An ongoing evolutionary collaborative free-range Atkin's friendly, wardrobe malfunction-free, literary blog. Tastes like chicken, smells like pennies, thinks like Sloths. Hand me your cash, we need an editor.
Good God, Smell the Danger!
Shirl: He lived alone in a house of logs surrounded on all sides by the great forest, the fog lifting gently on the lake as the sun began to appear, a particular odour waffed the near still air....
Steve: As his nostrils parted to greet the day, he felt an uneasiness as he observed the adjacent alarm clock.
There was an error apparent.
Shirl: The alarm clock was one of those new fangled editions, "crickets, waves, seabirds, etc... yet he hoped to hear the sweet whisperings of a female's voice...then...it happened
Steve: With a crack and a jolt, the next-door neighbor jostled poor Ted from his slumber. Weighing in at a healthy 246 pounds, Maybelline burst through the bedroom door, unashamed and demanding results.
Shirl: His ideal woman was that of a fashion with all ways worthy of his honest devotion, who shared the dangers and privations of his lot with a willing spirit and light heart. Yet, Maybelline had all the allure of a bull in a china shop. Clutching a frying pan in one hand and a basket of eggs in the other, she winked and demanded a warm hearth forthwith. "Bacon" came to mind...then fizzled when she hauled me out by foot from beneath the warm blankets.
Steve: "Dang!" I exclaimed. "Treat those eggs as you would your own!"
Shirl: She laughed heartily and stated, "Eggsactly". Oh to be free of this woman yet still have the eggs. I was starving, so decided to start the fire and make some coffee. "Geez Maybelline, would it be too much to knock first?" She took an egg, cracked it over my head and laughed again.
Steve: It was then that I recalled where the coffee was stashed. I eyed the location. It was just above her head, in the southwest cupboard. She sensed my gaze, and I felt that she was about to intercept my grab for the can. Then...
Shirl: terror turned to madness, and madness incited action. She grabbed another egg out of the basket and threw it past my head, narrowly missing my prized deer head trophy on the wall. Damn her...no coffee for her. I seized my loaded rifle and feigned retaliation.
Steve: That's when I knew. It was all over. Kaput. Finito. She had finally cracked my terror. It wasn't the deer head, nor the sudden intrusion into my bedroom, nor the hidden cache of my father's Playboy magazines I discovered in 1965 that she was trying to help me with. I had to face it. It was my long-standing fear of eggs. My last therapist named it. Oeurvaphobia.
Shirl: I realized that by saying "she had finally cracked my terror" that perhaps a pun was intended to send me back to sanity, at least to get my bearings. I set the rifle down, and counted to a dozen (pun intended again)...ahhh, i was feeling relief. I had honed these puns to spurn my fears and anger about eggs. How eggsotic, I thought, and laughed within. "So Maybelline, you do have a way with your eggsistentialism."
Steve: Eggsistentialism notwithstanding, I picked up my spatula and shook it in her face.
Shirl: "You shake that thing in my face and you might end up with egg on your face." Damn she was good at puns too.
Steve: I smirked at her dumbass pun, knowing that she held secrets. I knew she had numerous relatives in the cosmetics industry. She thought she could fool me with that name of hers, but I knew better.
Shirl: Was she trying to swindle me out of my isolated chicken farm in the sticks? Who's bright idea was it to have hen houses in the wilderness? It was time to come out of hibernation and deal with the secret of not only being hen pecked but..
Sam: having the latent feather gene. God Dammit. I'd had enough of it. Our family was persecuted to the point of intolerance.
So I had an occasional rogue feather. Stereotypes suck. It was time for me to take action. I wrote to...
Shirl: the cosmetics giant Maybelline and asked for a refund. They declined informing me that "Max Fact Her" and that I should contact him. The receptionist at Max Factor answered my call. I could have sworn she said, "Tickle your ass with a feather?" My already 'goose-bumped' complexion, complete with feather fluff growth, was reddened with embarrassment. I replied with "Excuse me, I beg your hard on, I mean beg your pardon?" She laughed and ever so smoothly the words rolled off her tongue. "It sure is lovely weather."
Sam: Wall Street stock for Max Factor took a sudden dive. Max himself, already aware of his demise, perked up and ejected his once-relevant head from his coffin. "Maybelline is the man," he whispered, then he laid back. Gianni Versace and Elton (you know who) immediately appeared to administer the chemical. It was the eyeshadow. The crowd gasped.
