Category Archives: Humour

What Might Have Been

The following was written for Fandango’s Story Starter #66 and is a response to “Bait and Switch” one of the entries submitted to the challenge by Paula at Light Motifs II. I recommend reading Paula’s awesome take first and then coming back to see what happens during a chance meeting years later.

What Might Have Been

Several years later while jumping into the back seat of a Glide she vaguely recognized the driver. “Do I know you from somewhere?” She asked quizzically, “I’m certain we’ve met but I can’t place when or where.”

He grinned, “Remember Mingle, the dating app? We spoke for several weeks through the interface before meeting and then when we did – “

“Fuck sakes…” she cut him off. “You’re the guy who asked for a thousand bucks during our first kiss!” Looks like I made the right decision, she finished the thought inside her head.

There was an awkward silence before he finally spoke, “I was in the data center talking with the techs when I saw your name come across the screen. I wasn’t certain if it was you but I knew I had to take this ride to see.”

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The Cipher

The Cipher

A Month had passed since intercepting a message. Most believed it was intercepted from a Chinese-Russian military satellite, our enemy in a war the Allies were losing, but I believed it had come from someone or something else. Everyone knew cracking the code, completely indiscernible to the best and brightest working around the clock, was key to our victory.

As I sat staring at the letters, numbers, and symbols, my eyes bugging out of my head, they began to lift from the page and realign before my eyes. I had done it, I’d found the key to deciphering the entire transmission. The message read,

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What Is Soup?

The following is written in response to Chel Owen’s Terrible Poetry Contest. The challenge asks that we channel our inner Shakespeare and write a terrible sonnet about everybody’s favourite one-pot food, soup.

What Is Soup?

The sorcerer’s mirepoix, the witches roux,
with bone and water forge a mystic blend,
add salt and spice, merely a pinch or two,
elements together, combine, transcend.

Cast iron cauldron yields to fiery kiss,
stir and simmer, cooking slowly in time,
bubbling, boiling, with wisps of steaming bliss,
filling the fragrant air with spells sublime.

Chick’n noodle, chowder, gazpacho on ice,
mullugatawny, bisque and gumbo too,
potatoes, pasta, or a spot of rice,
some so thick they’re more akin to stew.

What is soup? You’ll find you have to conclude,
soup is the liquid version of solid food.1

Citation: Definition of soup taken from the Terrible Poetry Contest blog post for this contest at Chel Owen’s blog, A Wife, My Verse, and Every Little Thing.

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Been a Long Time…

Been a Long Time…

A hypothetical conversation between old Rockers in rockers; a typical day at the Association of Retired Rock and Rollers (ARRR) Seniors’ Center.

“The business has changed so much” Plant lamented. “Back in the day, we needed to record start to finish.”

“Could you imagine all the spliced tape if we recorded like they do today?” Jimmy shot back laughing.

“I know, we laid down tracks and layered them on top of each other. The new artist builds loops and mixes it all together in segments on a computer.” John Paul continued, “Shit for some tracks I could pound out six notes on my bass and be done. Let the mixer do the rest.”

“The nuance of a song is lost because every drum beat, every riff, every hook, and every chorus is recorded once and used again and again, reuseable and replaceable across multiple tracks on the same record. Identical in every way. The human element is lost.” Page postulated. “Not to mention the shit that stolen, I mean sampled from other people’s works.”

“What’s worse, auto-tune makes any pretty-faced Frankenstein sound like Fitzgerald. Imagine how pitch-perfect I could have sounded on Stairway. 🎶And she’s buying a…” Plant finished by singing the final line badly out of tune.

“You know what I miss the most, besides John smashing away on drums, jamming together in the studio. Now we can record the parts in our basement studios and email it in. I guess there is one positive though, I never have to see any of your ugly faces!”

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Stomping My Woods on My Round This Morning

The following is in response to Chel Owen’s Terrible Poetry Contest where we were asked to take the first line of a famous poem and then rewrite the rest as [the poet] see(s) fit. Bonus points if [you] use the original meter and rhyming scheme. My poem is a (terrible) golfer take on Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” except on the golf course in the morning. Hope you enjoy.

Stomping My Woods on My Round This Morning

Whose woods these are I think I know
Their place is on the golf course though
He Rory‘s up a Tiger tail
In anger bent and gave a throw

My little cart may think it Strange
To watch him stomp around insane
Swearing, cursing and Spiething nails
Please end this round and end the Payne

My caddy’s head begins to shake
As if to say it’s a mistake
Rolled up cuff, the language Fowler
As he wades right into the lake…

At the next tee, I’m Jacked to see
If I can hit the green in three
And now my woods wrapped ’round a tree
And now my woods wrapped ’round a tree

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