Tag: wit

Severance

by Carolyn R. Russell

“What should I call you?” I asked. “Because if you give me no guidance, I’ll be forced to perpetrate some awful pun, like Sore or RuleOf. Or maybe Opposable.” 

My thumb laughed and said to call it Claudia. She, her, hers, it added snidely, like it was mocking my worldview. 

It spoke from inside my breast pocket, mind you, not my hand. My hand now sported a Frankensteinian scar where the digit had lived before I cut it off. That was right after I learned it had become an independent agent. Its ultimate aims I had yet to figure out, other than its desire to poison my wife. 

I’m sure Claudia would disagree. She’d say she was so intent on mastering the art of Creole cooking that she forgot to check labels for shellfish allergens, or something like that. But Claudia’s been proven a highly unreliable narrator of our shared history. I don’t even ask her questions anymore, except for when I’m bored and in the mood for one of her tortured explanations. She’s very creative, I’ll give her that. 

Before I realized Claudia’s reach and power, I would find strange bits and pieces of metal and string arranged in little piles in odd corners of our house. Once, a tidy cluster of anonymous keys pressed into the end of a bread loaf, discovered when I went to slice it. At first, I thought it was one of the kids, but when I brought it up, they looked at me like I was nuts before squinting their eyes at me with the effort, I think, of not rolling them. My wife had been equally unhelpful. Our Border Collie, Cleveland, was sympathetic, but even he looked at me a little funny before he left the room. 

It would be several months before I discovered my thumb’s autonomy, that it could manage small tasks literally behind my back. And more. One time, I got out of bed in the middle of the night to find I was already up and awake and drawing some sort of map. 

The amputation had only sharpened her opaque ambitions. More and more, I felt my own ego dissolving in the wake of Claudia’s furtive operations. 

Why, you might wonder, would I not just throw Claudia into the fireplace or over a cliff? Because I couldn’t. Literally could not. She had succeeded in colonizing parts of my body, including the frontal lobe of my brain. She knew my thoughts. And severance had not limited her influence over my every conscious moment, nor dampened her enthusiasm for gaining whatever it was she wanted. 

It was on an unseasonably cold day in November when Claudia insisted I take her to the hardware store. I didn’t even bother to inquire as to why, just placed her in her customary perch inside my breast pocket and asked if Cleveland might join us. 

The three of us were at the threshold of the store when I tripped over Cleveland’s leash and nearly fell. As I righted myself I glimpsed Claudia rolling on the ground. Before I could move, Cleveland had pounced on my thumb and was chewing, then swallowing. 

It took a moment for me to grasp what had happened. But when Cleveland and I entered the store, I felt a lightness of heart that was near intoxicating. I found the pet supply section and went crazy, buying Cleveland expensive novelty snacks and fancy toys to gnaw on. And I couldn’t stop telling him what a good dog he was. 

After a few days, my family started to comment on my improved disposition. I began to savor my life again. I began to have fun again. It was in this spirit that at dinner one evening I suggested we all get away during the kids’ upcoming Thanksgiving break. Go someplace sunny and warm. It was decided, and as I cleared the table, my wife and kids got on their laptops to research where we might travel. 

Cleveland followed me into the kitchen. As I scraped plates into the garbage, he stood at attention, waiting. 

“I know what you want, boy,” I told him. I’ve got some leftover spaghetti with your name on it.” 

“That would be fine,” he said. “But you can forget about that fucking kennel you have in mind. I’m coming with y’all.” 

I turned toward Cleveland. Big brown eyes gleaming, he wagged his tail and opened his jaws wide. I dropped the spaghetti into his mouth and watched the red sauce drip down his chin. 

“More,” said my dog. 

Bio:
A Pushcart Prize, Best Micro Fictions, Best of the Net, and Best Small Fictions nominee, Carolyn R. Russell’s essays, poetry, and short stories have been featured in numerous publications. She has also authored four books, including a multi-genre flash collection called “Death and Other Survival Strategies” (Vine Leaves Press, 2023).

The Understudy

by Andrew Tibor Szemeredy

They have actors to act out symptoms at medical schools, if there is no actual real live patient to be shown with a disease under study. And very similarly to what happens in real life theatrical productions, they have understudies to the actors, in case the actor becomes incapacitated to act.

            I was the understudy of a famous actor doing dementia praecox, where he was told to act as if his confused state led him to falsely believe that he was the under-study to a famous actor. They asked me to act the role of the psychiatrist.

            The famous actor was called away, so I had to do both roles. Due to my ambition and diligence to do well, and due to the contradictory nature of the two roles, I suffered a complete schizophrenic breakdown in the middle of the verbal exam sessions of the students.

            I got a standing ovation from the medical students, and the psychiatrist-in-chief shook my hand in appreciation of my brilliant performance.

