If I had known or thought, I would not have run off with that ne'er do well, Willie Wonka. Just because he plied me with chocolates was no reason for me to leave my husband and children and travel halfway across the country in his beat up old truck. Next time, I'll exercise better judgment before I decide to run off with anybody. My husband forgave me and the kids were glad to see me return because Willie let me go with a generous supply of candy.
© Frannie (Frannie516@aol.com)
My feelings for you
No words can tell
Better to be silent
In my own private hell.
© Pete
 People try to put us down
Just because we've been around
The things they do look awful bold
Hope I live to be very old
Steve Martinez
A dash of Tabasco,
A sprinkle of salt.
But it bites my tongue so,
To the sink I vault.
A quick gulp of water,
Inhaling cool air,
I don’t think I oughta
Drink more than my share.
Bloody Mary’s are fine,
If you like things hot.
But for me, just chilled wine,
Unless gin you’ve got.
And vodka, scotch or rye,
Are all right with me,
Even bourbon I’ll try,
Or any whiskey.
But hold the condiments,
For I just take ice.
My taste buds lament
At all types of spice.
© RickMack
It was only 5 degrees that morning, but it was the morning his Penguin Club was scheduled to go for their annual winter swim. Undaunted, Pop put three pairs of woolen socks, two sweaters, and a mackinaw over the whole thing and trudged down to the lake to splash with the Penguins. Some of the Penguins had slept in and become chickens instead of Penguins, but not Pop. He doggedly removed one layer after on, jumped in the lake and became a Popsickle.
Dreamer (Twilight08@aol.com)
The truncation of her binomial, alack,
Left her nomadic and in need of a Queezy Sack.
A toroid donut
Didn’t help out,
Because she ate coddled eggs and fatback.
Paul (AHikingDude@aol.com)
It was his first time to operate a snowplow and his assignment was to clear the section between Hunter Avenue and the Amusement Park.
'Now', he said to himself. 'This lever lifts the . . . . . . .no, this is the . . . . . . ., well this one is the, damn horn!' For Sam was to have instructed and checked out his driving a snow plow, but Sam had Coldsephlodiurinalitis, and had been out since the first flake fell.
“Plow that section between Hunter Avenue and the Amusement Park, and do it now!!!” Boss Bovine had screamed.
“But I have not . . . . . . .” he tried to say, but ended up saying, “Yes sir, it will be plowed. Yes, Sir!”
So he had gone out to the snow plow and gotten in the cab. No one else was in the compound for it was one am and that would mean overtime, and overtime was a very sore topic.
“Now this should be the . . . . .”Waaaa waaaa. Damn horn!”
Needless to say, the afternoon paper and the early morning news did have film of the carnage of the snowplow.
© tomWYO
Pedro the Piccolo player came to town. He was the lesser-known brother of the Pied Piper of Hamlin. Pied, of course, had a bad reputation. He rid Hamlin of its rats, and its children. Pedro’s talent was not as great. His music could lure gerbils. Pedro traveled from city to city, seeking one that had a bad gerbil infestation. Unfortunately for him, in medieval Europe the gerbil was unknown. If it weren’t for the kindness of strangers, he would have starved. Pedro was last seen following Marco Polo into the orient. Perhaps he found cities in Asia that needed help with gerbil-infestation. More likely, though not reported in the history books, is the possibility that Marco Polo hated his piccolo playing, and sold him into slavery.
© Paul (AHikingDude@aol.com)
The snowflakes swirled all around me, and I was in my union suit. I was headed up the hill in the middle of the night to the outhouse when it started snowing. By the time I was finished with my business, whiteout conditions prevailed. I just needed to stay on the path to return to the warmth of the cabin. In what seemed an interminable amount of time, I finally spotted the cabin through the swirling snow. I felt my way through the darkness of the cabin to my bed, and burrowed under the quilt. Then a light was lit, and I heard a voice. “Why, Mr. Varley, what ARE you doing in my bed?” asked the Widow Bazur, my neighbor down the road.
© Paul (AHikingDude@aol.com)
She bought a new dress, a new pair of shoes, and had spent over one hundred dollars at the beauty salon because he'd said he was taking her to a wonderful restaurant. Huh, he took her to the Silver Diner.
“As they walked in, four Harley types came out. Then she saw the town drunk sitting next to the window, and three ladies of the evening in the next booth. She felt like just catching a cab and going home; she had never been so humiliated in her life...well not her whole life.
The noise of loud country music and a layer of smoke about three feet off the ceiling greeted them. “How many? You got reservations?” a fat man with a two-day day old stubble and an extremely dirty apron asked.
“Two fingers for two? Yes?"
She looked at her escort and thought, He can’t even speak coherently.
The fat man turned over his clip board, looked at it, and said, "Tail me to the slop room." He then set off walking as fast as his ample girth would allow under the crowded conditions.
As they walked back, things began to change, for once around the corner from the greasy diner atmosphere, there was a dimly lit dining area. “Here you be, the corner table, Red will bring you a beer." And with that, the chef turned and left.
Soon a scratchy, shrill, voice said, “Here you go, a beer. And hey, Honey, you want a glass or you want to drink it as you get it?”
She looked up and there was this tall skinny, buxom red head, a red head with about a bushel of hair on top of her pale, freckled face. “Glass please.”
The red head disappeared and returned with a glass. “How you want your steak? Mooing, medium, or plumb done?”
Her date said, “Medium rare.”
“Honey, is that medium or rare? Slug don’t understand any in between. Best damn steak outside of Texas.”
“Medium please,” he replied.
And before being asked, the lady said, “Mooing. And another damn beer.”
The red head smiled and left. As she poured her beer, god she hated beer! she looked around. Oh my, there were Mayor Fizzledik and Doctor Ebersaw. And over there were the Wetzes. Oh my, this must be a good place.
TomWYO@aol.com
He was up at BREAK of day every morning,
so he gave the official cock-a-doodle-do.
"Wake up, you lazy FOWLS!
Get off that roost and shake your feathered MANE.
FRIAR Mack will be out soon to fetch a FRYER
for his noon-day meal."
Frannie MAIN-Hen cackled in protest.
"Not again! Doesn't he know
it's healthier
to be a vegetarian?"
Twilight yawned and fluffed her feathers.
"If he were a vegetarian,
he'd BREAK and eat our eggs."
Tom Cock-a-doodle-do, with his
eyes of STEEL-gray did STEAL
a look around the yard.
There was no danger in him
getting HIS head chopped off.
No siree, because he was the MAIN rooster!
No, the youngsters would go first,
he was convinced of it.
"Oh my," Frannie MAIN-Hen cried.
"Here comes FRIAR Mack,
and he's coming for you, Tom."
Feathers flew as the chickens scattered.
Tom took off, crying,
"Hit the BRAKES, man. Hit the BRAKES!"
But alas, he wasn't fast enough because
hands like STEEL bands
grasped him and carried
him to the chopping block.
One of the younger roosters preened,
stretched his neck,
and gave a high-pitched
"Cock-a-doodle-do!"
Tom's last words were:
"Methinks there's been
FOUL play here."
Marilyn (LaraOct7@aol.com)
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