Category: satire


The Punk Pumpkin was the angriest pumpkin in the entire patch. He was constantly making efforts to cause mayhem and disruption, ruining the peaceful and otherwise sedate lives of the general run of pumpkins in the patch.  Continued: https://bit.ly/2EeQdne

Punk Pumpkin

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Therese throws down a large steak knife.

 

THERESE

(tearful)

Why do you stare at me so, Alphonse?

 

ALPHONSE

It’s just as my father always said.

 

THERESE

Machine wash warm?

 

ALPHONSE
Never love a pumpkin hater.

 

Alphonse takes his pumpkin away.

 

CURTAIN

Trude holds up the prize pumpkin.

TRUDE

How long was you planning to keep this pumpkin hid?

CLIFF

Until sich time as you’d treat it proper.

TRUDE
A real man don’t hide his pumpkins!

CLIFF

(awestruck)
That’s why I never saw daddy’s vegetation.
CURTAIN

She was dancing to the rhythm of the cat

But then one day had a sudden realization that cats have no particular rhythm

And they’re not known for dancing in general

Which transformed her dancing to a hollow charade

A mangled false tribute to a mammalian carnival that didn’t even exist

A misguided, poorly conceived cross-species shadow saturnalia

Making a mockery of her own purported feline expertise

Implicating participation in a perversion of cat values

A misinterpretation that called into question her previous cat culture efforts

And so the dancing stopped before her catness damage was unsalvageable

And instead she stood in the garden by the rows of celery.

And it came to pass that the Coffee God came to a strange foreign land and this land was known to those who dwelt there as the Hazelnut Valley. And in this land the people did walk and sing beneath strange trees, called the tree of the hazelnut. And the nut of this tree they did pick and verily place the nectar from this nut in the mugs of their coffee. And they mixed the nut nectar with the coffee and would quaff this beverage on a regular basis in great quantities and were very satisfied and pleased with themselves thereby, and they did have a great amount of pleased talk about this ‘hazelnut coffee.’

Continued: https://bit.ly/2MILMop

coffeebean-man.png

The director sat at the head of the long table wearing a large smile and a dark green shirt that complemented his deep tan. “The casting job was amazing, Percy.” He spoke in a low tone to the screenwriter, seated at his right side and looking unrested in a ragged pullover shirt and three days of beard stubble. “You won’t believe it. Felice found the perfect actor for every part. She went like three extra miles to be mega-diverse, with a capital m-d.”

Percy Luttington gulped at his iced espresso, which was now mostly ice and less espresso, nodding nervously at the table of actors. “Felice is very real. She’s always on it. The thing for me, Rule, is it’s all about the story. Whoever can tell the truth of this story, that’s who we need.”

Continued: http://bit.ly/2KeKM5i

Like an uncertain monstrosity, the laughing cowboy surveys the wild plain

taking in the artificial sheep and monumental lanyards,

the percolating fences that manipulate local disdain.

For too many pavements he’d squandered his cigarette charisma,

rubbing his beard stubble vociferously in a gesture that drove the laundresses to drink.

He calypsoed at Gilbert’s Diner, sashaying in front of the mashed potatoes carousel,

fingers poking out of his pockets and eyes hooded with knowing nonchalance.

He’d known too many women to recapitulate,

even using his efficient pocket calculator from the drug store.

Maladust, the befuddled sheriff, provided free custard to anyone who’d look away

while the transparent donkeys performed burlesque routines outlawed in most other towns.

It wasn’t as easy as the days when brain-dead Hilda made a display of reticence,

chomping on lipstick the shade of embarrassed nectarines.

“You can’t find trains like that in the old world,” she muttered, nursing a tomato hangover.

She cavorted with menacing toothpaste in a show everyone knew to be planned,

squeezing the green malignancy from the giant tube

with a grin that any dentist would shiver to behold.

She’d offer to sleep through anyone’s resilience,

proferring her arcane plant knowledge afterward,

pulling obscure thistles from her apron pockets

bewildering the veteran men with tales of creosote

and bursting into laughter at a windy provocation.

“History is for the hysterical,” she’d whisper in an unctuous tone

before drawing the gingham covers over her head.

It remained only for old Doc Hallway to extract a mint cornhusk from the dining table.

“Don’t let your laundry obstruct your better nature,”

he would counsel, sinking his head onto the greasy bar.

“I’ve absorbed the scorn of a woman tossed,” he’d somehow enunciate,

his mouth a rubbered distortion. “Let’s take the parade to hunkytown and dangle the miasma.”

“We should have a flashback,” said Jeff spreading

his hands, “of the time he stowed away, scared,

riding in a test capsule with no one,

trapped in  a long orbit he never made.”

At which Leslie puffed on her cigarette.

“Don’t make me laugh, you hack. That’s the oldest

cliché in the book. The dark childhood mess

come back to enmesh him in its tight grasp.”

Her straight brunette bangs jittered. “Rollo stares

space in the face, unafraid. A mighty

white-suited orbit warrior, darting

into the far reaches of the unknown.”

Milton rubbed at the ache in his forehead.

“We know Rollo’s tough, but we gotta glimpse

his tender side. Maybe a space babe, a

statuesque princess from Mars with some spunk.”

“You have to be kidding,” sneered dry Leslie.

“The last thing we need is a Mars vixen,

a small-brained twit to simper at space hunks.”

“Let’s just do a jelly monster,” urged Jeff,

“like the one in ‘Moon of the Unhallowed’.

we can all get behind slimy feelers.”

There were reluctant nods. The meeting stopped

at four with notes on grappling tentacles.

Tough Girls – a poem

Tough girls

in grocery store parking lots

intimidating children.

They consider doing violent things with grocery carts

and smack their gum loudly, like soldiers bouncing tin cans off brick walls.

They posture and flaunt,

proud of their tops,

knowing every crack in the lot.

No one from the coffee stand will wave them away.

They sneer at local dogs and petition people.

Soak in the yawping sun, disdaining lotion,

daring their skin to darken.

Nighttime clambers onto them, bringing no quiet,

Spurring them on to jeer at loud cars,

their bravado rising with every baffled elder clutching a reusable bag.

A dimly lit Taco Bell.  ESTELLE sways to the counter.

 

ESTELLE
(wig askew)

Make mine a double.

 

PEPE points to a sign.

 

PEPE
Like to try our new meat lover’s taco?

 

ESTELLE
Don’t tempt me, honey child!

 

PEPE

Miss, you’re getting lipstick on my poncho.

 

CURTAIN