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Umlauts Can’t Save The World

She wants Belgium waffles and a Bob Marley joint. “You won’t find them here,” the nose-studded shopkeeper said. Her face rose to the next octave of color, and she danced with an alpaca’s tooth in her hand until dizzy. “Polly Sumatra just doesn’t understand me,” she complained loudly as she fled from the shop. I followed. She floated up the boulevard, black hair trailing in the slipstream, finally stopping in front of The Word Store. I approached cautiously as she peered through the display window. Standing next to her, I coughed, and she turned to look at me. Her electric blue eyes were almost painful to observe. I cleared my throat again and asked, “Do you need a word?”
“I need a whole sentence,” she replied in a cherry-colored voice with a half-smile on her lips.
I wasn’t prepared for her answer, and I stared too long at her cleavage while thinking of something to say. “Uh…I….””
“Are you a vulgarian?” she interrupted my stammering.
“Why yes, I am,” I said, regaining some composure.
“Oh,” she whispered, “cool. Do you have an umlaut I can borrow for a few days?”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I’ve got several extras, I’ll be happy to give you one.” I pawed around in my shoulder bag, and my hand emerged with a shiny, mint-condition umlaut which I handed her.
“Wow, thanks. That’s a very nice umlaut. Now, I’d like to offer you something in return.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said, “It was my pleasure.”
“I insist,” she said. “You name it, anything you want.”
I thought for a bit then said, “I’d like peace on Earth.”
She handed me the umlaut back and walked on up the boulevard.

(c) Mike Hood 2017

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Ronny Learns the World Sucks for Faux Leopards

After months of badgering, Leona Vladso gave in to her six-year-old son’s demands. “Fine, Ronny, I’ll tell you about your father, but I warn you, it’s not a pretty picture.”

Ronny Valdso knew his father was dead, however he did not know the details of his life or death. Every time he asked about his old man, his mother would only say, “He’s entertaining God.”

As Ronny sat in a rigid, hardwood, kitchen chair, Leona paced in front of him. “I only knew your dad a short while before he died,” Leona began. “I met Bosco–that was his name, Bosco Peppitone–at the corner of Desmond Avenue and 126th Street. I had just finished my laundry and was carrying it back to my apartment. As I neared neared the corner, I heard this clicking noise…click, click click. It was semi-rhythmic, and I could tell the sound was the product of wood being struck. Turning the corner onto Desmond, I collided with Bosco. My laundry and your farther took a tumble on the sidewalk.”

Ronny’s eyes were wide as he listened to his mother’s account. Continue reading Ronny Learns the World Sucks for Faux Leopards

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My Dead Dog Talks About Women

I got home from the emergency room the other day–a bronchitis thing– and found Bill the Cat sitting in an empty cardboard box in the middle of the kitchen counter. I did not find this odd, so I went into my office to check e-mails. Bill the Cat followed me in and jumped up on the desk. I did find this odd, since he hadn’t set paw on the desk since the last time Pathetic Bob used him as a conduit from the afterlife.

I asked, “Bill, are you OK?” All of a sudden, his eyes bugged out and he goes into a trance.

“Bob!” I shout.

“Don’t yell Em, I’m here. What’s he matter?”

“I thought we agreed not to use the cat as a medium,” I reminded him.

“Ah Jeez, he was there on the desk, and I figured he enjoyed the experience.”

“Maybe, but I’m not that sure. Anyway, why were you trying to get in touch with me?”

Bob replied, “Women, what’s up with them?”

Now this is a question that men do not want to be asked, because we are generally going to get it wrong and female wrath will befall us. I knew he would bug me til I gave an answer. “I don’t know Bob, did you hear something? Are they planning a takeover? By the way Bob, I assume you are talking about human women, right?”

He answered, “Yeah, yeah, I mean human women. They seem kinda different from other humans.”

“You mean men?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “It seems that not only do women have different body bits and pieces, the operate according to a different set of cosmic and natural laws. I know I’m smart, but I can’t figure out what makes women so different from men.”

Now we were getting into dangerous territory. “You know Bob, men have no idea either how women process information. It’s kinda like the weather, we know it’s there, but we have no idea how or why it works.

“Jeez Em, there you go again. I ask you a question and you throw that ‘mystery’ crap at me. Take a position man.”

‘That’s not fair Bob. I’ve taken a lot of positions.’

“Sure, whatever you say.” He was being condescending.

He was pissing me off so I blurted out, “Oh yeah…well…uh…women…I like ’em. They’re great.”

“Ooooooh, Em, you really went out on a limb there.”

“OK smart ass, what do think about women…really?”

“I’ll tell you what I think.” Bob said decisively. “I think women are smarter than men. Women don’t generally act like street dogs, fighting over territory, looking for the chance to kick ass just for the sake of kicking ass. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I believe women are more reasonable than men; they don’t seem to have that win-lose mentality that men have. They seem more willing to compromise. I think that what they lack in brute force, they more than make up for with a highly evolved intelligence. In fact, women have surpassed men on the evolutionary chain. And another thing Em, women have great tits.”

I knew it, I knew it, he was eventually gonna screw up and there it was. “Now you’ve done it Bob.Women are gonna start reading this post and think, ‘That Pathetic Bob is one sensitive smart dog. He really knows about women. And then wham, they’re gonna read ‘tits’ and think ‘see, all men want is sex.'”  “You really blew it Bob.”

“What the hell are you talking about,” said a rather confused Bob. “I’m not interested in having sex with human women…eeeeeeewww. That’s sick. I just think their tits are nice to look at. Damn, Em, I think elephant tusks look beautiful on an elephant, but I don’t want one shoved up my butt. What the hell is it with people?”

“Well Bob, you just can’t say stuff like that, it’s  not…uh…politically correct.”

“Look Em, just because I like the way women’s tits look, doesn’t mean I don’t find their brains attractive. In fact, the brain is the most attractive part of any human (you might be the exception). So deal with it. By the way haven’t you noticed by now there are no correct politics.”

 

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