Shirl: I decided to fly the coop, to feather my ass outa there, to stick it to the rooster, to get the cluck outa there.
I adorned my noggin with my tuque (a special purchase i made on my last beer drinking visit to Canada, eh), and exited the premises (house of logs). The only thing I felt as I made a hurried adieu to the old bat holding the spatula in the wilderness, was the pummeling of raw eggs across my backpack as I ran down the trail to the canoe. I blew the feathers off the seat, and grabbed an oar....
Sam: Or.. oh, an OAR. I got it. It was one of those wooden dealies used to sweep water when you're in a boat. OK. So I whipped out my cell phone, dialed the number for Oars R Us, and sat back. I waited. I waited, and waited some more. Finally, the Oars R Us plane came over, dipped its wings, and dropped us another oar. We needed two, ya know, lest we row our silly asses around in circles. Thank the US gov't for GPS.
Shirl: From torched skyscrapers, men grew wings. Men got errors, errors were erected and corrected and perfected. Five master graphic designers took them to the drawing board. The raging river caressed my egg spattered body in the envelope of the birch bark canoe.
Sam: Men consulted with men. Men discussed building towers. Men discussed collapsing towers. Men cleaned up after towers collapsed. Men discussed rebuilding things in hole created by collapsed towers. Men still stare at gaping hole. Men not decide.
Shirl: I woke up with these short sentences in my dreams swirling around, just as the canoe was doing the same thing. Water can be soothing, yet, here I was debilitated by these thoughts. With the sound of roaring water, with dried egg laden apparel, a feather stubbled mug of a face, pits in dire need of arm charm, and a waterfall within 50 feet of me and my birch canoe. It was flight or fight.
Sam: Arm Charm. What a wonderful idea. I thought of my lovely sister, Florence, and her fondness for frogs. I searhed for a birch frog in the shape of a canoe. The water soothed me.
Shirl: Damn her and her frog fetish!
I gathered up feathers from in the canoe and pressed them against the egg smatterings on my body. Just as the canoe tipped over the edge of the falls, I jumped, arms flailing, vocal chords clucking. Miraculously, my self-made wings and cluckings softened the fall over the falls. I veered off and landed in a frog infested pond in the shape of a canoe.
Stay tuned...the plot will thicken like your grandmother's grease gravy...
Shirl: He lived alone in a house of logs surrounded on all sides by the great forest, the fog lifting gently on the lake as the sun began to appear, a particular odour waffed the near still air....
Steve: As his nostrils parted to greet the day, he felt an uneasiness as he observed the adjacent alarm clock.
There was an error apparent.Shirl: The alarm clock was one of those new fangled editions, "crickets, waves, seabirds, etc... yet he hoped to hear the sweet whisperings of a female's voice...then...it happened
Steve: With a crack and a jolt, the next-door neighbor jostled poor Ted from his slumber. Weighing in at a healthy 246 pounds, Maybelline burst through the bedroom door, unashamed and demanding results.
Shirl: His ideal woman was that of a fashion with all ways worthy of his honest devotion, who shared the dangers and privations of his lot with a willing spirit and light heart. Yet, Maybelline had all the allure of a bull in a china shop. Clutching a frying pan in one hand and a basket of eggs in the other, she winked and demanded a warm hearth forthwith. "Bacon" came to mind...then fizzled when she hauled me out by foot from beneath the warm blankets.
Steve: "Dang!" I exclaimed. "Treat those eggs as you would your own!"
Shirl: She laughed heartily and stated, "Eggsactly". Oh to be free of this woman yet still have the eggs. I was starving, so decided to start the fire and make some coffee. "Geez Maybelline, would it be too much to knock first?" She took an egg, cracked it over my head and laughed again.
Steve: It was then that I recalled where the coffee was stashed. I eyed the location. It was just above her head, in the southwest cupboard. She sensed my gaze, and I felt that she was about to intercept my grab for the can. Then...
Shirl: terror turned to madness, and madness incited action. She grabbed another egg out of the basket and threw it past my head, narrowly missing my prized deer head trophy on the wall. Damn her...no coffee for her. I seized my loaded rifle and feigned retaliation.
