(Vaguely to the tune of “America the Beautiful”)
an Italian mapmaker,
mapped the new world,
then he said, “Just what
is that place called?
I’ll name it after me!
So every one will know my name
for all eternity!”
“Poets are rather uncomfortable chaps to have round. They are capricious, irritable, temperamental, selfish, and usually demand all the attention.” – Mr George Percival Jones in “The Carpet From Baghdad” by Harold MacGrath
Just how did my parents put up with me in school?
Great collection of very short stories about the World War One, the first great global war. See my full review at Amazon.
‘So dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called “LIFE”. We are gathered here today to silence the voice that accuses. To absolutely luxuriate in a cleansing baptism of our brains and hearts. To celebrate a repentance that leads to life. To love one another as God has loved us. To remind each other of the true voice of God and to shut up the accuser. This is how the beloved of God have always gathered together to get through this thing called life. So come to this table tonight as the child of God you were created to be for that is a gift to us all.’
A baby walks into a bar, climbs onto a stool and says, “Gimme a whisky.”
The bloodhound behind the bar sniffs suspiciously.
“I don’t need a diaper change. I need a whisky.”
“I wasn’t sniffing for that. I was checking if you’ve already had too much to drink. Wouldn’t you rather have a milk?”
“Already did. That’s why I need a whisky. Straight up.”
“Ooooo-kay. Here you go.” The bartender gives the baby his whisky. The baby sips it and sighs.
“Thanks. Mom drinks the worst rotgut…”
The door to the bar opens and a butterfly flutters in, lands on the bar. The baby and the bartender look at it.
“Gimme a whisky,” it says.
“You sure you wouldn’t rather have a nectar?”
“Have you tasted nectar lately? POLLUTED! I need a whiskey. Just a shot’ll do.”
“Sure, no problem.” The bartender gives the butterfly a shot. The butterfly dips its tongue in, then sighs.
A ’57 Chevy comes into the bar, orders 100 octane leaded, straight up.
“I can’t serve that to you – pollution laws.”
“Well, pollute you, too, buddy!” And the Chevy storms out of the bar.
The door to the bar opens again. A VW diesel car starts to come inside. The bartender growls, “We don’t serve your kind here.”
(Inspired by reading about whisky, then going to the Hawaii Fiction Writers workshop on comedy this past Saturday)