2466. Ransacked

My dear Brethren. I had been growing lovely vegetables in my garden so that I could share them with the poor of our beloved congregation. And what happened?

We had invited the bishop to dinner. Our chef was preparing a dish – Blanquette de Veau if you must know – and I asked the cook as I left for my daily walk if he would like a few sprigs of this and that as I passed through our gardens on the way back. I like to make myself useful.

Well, someone had ransacked the garden. All the squash had disappeared. The celery, kale, and lettuces had been stripped. The peas and beans had been plucked. Not all, but a whole row of potatoes had gone west. The list goes on. I asked the head gardener if he knew anything about it and he didn’t. He was as angry as I was.

The chef had to send the housekeeper into town to purchase herbs and vegetables and fruit for the evening meal. We were getting low on ice cream anyway and now needed strawberries and clementines (if they have them) for dessert. Believe me, the road to hell is paved with pips of stolen apples, and the tops of stolen carrots, and corn cobs, and courgette seeds.

I informed the police and they spent considerable time on the investigation. It turns out the vegetables had been stolen by people living in tents on my street. A curse on them. I had arranged for the Press to attend next week as I distribute a few of the vegetables to some of the poor, and now I have had to cancel. That’s the last time I’ll be getting staff to grow stuff for the city’s urchins.

I shall be instructing the police to charge these criminals to the full extent of the law or my name is not ……

1828. Who’s the lucky fella?

No sooner had I hung up the phone then there was a knock at the door. The phone call had been from the local supermarket saying I had won a $500 grocery voucher for entering a competition to write a jingle advertising spaghetti. The money would be put automatically on my supermarket card. Of course I was excited, because I was practically skint, and then came the knock on the door.

There stood a man and a woman who said “Congratulations!” I said “What for?” and they said I’d won a car. Well I was completely over the moon because to be honest I hadn’t had a car for eighteen months. The last one had died – utterly died – and I had been unable to replace it even with a beaten up old bomb.

Well, I got into my car as soon as those people had gone and went off to the supermarket to get some much needed things and a couple of not so important things like some chocolate and some coconut cookies. They say things come in threes! No sooner had I stepped out of my car at the supermarket than I was approached by a woman, I’m guessing around about fiftyish.

She said “Good morning!” and I answered “Good morning” and then she said, “Excuse me, I don’t mean to barge in but…”

“But would you like a house? I was recently diagnosed with a terminal problem and the only thing I care about in the world are my chickens. If you would like my house when I go you can have it provided you care for my chickens.”

Goodness! My first thought was coq au vin, which is what you can do with tough old chickens, but I said out loud instead, “Goodness! What a fabulous thing! Of course I will see to your chickens!”

So the woman arranged to meet with who-ever-it-was to officially hand things over, and when I got out of the car this man approached and said that he’d just won forty-eight million in the lottery and he knew it would destroy his family, so would I like the ticket? I said I had little or no family to destroy, so he gave me the ticket.

The handover of the house went without a glitch, and I’ll sell the house once the old lady kicks the bucket. On the way out of the building there was an old guy asking for money, probably for drink like always, so I said “Get a job you last lazy slob instead off bleeding off other people.” I like to tell it like it is. Some people would take the shirt off your back if you gave them half a chance.

1706. The tale of two food bins

Imelda always noticed something about the two food bins placed at the exit to the supermarket. There was a bin for food for abandoned and hungry pets, and there was a bin for food for down-and-out humans. The bin for pet food was always bulging to overflowing. The bin for humans never had much; just the occasional can of soup or a packet of pasta.

Imelda had three children. Occasionally she would place something in the bin for needy pets. She usually did it when she had the children with her. She should lead by example. One should always be generous; not over the top, but generous nonetheless.

And then Imelda struck hard times. She had to go to the local soup kitchen and ask for food.

“Unfortunately we don’t have anything on the shelves,” they said.

So Imelda went to the pet rescue place and pleaded food for a fictitious cat.

(Dear All – Starting tomorrow – and for a week or so – I shall simply be posting favourite stories from this blog’s past. I’m currently bogged down with work. When a story’s numbering suddenly goes to 1707 then the original yarns will have recommenced!)