The front fell off

Some people have asked what I find witty, humorous, satirically superior or simply amusing. I have to say it’s pretty broad canvas and I was once described as a comedian’s dream.

One person who has easily met all of the above criteria for me over decades was the late great John Clarke, a New Zealand-born Australian satirist. I rarely use the word genius in any field but John was that in spades. I deeply miss him from my life on those days when I need reminding that the entire world is absurd.

Here is but one example, taken from the political satire interview series, ‘Clarke and Dawe’, which John and Brian Dawe screened on ABC TV for many years. https://youtu.be/3m5qxZm_JqM

You can learn more about John here John Clarke (satirist) – Wikipedia and there is a lot of his work available on YouTube.

Superstition

by C.E. Ayr

This piece first appeared in the weekly Unicorn Challenge, produced by C.E. and Jenne Gray.

C.E. Ayr is another Scot who has emigrated to France and is a longtime collaborator with Jenne Gray. His work has appeared in many journals and anthologies. His first full-length novel, Beginning of After is now available on Amazon in paperback and as e-book.

I’m horribly superstitious.
And not just about ladders and salt and black cats and horse shoes and mirrors and things like that.
No, I have an almost obsessive belief in crystal balls, palmistry, Tarot cards, Ouija boards, all that stuff.
I even have my own special good luck charm, a pot-bellied wooden monkey of indeterminate origin who I trust to protect me.
My friends mock me, say all this rubbish is just for women.
Insensitive, unimaginative misogynists.
But if I get a bad reading I fret for ages, and try desperately to re-interpret it.
So I am excited to find a leaflet in the letter-box for a new fortune-teller.
Full of enthusiasm, I show it to my wife, who shrugs.
This stuff will be the death of you, she says.
She is a kind, patient lady but, quite frankly, too stupid to understand.
*
Ursula the Ultimate sits in gloom, swathed in wraps from which only her nose protrudes.
She studies me through dark glasses for several minutes, saying nothing, then hands me a cup.
Drink, she croaks.
The tea is cold and bitter.
She swirls the leaves, coughs, spits in a most unladylike fashion, and calmly tells me I’m going to die.
I leap to my feet in shock, then collapse, clawing at the savage pain in my stomach.
Looking down at me, she removes her scarves and other coverings.
I did tell you, says my wife.

The letter to the insurance company

This story has been around for decades in various forms and is of unknown origin but it goes to show that true wit and humour are timeless.

Dear Sir/Madam

I am writing in response to your request for additional information for block number 3 of the accident reporting form. I put ‘poor planning’ as the cause of my accident. You said in your letter that I should explain more fully and I trust the following detail will be sufficient. I am an amateur radio operator and on the day of the accident, I was working alone on the top section of my new 80 foot tower.

When I had completed my work, I discovered that I had, over the course of several trips up the tower, brought up about 300 pounds of tools and spare hardware. Rather than carry the now un-needed tools and material down by hand, I decided to lower the items down in a small barrel by using a pulley, which was fortunately attached to the gin pole at the top of the tower.

Securing the rope at ground level, I went to the top of the tower and loaded the tools and material into the barrel. Then I went back to the ground and untied the rope, holding it tightly to ensure a slow descent of the 300 pounds of tools. You will note in block number 11 of the accident reporting form that I weigh only 155 pounds. 

Due to my surprise of being jerked off the ground so suddenly, I lost my presence of mind and forgot to let go of the rope. Needless to say, I proceeded at a rather rapid rate of speed up the side of the tower. In the vicinity of the 40 foot level, I met the barrel coming down. This explains my fractured skull and broken collarbone. Slowed only slightly, I continued my rapid ascent, not stopping until the fingers of my right hand were two knuckles deep into the pulley.

Fortunately, by this time, I had regained my presence of mind and was able to hold onto the rope in spite of my pain. At approximately the same time, however, the barrel of tools hit the ground and the bottom fell out of the barrel. Devoid of the weight of the tools, the barrel now weighed approximately 20 pounds. I refer you again to my weight in block number 11. 

As you might imagine, I began a rapid descent down the side of the tower. In the vicinity of the 40 foot level, I met the barrel coming up. This accounts for the two fractured ankles, and the lacerations of my legs and lower body. The encounter with the barrel slowed me enough to lessen my injuries when I fell onto the pile of tools and, fortunately, only three vertebrae were cracked.

I am sorry to report, however, that as I lay there on the tools, in pain, unable to stand and watching the barrel 80 feet above me, I again lost my presence of mind. I let go of the rope and the barrel then came down and struck me another heavy blow on the head, putting me in the hospital for three days.

Yours sincerely

James (Jimmy) Riddle

The Prude Man

(for Dad)

by James Woodruff

James Woodruff is an author from Northeastern Ohio. He has published stories in Nth Degree, Short-Story.Me and 96th of October.