Steve: That's when I knew. It was all over. Kaput. Finito. She had finally cracked my terror. It wasn't the deer head, nor the sudden intrusion into my bedroom, nor the hidden cache of my father's Playboy magazines I discovered in 1965 that she was trying to help me with. I had to face it. It was my long-standing fear of eggs. My last therapist named it. Oeurvaphobia.Shirl: I realized that by saying "she had finally cracked my terror" that perhaps a pun was intended to send me back to sanity, at least to get my bearings. I set the rifle down, and counted to a dozen (pun intended again)...ahhh, i was feeling relief. I had honed these puns to spurn my fears and anger about eggs. How eggsotic, I thought, and laughed within. "So Maybelline, you do have a way with your eggsistentialism."
Steve: Eggsistentialism notwithstanding, I picked up my spatula and shook it in her face.
Shirl: "You shake that thing in my face and you might end up with egg on your face." Damn she was good at puns too.
Steve: I smirked at her dumbass pun, knowing that she held secrets. I knew she had numerous relatives in the cosmetics industry. She thought she could fool me with that name of hers, but I knew better.
Shirl: Was she trying to swindle me out of my isolated chicken farm in the sticks? Who's bright idea was it to have hen houses in the wilderness? It was time to come out of hibernation and deal with the secret of not only being hen pecked but..
Sam: having the latent feather gene. God Dammit. I'd had enough of it. Our family was persecuted to the point of intolerance.
So I had an occasional rogue feather. Stereotypes suck. It was time for me to take action. I wrote to...
Shirl: the cosmetics giant Maybelline and asked for a refund. They declined informing me that "Max Fact Her" and that I should contact him. The receptionist at Max Factor answered my call. I could have sworn she said, "Tickle your ass with a feather?" My already 'goose-bumped' complexion, complete with feather fluff growth, was reddened with embarrassment. I replied with "Excuse me, I beg your hard on, I mean beg your pardon?" She laughed and ever so smoothly the words rolled off her tongue. "It sure is lovely weather."
Sam: Wall Street stock for Max Factor took a sudden dive. Max himself, already aware of his demise, perked up and ejected his once-relevant head from his coffin. "Maybelline is the man," he whispered, then he laid back. Gianni Versace and Elton (you know who) immediately appeared to administer the chemical. It was the eyeshadow. The crowd gasped.
Shirl: I decided to fly the coop, to feather my ass outa there, to stick it to the rooster, to get the cluck outa there.
I adorned my noggin with my tuque (a special purchase i made on my last beer drinking visit to Canada, eh), and exited the premises (house of logs). The only thing I felt as I made a hurried adieu to the old bat holding the spatula in the wilderness, was the pummeling of raw eggs across my backpack as I ran down the trail to the canoe. I blew the feathers off the seat, and grabbed an oar....Sam: Or.. oh, an OAR. I got it. It was one of those wooden dealies used to sweep water when you're in a boat. OK. So I whipped out my cell phone, dialed the number for Oars R Us, and sat back. I waited. I waited, and waited some more. Finally, the Oars R Us plane came over, dipped its wings, and dropped us another oar. We needed two, ya know, lest we row our silly asses around in circles. Thank the US gov't for GPS.
Shirl: From torched skyscrapers, men grew wings. Men got errors, errors were erected and corrected and perfected. Five master graphic designers took them to the drawing board. The raging river caressed my egg spattered body in the envelope of the birch bark canoe.
Sam: Men consulted with men. Men discussed building towers. Men discussed collapsing towers. Men cleaned up after towers collapsed. Men discussed rebuilding things in hole created by collapsed towers. Men still stare at gaping hole. Men not decide.
Shirl: I woke up with these short sentences in my dreams swirling around, just as the canoe was doing the same thing. Water can be soothing, yet, here I was debilitated by these thoughts. With the sound of roaring water, with dried egg laden apparel, a feather stubbled mug of a face, pits in dire need of arm charm, and a waterfall within 50 feet of me and my birch canoe. It was flight or fight.
Sam: Arm Charm. What a wonderful idea. I thought of my lovely sister, Florence, and her fondness for frogs. I searhed for a birch frog in the shape of a canoe. The water soothed me.
Shirl: Damn her and her frog fetish!
I gathered up feathers from in the canoe and pressed them against the egg smatterings on my body. Just as the canoe tipped over the edge of the falls, I jumped, arms flailing, vocal chords clucking. Miraculously, my self-made wings and cluckings softened the fall over the falls. I veered off and landed in a frog infested pond in the shape of a canoe.Stay tuned...the plot will thicken like your grandmother's grease gravy...
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