1585. Survival

(WARNING! The characterisation in this story calls for the occasional swear word…)

Poodle Jerkin was a clown of questionable talent. He snorted cocaine. Who wouldn’t if you worked day in and day out for a circus that hardly paid for nothing? And his wife had left him and taken the kids. There was no hope, so he snorted cocaine and got the sack. Yeah, he wasn’t good enough even for a fuckin’ circus.

He got a job as a clown at a transgender nightclub, where he gyrated up and down on the bar top, dressed as a clown and wanking while patron stuffed dollar bills down the front of his jock strap. The smile was painted on his face, but underneath the makeup he was crying. Then at the end of each night, Jolie the manager or owner – he didn’t know which but who gives a shit? – would take all the bills out of his jock strap and finish off what he’d started on the bar top. He’d leave each night with a couple of bucks and somehow he was meant to have a life.

One night, on the way back to where he slept, he walked past an appliance store. On a big television screen a politician was spouting:

We’ve got to get rid of all these no hopers sleeping on the street. There are needles everywhere. There’s human excrement. We should round them up and do something about it.

Poodle Jerkin picked up a nearby laptop and threw it at the television screen. He’s in prison now. What the fuck? It’s survival.

1381. Poor pawpaw

Wayne’s mother was a solo mother. She didn’t have much to go on. She put Wayne first of course. She always packed him as nice a lunch for school as possible, even though it usually wasn’t much.

On this particular day, all she had was one small pawpaw. Wayne took it to school.

During the lunch break he sat next to Lawrence. Lawrence’s parents were rather well off. For lunch he had some ham sandwiches, and an orange, and a big slice of chocolate cake. When he saw Wayne’s pawpaw he said that he had never tasted a pawpaw, and could he have it. So Wayne gave him his pawpaw.

Then Wayne asked if he could have a bit of Lawrence’s chocolate cake. Lawrence said no he couldn’t. So Wayne had nothing for lunch, and Lawrence had ham sandwiches, an orange, a big slice of chocolate cake, and a pawpaw.

The world is divided into haves and have nots; winners and losers. Guess who is the loser in this tale!

1159. Charity in all things

Dearly Beloved in the Lord

Greetings! It has come to my attention that some of you are praying to God that you might win the lottery. You would like a better house and a bigger car. Perhaps you would like to travel the world. Allow me to point out the selfishness of that prayer.

Don’t you realize that the world is full of poor people who don’t even know where their next meal is coming from? Let alone having a roof over their heads. There are countless numbers of these poor people who are too lazy to work and so have to beg for money. And yet we still have to act with charity. They may be the scum of the earth but charity is called for.

So I say it loud and clear: give generously to the fund I have set up to help the poor and needy, and remember – charity in all things. Charity! Forget trying to win the lottery. Give from what you already have. There is no place for selfishness, and quite frankly, if you don’t whole-heartedly give to my fund for the poor I hope you burn in hell, you uncharitable bastards.

1059. An ironic touch of fate

Desiree was obsessed with celebrities. She spent hours hanging around just to get a glimpse. Once she even got an autograph.

The celebrity she most admired was Rhapsody Songster, an iconic rock star who was reputed to be the richest rock star in the world. Desiree adored Rhapsody’s attitude.

“She’s a rock star with attitude,” said Desiree.

“All them lazy poor people,” said Rhapsody Songster. “They won’t be getting a cent from me. Let them starve. I earned every penny I got. It’s mine. Get stuffed solo-mother-of-four.”

“She’s a rock star with attitude,” repeated Desiree. “I want to be just like her. All them lazy poor people. They won’t be getting a cent from me. Let them starve. I earned every penny I got. It’s mine. Get stuffed solo-mother-of-four.”

Anyway, to cut a fairly short story even shorter, it was an ironic touch of fate that Desiree passed away in a car accident just two days after Rhapsody Songster had done the same thing.

St Peter met Desiree at the Pearly Gates. Desiree was out of her mind with excitement. St Peter had just told her she was going to the same place as Rhapsody Songster.