Tag Archives: story

1713. Lion tamer

Bruno worked during the day at a shoe factory. Once a week in the evening he gave the local circus’ lion tamer an evening off by stepping into his shoes. Do not fear! Bruno was a fully-trained lion tamer. He knew lions like the back of his hand, and the lions knew him.

The most exciting part of the evening’s performance was always when the lion opened its mouth and Bruno would put his head in. It was nerve-wrac

1712. High standards

(Someone asked me, why don’t you write something depressing? I think they were being sarcastic. Anyway, here it is.)

Lachlan had lived an average sort of life. He’d told the odd fib, but it didn’t amount to much. He’d given the occasional dollar to the Salvation Army during their Annual Appeal. He’d paid his taxes. He never once got a ticket for speeding. He’d been worn to a frazzle rearing his kids and driving van-loads of exuberant youths to this game and that, and so on. It was an average sort of life.

Eventually he died. He joined the line at the Pearly Gates.

Saint Peter said, “You lived an average sort of life. The standard here is very high. I’m sorry but you’ve missed out.”

“Oh, dear!” said Lachlan. “So I’m going to Hell?”

“No,” said Saint Peter, “as a consolation prize we’re sending you into oblivion.”

1711. Mirror, mirror

Oswald stood in front of the mirror. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” You see, Oswald was having trouble choosing who to invite to the Fitter and Turners’ Annual Ball.

Should he ask Lillian? She was plain but pleasant. And capable. My goodness me!

Should he ask Siobhán? Should they fall in love he’d go through life being asked, Why is her name pronounced Shivaughan?

Should he ask Bernadette? The list was countless… Annette, Dulce, Barbara, Agatha…

Hence Oswald’s question: Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all? He got the fright of his life when the mirror answered: YOU ARE!

He asked again: Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?

YOU ARE!

Quite frankly, the mirror was no help, although it rather flattered Oswald’s vanity to have his sweetness surpass all others. When he had spoken into the mirror he wasn’t expecting a reply. He was really only talking to himself.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?

YOU ARE!

Oswald asked his mother about the mirror.

“Goodness!” she said. “You didn’t know even after all these years? It’s a battery driven mirror that always answers that ridiculous question: Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all? The battery must be getting flat.”

Sure enough! Oswald found the battery and replaced it.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?

YOU ARE a total nutcase.

1710. God is watching

(The plot of this story is not my own. I don’t know if it’s an old story or an already well-known story, but I’d never heard it before and I enjoyed it! Hence, here it is!)

It was lunchtime at the school run by the nuns. Sister Mary supervised. She placed a sign at one end of the table on top of a big basket of apples. It read: TAKE ONLY ONE APPLE. GOD IS WATCHING.

At the other end of the table was a large bowl of chocolate chip cookies. Some kid had put a sign on it: TAKE AS MANY AS YOU LIKE. GOD IS WATCHING THE APPLES.

1708. The Oxford Comma

Even though Aneliese was American and Quentin was British they managed to forge a relationship that spanned across the great Atlantic Ocean, and they married. The marriage was made in heaven, although heaven had omitted one important factor: Analiese used the Oxford Comma and Quentin didn’t.

For those who don’t give much of a hoot about what the Oxford Comma is, it is the comma that precedes the final “and” in a list. For example: The flag is red, white, and blue. That’s what Aneliese would write. Quentin would write: The flag is red, white and blue (without the second comma).

For each academic tome that Aneliese produced to prove her point, Quentin would provide another. The discussion thundered throughout their marriage, throughout the births of their six children, throughout retirement and venerable age. Eventually they both died. Their grown children planned the tombstone inscription:

Aneliese and Quentin, loved parents of Tom, Maggie, Jenny, Ernie, Zach, and Lucy.
Aneliese and Quentin, loved parents of Tom, Maggie, Jenny, Ernie, Zach and Lucy.
Aneliese and Quentin, loved parents of Tom, Maggie, Jenny, Ernie, Zach, and Lucy.
Aneliese and Quentin, loved parents of Tom, Maggie, Jenny, Ernie, Zach and Lucy.
Aneliese and Quentin, loved parents of Tom, Maggie, Jenny, Ernie, Zach, and Lucy.

The tombstone awaits. Discussion rages.

1707. A chef for the homeless

“I think caviar is vastly overrated,” said Lord Brackenbury. This was at a meeting called by the local Anglican vicar. The number of down-and-outs on the streets had sky-rocketed. The local vestry decided they would provide a grand Christmas dinner for the homeless. And the wonderful thing was that Lord Brackenbury was lending his cook for the day. “Lending a Cook” might be too banal a description; Lord Brackenbury was “Providing the services of his Chef”.

“I think caviar is vastly overrated; although it doesn’t get simpler—or more elegant—than crème fraîche and caviar tartlets when served alongside a glass of sparkling wine. However, in the case of feeding the homeless at Christmas I think a carrot tart with ricotta, almond filling and pickled grapes sounds a lot healthier. And my chef Delphine makes it to perfection.”

“We were thinking along the lines,” said the vicar, “of something simpler. A slice of ham or turkey, with mashed potatoes and peas. Besides, I don’t think we could afford such extravagance.”

“And you need a chef for mashed potatoes?” said a stunned Lord Brackenbury. “Delphine wouldn’t have a clue how to go about doing that.”

The vicar was starting to get riled. “Delphine can’t be much of a cook if he doesn’t know how to boil a potato. I suggest…”

“I suggest,” interjected Lord Brackenbury, “that you find yourself another chef. I have standards. No wonder no one comes to church these days.”

“You can stick it up your…” declared the vicar. The vicar’s statement was interrupted by Lord Brackenbury rising from his chair; he gathered his proposed menu notes and stormed from the scene. Fortunately he forgot to take the main thing he had brought for the meeting to enjoy: elegant crème fraîche and caviar tartlets with a couple of bottles of sparkling wine.

“Ham, mashed spuds and peas it is,” said the vicar. “Cheers.” The meeting cut late into the evening.

Repeat of Story 766: Pigs

(This is the seventh story in a week or so of repeats. “Pigs” first appeared on this blog on 15 November 2015.)

It constantly amazes me how wrongful misinformation has been perpetuated down the centuries. The Three Little Pigs’ names were Marjorie, Eleanor and Constantia. Clearly, because they were builders by profession, the sexist yesteryears couldn’t bear to think of the pigs as females. Book illustrators portrayed them in men’s clothing for eons.

There they are now, all crowded into Constantia’s brick house.

“Go away, you dirty Big Bad Wolf,” bellowed Marjorie from the upstairs window.

But who is this appearing? Why! It’s Little Red Riding Hood on a horse!

“Hands up!” shouted Little Red Riding Hood, pointing a gun at the Big Bad Wolf. Little Red Riding Hood flung back the red hood.

“He’s a boy!” snorted Eleanor excitedly. “Little Red Riding Hood’s a boy!”

“Yeah,” said Little Riding Hood, “my real name is Jason. I have no idea why they paint me as a girl.”

“Save us!’” cried the Three Little Pigs. “Shoot the Big Bad Wolf!”

Little Red Riding Hood pulled the trigger and shot the Big Bad Wolf dead.

“The Big Bad Wolf won’t be chasing you three chicks again,” said Little Red Riding Hood. “That’s the end of Celine and her fearful marauding.”