Only Frederick showed up bareheaded. Everyone else wore a hat, and not just any old hat (which he could understand), but the most outrageous assortment of chapeaus ever imagined, many looking as though they had come from a fleapit variety show.

He glanced around at people he had known for years, many for most of his life. Miss Haverly balanced what appeared to be a bowl of tropical fruit upon her lovely golden tresses; the financier Arnold Switzer sported a ghastly ten gallon hat of a hurtful hue; Jonathon Beltram, his old friend, wore, good gravy!, something that resembled a high-heeled shoe with a bunch of moldy-looking feathers sticking out of it! Holy moly, Frederick thought in despair, I don’t feel so good, maybe I ought to leave.

As he turned to do just that the crowd parted; he found himself staring into a mirror placed against the far wall. Except for their outrageous hats, the guests wore no clothing, not a stitch!

“Zounds!” he proclaimed. His was the only attired body in the place. Even the butler, usually smartly dressed in black and white tails, wore nothing but an obnoxious soiled beanie. Feeling faint, Frederick collapsed onto the nearest chair.

Upon glancing down he saw he too was naked a jaybird! But he had worn his best suit, he was positive; he recalled putting it on, having the usual difficulty with the cuff link on his right wrist. Snatching a teacup and saucer from the tray of the passing butler (while trying not to stare at the man’s pasty flesh) he hastily covered his privates and looked about with growing alarm and apprehension.

His gaze wandered to the large mirror a second time. He was wearing a red fez, as red as a fire engine, tassel dangling in a jaunty fashion.

Frederick stood up, nerving himself to take the necessary steps to escape this madhouse when a high-pitched voice cheerily yodeled: “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Johansen, so good of you to drop in at our little gathering!”

Frederick did not want to appear ungrateful, so he flashed a stiff smile while holding the saucer over his groin. His hand shook and the teacup rattled on its saucer.

“How do you do, Mrs. Renaldo? So pleased to see you.” And so on and so forth. These pleasantries seemed absurd given the circumstances, but Frederick did his best to prop them up and fly the standard even in these trying times. Propriety must be maintained, after all.

Another guest drifted over to join the throng assembling about him, making it even harder for him to effect an exit in an unobtrusive manner.

The new arrival was extremely hairy, and Frederick began to sweat profusely although the temperature was not particularly warm.

“What do you think of my request everyone wear a hat?” inquired Mrs. Renaldo of the hairy man.

“Very novel indeed!” that hirsute gentleman exclaimed, lifting his Tyrolean and giving Frederick an overt wink through his monocle.

The matronly woman turned to Frederick. “And how about you, Mr. Johansen?”

“Um, ah.” Frederick was staring at a beautiful young woman wearing a Mexican sombrero and nothing else. “Delightful,” he finally managed, sweat trickling down both cheeks.

“Good, good, but you are lacking a libation. Evans, get this gentleman a beverage! Take the usual? Very well then.”

His host, after making sure Frederick’s needs had been met, departed with the hairy man to the other side of the drawing room. He felt instant relief.

Then someone suggested the party be relocated en masse to the outdoor patio. Frederick wanted to do no such thing, yet the fervor generated by this suggestion became so great he found himself lifted to his feet and dragged outside amidst much jiggling, wiggling, gyrating flesh, and a gaggle of obscene lids. The ice cubes in his glass rattled merrily as he was jostled back and forth like a cue ball on a billiard table.

He came to his senses, finally, on a patio chair. A few naked servants were putting the finishing touches on a buffet table and the guests were swarming around it like honey bees about a stand of wildflowers.

Frederick felt quite ill.

He stared at the apparently endless parade of bare thighs and naked buttocks and came to a decision. Carefully setting down his drink (from which he had not taken a sip), he then jumped up from his chair, crossed the veranda with purpose to the iron railing and, without a second thought, leaped over, promptly landing in his host’s prize rose bushes.

His screams were heard above the commotion at the buffet table. Guests turned to look. Some saw Mr. Johansen running across the manicured lawn covered in a road map of red scratches from the thorns; they shrugged collectively and turned back to the plates of mouth-watering appetizers.

The hairy man turned to Mrs. Renaldo. “Now, then. What was that all about?”

The old woman shrugged as she reached for a finger sandwich. “Maybe he’s in training for a marathon. He is an athletic sort.”

When Frederick reached the sidewalk he slowed, grateful to be away from such a madding crowd, relief flooding through him as the resumption of bland normality resumed about him.

A naked man—wearing a towering Keystone cop helmet—rushed towards him along the sidewalk brandishing a billy club.

“And where is your hat, my good man?”

Frederick howled and charged into traffic without once looking in either direction. There was a fusillade of car horns, a screech of brakes, and a sickening thud.

