilda scurried back inside to get warm next to the coal range.

A country yokel happened to be passing and he saw the hanging frozen notes and gathered them up into his haversack. He took them to the local opera house where the notes quickly defrosted.

“Is that you singing?” asked the maestro in charge.

“It is indeed,” said the yokel.

He was given the role of Friedrich in Wagner’s Das Liebesverbot. It was a disaster because the character of Friedrich was a bass and Matilda was a coloratura soprano.

In the meantime, Matilda continued to sing secretly behind the barn. Which just goes to show, doesn’t it?

1691. Hershel’s busy month

Hershel was an undertaker, and he thought it strange that of the fifty bodies he’d dealt with that month twenty-seven of them were called John. Usually there were only a couple of deaths per month in his area, although it went up a little in the depths of winter. One month he once got six bodies, two of whom were Michael. But now in one month fifty bodies! And twenty-seven called John? Goodness me!

To make matters even weirder, of the fifty deaths twenty-two of them were female and therefore would probably never be called John. That meant that twenty-seven out of twenty-eight males were called John. The sole non-John was called Hector.

Further pondering produced other startling results. Of the twenty-seven Johns, twenty-six of them had the surname of Smith. Twenty-six John Smiths in one month! The only John who didn’t have the surname of Smith was John Gillespie-Fotheringham. That must surely be some sort of record.

The experts mulled over how such a thing could happen. It was a mystery. And then the reason was pointed out. Sometimes some things in life are so obvious. It was staring everyone in the face. John Gillespie-Fotheringham was a clerical error. There were twenty-seven John Smiths after all. What a relief!

Poem 84: Stuck inside on yet another rainy day

It’s raining on my pomposity.
Now my pomposity’s all wet.
It’s a monstrosity.

Precipitation precipitates with considerable velocity.
There’s no stopping ‘locity
with or without an apostrophe.

Perhaps I should try reciprocity.
But rain falls with such ferocity
it makes reciprocity preposterously an impotossity.

If I’d been born a rhinoceros I’d have a lot more rhinosity.
I tell you, once my pomposity gets wet
I get filled with ridiculous verbosity.

It’s a philosophical atrocity,
especially when stuck inside
on yet another rainy day.

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.

 

1256. Weather

Keitha never imagined that there’d be so much weather when she moved to her new country.

“I never imagined there’d be so much weather,” said Keitha to her newly discovered neighbour, Averil.

“Yes, we certainly get a lot of weather,” said Averil.

“You don’t know what it’s going to do next,” said Keitha. “It’s just weather weather weather.”

“You get used to having weather every day,” said Averil.

“Back home where I come from, we don’t have weather every day,” said Keitha.

Averil expressed surprise. “You don’t?” gasped Averil. “I would have thought where you came from that there’d be a lot more weather than here.”

“We don’t realize how lucky we are,” said Keitha. “Let us rejoice and be glad.”

Poem 65: Chagrin and bare it

(A nonsense poem!)

God blessed me with bad teeth,
a whole mouthful.
That the few left are good for chewing
is somewhat douthful.

Shut up and look at the camera!
Watch the birdie! Smile! Say cheese!

I shall chagrin and bare it.

I s’pose I could suck soup
up through a straw.
That way there will be no need
to gnaw at awl.

Shut up and look at the camera!
Watch the birdie! Smile! Say cheese!

I shall chagrin and bare it.

The thing about gaps in the gums –
One can’t eat steak,
but then again there ain’t
no toofs to ache.

Shut up and look at the birdie!
Watch the camera! Smile! Say cheese!

I shall chagrin and bare it.

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.

1160. No nonsense

There could be no doubt that Nurse Frieda was efficient. People suspected she was soft as butter underneath, but no one ever saw it. And since when was butter soft, especially if it was cold?

Nurse Frieda was ideal for the old peoples’ hospital. A command was a command. “Get in the shower” meant “Get in the shower”. “Eat your vegetables” meant “Eat your vegetables”.

How exciting it was that Marlene was about to turn 100! “A hundred is a hundred” said Nurse Frieda, and indeed it was, although one couldn’t help but get a little excited. After all, Marlene was expecting a congratulatory telegram from the monarch of England, and there would be a cake and candles, and perhaps even a little sip of wine.

Marlene was born at quarter past six in the morning of October 20th. At midnight, Marlene declared that she had reached 100! Her birthday had arrived!

Unfortunately Marlene died suddenly at a quarter to five. “Strictly speaking she never reached 100,” declared Nurse Frieda. She took the congratulatory telegram and screwed it up. She took the candles off the cake. “She certainly didn’t reach 100. Goodness me! Let’s be clear about that.”

It’s always good to have someone in an old peoples’ hospital who accepts no nonsense.

864. You’re welcome to disagree

After a while, ones thoughts become meaningless; sort of like a rudbeckia scampering down a dark alleyway. It’s like a storm-tossed piece of Chippendale furniture forever gathering dust on the sky-walk of life. Nothing makes sense, but it seems logical. It’s like there’s something to understand when there isn’t nothing to understand. You understand?

It’s like a blade of grass standing dew-driven to receive the hopping blackbird that’s looking for its morning song; a lyrical melody plaintively resembling a lamb cavorting in fields of strawberries.

And why? one must needs ask. Why? Why in all the cloud of forever-knowingness does the mist of meaning hang forever o’er the poetic function of adjectival innuendo? Why?

And finally, I’d just like to say…

That’s what I think. You’re welcome to disagree.

To listen to the story being read click HERE!

613. Heather had three sons

© Bruce Goodman 15 June 2015

You could’ve knocked Heather over with a feather.

They named a Street after her son, Pete.

Then they named a Drive after her second son, Clive.

“How come they don’t name something after me?” asked Heather’s third son, Lane.

598. Flankeration

© Bruce Goodman 31 May 2015

What a congridled defonderation! No one seemed to care a tridonticordial about the lack of baftillery when flankerating. And yet, people did it in droves. Only the other day, Mrs Smith infligerated about the limpeter on the perimitologer. Gotterington was the response! Gotterington!

“What is the world coming to?” inexahabulated Mrs Smith. Yet she joined the dozen or so others in the flankeration.

“Hip hip hurray!” whinegulated the admorating plentihabants. “True! How disjaunabulatingly true!”

Would you believe? A curse on those flankerating partivians!