Sometime last year I became a recipient of “The Word of the Day.” I didn’t sign up for it, but I must have accidentally hit a link. Still, I’m glad to have it.
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Category: Humour
A Castle For the Roller Derby Queen
(The image is of the actual Andy, who graciously posed)
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Charity and Baby Hope had been searching for the perfect place to build a castle. Magick Minion Andy had done some in person searches and returned with the best prospect, which he explained to Charity in his surprisingly good Wiccan. “Surprisingly good” because your basic Cat, although all are born understanding the Wiccan tongue, has a bit of difficulty speaking it due to some of the trickier elongated vowels. Whenever your basic Cat meets a difficulty that really is not his problem he ignores it, but Andy is not your basic Cat, even though he does somewhat closely resemble a heavily used mop head more than he does an immortal Magick Gray Tabby.
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Fresh from Slaughtering Kittens by James Hanna
(An excerpt from Lights Out Lizzie)
Author’s Note
After joining Women of Wrestling, Gertie McDowell, a naïve Kentucky girl with a talent for misadventure, has been crowned the “champion of the world.” She acquired this title after taking on former “world champion,” Samoa Moa, and knocking her out with a head butt. Gertie did not do this out of malice but because Moa, a bitter behemoth of a woman, was wrestling too aggressively and has a history of injuring her opponents.
Leo Hawke, director and pitchman for World Wrestling Productions, is so impressed by Gertie’s “triumph” that he stages a rematch in Afghanistan for the entertainment of American troops. Prior to the match, Gertie and Moa are bunked in the women’s barracks where they attract new fans.
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Seasonal Angst: High Drama in the Diorama by Bud Pharo
“I hate this fucking job!” Rob, the disgruntled night security guard, muttered to himself as he did his rounds in the empty department store.
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Smile if you’re not wearing knickers by Peter Arscott
I was pleased the butcher knew my face.
For months I’ve been coming here, wanting him to look at me, to really look at me, watching the sinews in his forearm tighten with each effortless chop of the cleaver as it neatly parts a chicken’s neck from its body, or a pink cutlet from half a ribcage. He carries himself with such grace, his every move unhurried, as if the world outside, with its fuss and hurly burly, is of no concern to a man who functions by his own imperatives, and in his own time.
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Market Place by Hugh Cron – Adult Content
“Hey there pretty lady, lookin’ good!”
“Hi Chris, didn’t expect to see you here. Alone and on a school night!!”
“What the fuck, I needed a drink! And I really don’t give a shit about the job, so, so what if I go in half-mangled…What about you? Waiting for someone?”
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Week 560: A New Year Begins
A Kvetch
We have now officially opened the twelfth year of Literally Stories UK. And as it goes in life we have faced a recent challenge after we were listed (unbeknownst to us) by one of those publications that do such things. I do not know why such services still exist in the era of Google, nor do I grasp why people rely on such services, but the situation exists.
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European Dishwasher Stacking Championship by Michael Smith
This year’s competition, held in Zurich, will see strong challenges from the Eastern European bloc, hoping to break the Scandinavian dominance of recent years. However, three time champion, Roine Svensson, remains the bookies’ firm favourite to retain his title. Dimitri Zitesev, head of the Bulgarian delegation, was adamant however, “Our men have been training all year for this event. We are very confident.” Despite the dark cloud that hangs over their participation, Zitesev insists, “the doping allegations have not distracted us from our goal.”
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Week 555: Controlling Enthusiasm
I have decided to cut down on my use of the exclamation mark. I have often used it as a shortcut to fake a sense of goodwill that I do not usually feel–or at not least up to the degree implied by an exclamation mark. There’s a stink on an exclamation mark, for me it reeks of perkiness and whatever potion lurks in Kathy Lee Gifford’s coffee cup. (You’ll probably have to be an American of a certain age to get that last bit. If not, lucky day: something to google.)
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My Fair Wiccan by Leila Allison
1880, Charleston Settlement, Oregon Territory
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Hope was getting old. The thrill was gone, and her wiccan skills were diminishing due to her lack of enthusiasm. Oh, she could still raise a demon, but they were low rent, stereotypical evil and talked too much; most tended to live in the past with little thought given the future. And she could still impress the hell out of the feeble-minded, but public schooling was cutting into the ignorance she had so long depended on. Educated people tend to ask questions. They see a three-headed frog and attribute it to science instead of witchcraft. Bastards.
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