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Originally posted under Kate Boddie. According to one editor, this is Mad Magazine-y. Not sure if that’s a compliment or not but I’ll take what I can get.
Twas the night before dinner of the holiday kind;
My wife’s on amphetamines and I’m losing my mind.
My testicles were grabbed by her fist without care
For I didn’t know the green beans didn’t go there.
I asked for fresh turkey cause that kind’s the best.
And dear Kevin claims it was all in good jest.
But since there’s now wild poultry shitting in my shoe,
I want to weld his ass to the toilet seat using the strongest of glue.
Will someone get this fucking bird out of here?
Linda’s got a list of who can eat what and when—
Constipation for Nana and acid reflux for Ken.
So now our bathroom’s filled with laxatives and Tums;
When it comes to bodily functions, god forbid people remain mum.
Originally posted under Kate Boddie.
“Officer, please. Is it necessary to put your foot on his head?” My cousin, Pam. The man with the badge-wearing appendage on his face is Cal, her husband. “Really, he didn’t mean to throw the turkey at you.”
“Ma’am, I am fully aware of when someone uses a piece of poultry as a projectile with malicious intent. I could have been seriously injured.”
I want to know how many Quaaludes he was on not to laugh at his own statement, not to mention how much tryptophan was in the turkey to stifle our reactions. I don’t think the piece of soggy skin that slapped the officer in the face, thrown by one of Pam’s spawn, made the situation any better, nor did his beet-red partner. In all the effort of trying not to laugh, small instances of boogey hurtled out of his nose accompanied by tears streaming down his face and body heaves rolling out of his shoulders.
“Damn it, Ned. Will you get a hold of yourself?”
At least Officer Ned’s holiday spent working was dimly brightened although I don’t doubt this will be the last domestic call they’ll make. The Cowboys are playing the Colts. It’s just bound to get uglier somewhere else; salt and vinegar chips can be extraordinarily painful if used properly.
Originally posted under Kate Boddie and part of an Absolute Write Flash Fiction Carnival.
“He’s going to die of carbon monoxide poisoning,” Gillian said as she puffed on her cigarette.
“That’s . . . just . . . great, Gillian. Why don’t you hand William a fire poker and tell him to just finish the man off? No sense in letting him clog the chimney all alive.”
“Daddy, is Santa gonna die?” William was only six and still firmly steeped in the Santa myth although the notion of his unreality had, thanks to the Sanderson’s chimney, been disproven.
“No, son. Santa’s going to be just fine. The firefighters are going to do all they can to save him.”
“Might as well write his eulogy now, Willy, because I sure as hell am not going to let them tear apart my chimney.”
“What’s a u-no-gee?”
“Did you forget to take your mother pill before you went to bed? There’s a living man in the chimney and you’re talking about slow-roasting him.”
“Yes, because I want the stink of burning flesh to permeate my upholstery.”
“Have you no heart?”
“Ted, it’s three a.m. on Christmas morning and I’m ankle deep in snow in nothing but a bathrobe and slippers. How would you feel?”
