Magpie#117

My Very Silly Autobiography.

(Atishoo of Falsehoods)

by

Leviticus P. Simpleforth

Chapter 1. The First Weeks. Me -v- my Food Taster.

   I do not remember the rigours of the birth canal and my shrink says this is probably a good thing.  But I do remember being hungry and being unable to do anything about it except flail my arms and legs a bit, and wail.  Wailing was the nearest I could get to "I don't want that slop in the little tins that the fat person keeps tasting, cooing 'Yummy for ickle bitty baby Leviticoocoo. It's yummy choccy puddy.'  No it wasn't. It was pap. And I didn't like it coming at me on a spoon the size of a shovel with "Open the tunnel for the foodtrain to choo choo in, little Leviticoocoo." You wonder I aimed it all back at the person again? Neither did I want the bottles both fat persons kept offering me. My shrink says this has resulted in a disturbing fixation (*) which we will come to in Chapter 23, see below.  (Sorry! Sorry! Above! This is a blog, where the first post is always the last.) No. I wanted egg and bacon. I wanted spaggers bologgers with fine chopped chicken livers and a big glass of the red stuff that the big persons swigged out of even bigger glasses, that made them flail their arms and legs and sometimes fall over the furniture. But the penny never dropped. They both seemed determined I should end up a milksop and the infanticidal mush kept coming. I soon hit on a revenge strategy. By day I would accept their warm bottles and slobbery goo and bide my time until the tall hall clock where someone called Grandfather lived, chimed three. Then I would roar till the snoring stopped and the swearing began and the "Sooner that little brat . . " and "Now then, Dad. He's just a little baby." "He's just a little asshole, more like.  That's all babies are. A mouth one end and an asshole at the other."  In later life this idea interested me; that we are mere tubes through which all must pass until we pass away. Yes, interested me a good deal but worried my shrink even more. There's not much doesn't give my shrink pause, and quite frankly I think her problems far outweigh mine, but we'll come to that in Chapter 23, et seq  "Me -v- my Analyst"

  

   Folk don't go for long reads in blogs, so until next time . . .


   (*) For the shrink, not for me.  I'm quite happy with it.


Tess Kincaid at WIllow Manor prompted Simpleforth to write the above post, with this picture of 3 foodies.

Paul Gaugin The Meal 1891

   

Are you over 18?

Tess at Willow Manor has trawled the www again, and come up with a picture prompt which you can see at Magpie#115 along with many worthwhile responses.  A skilled manipulator of images has doctored it for me here, as you see . . .

In his bath sat a webgeek called Brindle
downloading soft porn to his Kindle.
Has he never been told
as the water gets cold
he'll find that his interest will dwindle?



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Friday Flash Fiction 20th. April

Any speculation, story, poem, recipe, memoir or song delights the G-Man as long as it is expressed in 55 words.

Has Anyone Told Charles Darwin?

(Image courtesy of Cartoon Clipart Images and Graphics)

Horses did not evolve to be house pets. They cannot get upstairs. To do so their forelegs would need to be shorter than their hind legs. But to get downstairs their hind legs should be shorter. Sadly, horses' legs are all the same length. Nevertheless horses are useful when you can't find your step-ladder and need to change a light bulb.

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Good Friday Flash Fiction

Once again, the Rev. G-Man offers us 55 words to retell an old, old story.

"Come on, pal. No rough sleepers! Haul ass. Tomb's reserved.”

"But . . but  . . "

"No buts. Just get yer butt outa here. And take them raggitty clothes."

"But I wasn't sleeping."

"Oh I geddit. Not sleeping but corpsing."

"Well . . yes. Sort of."

"Well now yer resurrected. So sling yer freakin’ hook." 


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Magpie Tales#111

Tess from Willow Manor gives us a picture of someone lost in thought. Or maybe merely lost, for her Magpie prompt this week.


Stretching Your Credulity, and the Limerick.

A keen poultry breeder called Beggs
wondered if he could incubate eggs.
He put this to the test
in a bald eagle's nest.
But the big bird said "Look, do
you think you're a cuckoo?
And I sure mean no harm
but you've got such thin arms!
Those spindly things
seem useless for wings.
And you took off your shoes -
which leads me to muse
that maybe you fly with your legs?"




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Magpie Tales#110

This week Tess at Willow Manor gives us something to reflect upon

Don't Try This at Home if You're a Scaredypants.

You all can pass through mirrors.  Yes. You. CAN!
With patience, faith and practise, and a plan.
Start with your tallest. Hand-mirrors are a squeeze,
but the long one in your wardrobe is a breeze!
Take a good look to make sure that is you.
Now then - I'm gonna tell you what to do.
"Refractive Index" is the magic word
(Don't quibble 'That is TWO.' Don't be absurd.)
Repeat three times.  Oh, something I forgot.
Your clothes get in the way. Discard the lot.
Now!  Flex your muscles and prepare to dive
into the glassy pool. You will survive.
The mirror sees you coming and liquefies.
(The scaredypants might choose to close their eyes)
There now!  You're through!  Easy-peasy was it not?
Oh drat!  There's something else that I forgot!
Forgot to say, "Unlock your wardrobe door
before you . . . .

I don't know, I really don't!  You came here to read another dumb Magpie and you end up starkers inside a locked wardrobe, tangled up in last season's dresses and/or suits and pongin' of mothballs. Some people. Really!

Flash Friday Fiction, 23rd.March

G-Man's picture this week raises disturbing issues.

Ain't got no words. Black trash is all. Went to help
the girl. Dude sliced her, he ran out.  Fit me up
with blade, her blouse, her blood.  So now you
fry me. My scalp smoke, mouth fill up with hot foam.
I die for him, man, Jesus die for me.  So do this thing
So end it.

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"And the World is Like an Apple Whirling Silently in Space"

Tess's prompt for Magpie Tales 109 is this image by Robert and Shana Parke Harrison of someone who should know better . . .

A keen archeologist called Pound

dug down to some cogs in the ground.

He thought, "Folk should see 'em

In the British Museum."

So he heaved on his spanner

in prompt Magpie manner

till his face turned quite puce.

At last one cog came loose -

"Oh Drat! I've stopped Earth going round."


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Friday Flash Fiction 16th.March

G-Man's picture sparked no spark this week, so I was inspired by this one, shot through an East Window.

I know a young student called Boon

who'll be in the slammer till June

for baring his ass

in the Astronomy class

'cos he didn't understand "a full moon"

I am much indebted to another blogger of full moons for the third and fourth lines, who, reading this, will know who I mean.

(Makes 55 words including the anonymous attribution, hehe!)

The Ides of March

G-Man made a brave attempt at a Friday Flash Fiction 55 synopsis, but the truth is far different . . .

Julius, Mayor of Casterbridge is in the Forum. A guy called Mark Anthony shouts he wants to borrow ears. “I’ll sell you my wife Elizabeth’s ears for V denarii” says Julius.  The crowd doesn’t like this. They stab him XXIII times.  “Oh, you brutes” he cries, expiring.  Anthony marries Elizabeth, played in the film by Cleopatra Taylor.

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