Better Than You

snobMost of us run into folks like this along life’s journey. They’re especially prevalent online.

By Maggie Rascal

Hello, I’m new here,
And I’m better than you:
Smarter – kindlier –
Much cleverer too!

You’re stupid – you’re snooty –
You’re unworthy of my precious time.
As for me, it’s plain to see
I’m magnificent and sublime!

While I am Secretariat,
Or perhaps Seattle Slew,
The rest of you, a sorry lot,
Are destined to become glue.

This may seem rather blunt,
But that’s just how I am.
If my directness hurts you,
Frankly, I don’t give a damn.

Please do not advise me
To better communicate.
I’m quite capable in that regard;
My intent is to berate.

By laying out these facts,
I don’t mean to be unkind.
My superiority, once accepted,
Is a comfort, you will find.

Indeed, what I am doing
Should be welcomed by you all.
In pointing out your shortcomings,
I’m cushioning the fall.

Alas, a point of verity:
No one else is very bright.
It’s best to just acknowledge
That I am always right!

My logic is impeccable,
My thought processes grand.
Differing with me is clear proof
That you don’t understand.

So I’ll explain once again
(Since you’re all somewhat slow):
What I speak is the truth,
Because I say so.

Your views might be of value
If they jelled with my opinions.
Though challenges don’t suit me,
I always welcome minions.

Yet by small-minded drudges,
I’ve been taunted and eschewed,
For showing the stupendousness
With which I am imbued.

I simply cannot fathom
Why so many do not like me.
I’ve announced that I am fabulous—
How could you disagree?

You’re all too far beneath me;
I need a brief reprieve.
Climbing back aboard my high horse,
I’ll take my humble leave.

* * *
© 2013 by M.P. Witwer. All rights reserved.

 
 

Dear Purveyors of Canned Meat

spam_varietiesWho knew it came in so many different varieties?

By Maggie Rascal

If only the spammers would listen, this is what I’d tell them…

Dear Purveyors of Canned Meat:

Thank you for your interest in our website. Because so many of you have left similar comments, we’ve put together a list of common observations, questions and concerns. Please consult this FAS (frequently added spam) guide before posting.

Most Sincerely,

The Site Administrators


FAS

The Helper

It’s thoughtful of you to be concerned about our SEO scores, Google ranking, social media marketing strategy and website layout. Really, though, we’re happy with how everything is going right now. We’ll keep your contact information on hand if we’re ever looking to make a change. Yup, it will be right there in its own special, circular file.

The Newbie

You have a lot of questions! Fortunately, the answers to most of them can be found easily, eliminating the need for us to post your comment that (coincidentally, we’re certain) leads to a site selling cheap shoes/purses/NFL jerseys/silicone wristbands. Here is the information you’re seeking: Continue reading

The Insolence of Condensation

By Maggie Rascal

Don’t even think of showing me any condensation about spurious punctuation, rampant malapropisms, or the shallowness of boasting about deep thoughts…

condensation-condescension

Condensation is upfronting to a deep thinker like me.

Sitting in my bed on a cold rainy night, irked at an uppity bitch who says my writing is ‘confused’ and my punctuation made up,-x*€;>
Her condensation1 upfronts2 me. As my work is too deep to be judged by convectional3 standards.

Mumbo jumbo, gobbledygook, Beelzebub and rhubarb. With other deep thoughts running through my mind,-x*€;>
Waiting for the acolytes4 to pour in. As they will. From those smart enough to get it.

Drifting off to sleep, wandering5 just how many appropriate6 my incredulous7 deepness. While my thoughts are deeply deep,-x*€;>
Thinking deep thoughts about deepness and thoughts. And condensation.


1 condescension
2 affronts
3 conventional
4 accolades
5 wondering
6 appreciate
7 incredible

* * *
© 2015 by M.P. Witwer • All rights deeply preserved

Storybook Lovers

storybook-loversBy Steffanie

So few words, for so much passion ….

My storybook lover is romantic, he would never hurry his sweetheart in a love scene, but tonight I want him to…

“Make love to me, darling. In one hundred words or less.”

“Micro fiction?”

“Yes.”

“Get your skirt off then.”

I begin slowly undoing the buttons on my…

“Just do it, don’t describe it.”

“It has to be sexy.”

“But you’re using all the words up!”

“Don’t shout at me.”

“Sorry, sweetie.”

Silence.

More silence.

“We’ve still got twenty words left.”

“We could have a…”

“Sssh, no dialogue, no description.”

“OK. Shall we?”

“Oh yes.”

Mmm… one hundred words.

Perfect.

* * *
© 2013 by Steffanie • All rights reserved

The Spelling Bee

By Maggie Rascal


Some words that don’t exist, really ought to.   

“The word is ‘peppier,’ pronounced ‘pep-ee-ay’,” announced the spelling bee moderator.

“Definition, please,” replied the entrant, launching by rote into the set of questions she had been taught to ask.

“One who grinds spice onto a diner’s food at a restaurant.”

“What is the origin?”wordcloud

“‘Peppier’ is faux French.”

“Faux French?”

“Yes, that is, it is not truly a French word, but rather a made-up word pronounced in French fashion.”

“Oh, I see. Can you use it in a sentence, please?”

“Pepé, a pretentious, portly peppier with a prominent proboscis, was particularly parsimonious in peppering, his pharaonic phallus producing a paltry portion of the precious provision over my pappardelle pasta.”

“His pharaonic phallus? You do realize I’m in seventh grade, don’t you?”

“Our apologies. We can repeat the sentence without the offending terminology if you wish.”

“No thank you, that won’t be necessary. Peppier: P-E-P-P-I-E-R.”

“Congratulations, that is correct. Please take a seat with the others who have advanced.

“The next word is ‘hinge’; it rhymes with ‘thing’…”

* * *
© 2012 by M.P. Witwer • All rights reserved

Dave World

By Steffanie

There’s a Dave for everything.

The Rock Bar, what a dive, peeling paint on the door and Fat Dave still hasn’t fixed that smashed window. The place is dark and seedy but I love it, it’s where I first met the missus, God bless her.

Nothing much changes in The Rock Bar, same crappy fittings, same beer, same music. Although one thing is new, a Dave Grohl poster is up on the wall alongside the Floyd’s Dave Gilmour — quite an honor for the American upstart to be in such company, if only he knew he’d finally made it.

“Alright, Dave? The usual?”

“Yeah. Cheers, Dave.”

“How’s the little lady, Dave?”

Fat Dave always asks after Steffanie. He’s a bone idle slob but he’d stick his neck out anytime for my wife, she’s an angel in his eyes… and mine too of course.

“As air-brained as ever,” I tell him, which she is.

“Best barmaid I ever had,” Dave says. “You fixed that motor yet?”

Bit of a sore point there, one damn thing after another. New clutch, new diff’ and now a new alternator is needed. My bargain BMW is proving to be anything but. Continue reading

For Whom the Good Tolls

Glass of wine

By Bill Fullerton
(with apologies to ‘Papa’ Hemingway)

In a clean, well-lighted place out of the rain, the man and woman drank wine. The wine was good.

They ate the testicles of a young bull that had bravely faced death in the afternoon. Both were good.

Back in their room, he went to her breasts. Her breasts were there, and good.

“You were good,” she said.

“De nada,” he said, and left. It had been good.

They met no more.

Each died alone—in the rain.

It was a good rain, except on the mountain where snow fell on a frozen leopard. It was also good, and dead.

* * *
© 2012 by Bill Fullerton • All rights reserved

Milly’s Magical Moment

By Carol E. Wyer

Millicent Jarvis thanked the air stewardess, stepped out from the aeroplane into the warm evening breeze at Larnaca airport, and promptly slid down the steps, landing on top of the man who had been her unfortunate neighbour during the flight.

“Oh Lord, I’m really sorry,” she spluttered, not for the first time in the last four and a half hours. She had already hit him over the head with her holdall as she tried to cram it in the overhead locker, and had spilt her glass of red wine over his light-coloured trousers. Each time, he had patiently smiled at her and told her not to worry about it. She loathed being clumsy. She was forever tripping over her own feet. Maybe if she were to wear her spectacles more often it wouldn’t happen so much but Milly hated her spectacles. They made her look crabby and old.

The man helped her board the bus which was rapidly filling with excited holiday-makers and insisted she hold on tightly to the strap above her head.

“Staying in Paphos?” his wife asked.

“No, Limassol,” replied Milly. “I’m meeting my parents at a hotel there. They’ve been there a week already. They booked this trip for me as a surprise. I’ve been studying for my finals for months and they thought I needed a break.”

The husband and wife exchanged a look of relief. At least Milly wouldn’t be bumping into them all holiday.

Sometime later, having done no further damage, other than standing on several toes while disembarking the bus and knocking a pile of papers off the desk at Passport Control, Milly arrived at the hotel. Continue reading