Frederick had left his fez in the rose bushes.

Ergo Ego

by Paul Hostovsky

Paul Hostovsky makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter. He has won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, and has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and The Writer’s Almanac. Website: paulhostovsky.com

It came to him in the shower where he got all his best ideas. He was thinking about himself. He was thinking about other people thinking good things about him. Which always made him feel good, happy even.

Ego is a source of happiness, he thought to himself as he rinsed the conditioner out of his hair and stood a little longer under the jetting streams, thinking about the possibilities. Then he smiled to himself as he stepped out of the shower, the same self he couldn’t quite see in the fogged-up mirror, which he wiped clean with a corner of the towel, then padded over to the laptop in the kitchen, his wet footprints evaporating as he searched for Ego on the baby-names website. Nothing between Egbert and Egon. Hmm.

But he couldn’t help noticing that December, January, and February–sources of happiness for people who love winter–were popular, non-gendered names.

“What would it take,” he asked his wife – the bulging bowl of her belly obliquely reflecting the salad bowl in which she was tossing their lunch –“for Ego to make the cut? Think self-esteem, self-worth, self-love, ergo a source of happiness, the kind of happiness you’d want to name a child after.”

She stopped tossing, gave him a withering look. It withered the lettuce, the lunch, the whole family tree, all the way down to the little blossom curled up inside her. “It would take what linguists call a semantic change,” she said, “which could take a few hundred years. But not in a million years would I name a child of mine Ego. What is the matter with you? Are you out of your tree?”

“OK,” he said. “Forget it. It was just a thought.”

A not entirely unworthy one, he said to himself.

On Day Seven

The very talented Sharon Boyle had this piece published on Reflex Fiction in 2018 and as you will see, the topic is timeless.

“The start ain’t grabby, there are too many characters and the message is preachy, but hey, the plot is flush with vice and I love that it’s split into named parts.” Slow-release sigh. “But it still ain’t enough.”

“You won’t republish it?”

“The Bible’s not a hit with readers anymore.”

“Not even as an eBook?”

“Sure, you could recreate it on the web, I mean, you created the world in seven days—”

“Six—I rested on the seventh; something you’d know if you’d taken time to read the thing.”

“Ah, time, time, time, the editor’s enemy. Listen, readers want sleaze in accessible prose. Your book is too wordy; you need to edit, edit, edit.”

God gripped the arms of the office chair and stood, His sacred lips pursing. “Well, Mr Editor, thank you for being candid about my efforts—”

“Your efforts? Rumour points to your novel being ghost-written, by several, uh, disciple types.”

“Your publishing company,” God hissed, “will wither in forty days and nights of appalling sales.”

The editor smiled. “I don’t think so. Luce is bringing out a hottie as we speak; a tell-all spat ‘bout how you wronged him. He also has the love-life lowdown on Magdalene and your son.”

God felt an Old Testament temper coming on. That grassing bastard, Lucifer…

The editor rocked on his heels wearing a blockbuster smile. “Luce’s sex scenes are consensual and more importantly, graphic—not a flat exercise in,” air quotes, “begetting. If you wanna bestseller I suggest you start over. Make it punchy. Bring Judgement Day nigh-er. Put clues all the way through with some red herrings, but write a definite big bang date folks can get worked up about.”

Start over? God forced Himself to breathe deeply. He could start over. Not with the book; His book was fine, no need to sex it up like Lucifer’s Auld Nick-lit. No, it was humankind that was far from fine. Judgement Day would be brought nigh-er all right and then He would restart the whole of creation.

And on the seventh day? He’d edit.

Ronald Rump – A Minor Roast

From Bill Engleson in Canada www.engleson.ca

“Mr. Carroll, you have a perspective many of us would give our eye teeth for. Will you share it?”
“Happy to. When you are as proud as I am of knowing this wonderful family, well, it just ripples out…you know, I was there almost from the beginning.”
“Tell us about your time with the Rump dynasty.”
“Well, I missed Ronnie’s birth. Didn’t quite make that. I was born the next year. ’47.
Those days, birthing was a woman’s domain…real men, men like my father and Howie Rump, just basked in the little woman’s pregnant glow, got well-oiled, paced, smoked, generally did their best to stay clear, at least until the Dam broke. It was the good old days when America was the best it could be. Ronnie talks about that now. Giving America its backbone…back, I guess you could say. Anyway, Howie and my dad tied one hell of a tiger on that day. Even with the celebration, my dad said Howie sobered up real quick, sent pop off to finalize the paperwork and they completed a mass eviction of the Holly Rose Tenement he’d recently bought by the time Ronnie was settled in the hospital nursery…”
“Amazing. Finish your thought…”
“Okay, so the day that Ronnie slipped out of Madeline’s womb and jumped on the Rump gravy train, they helped two hundred lazy, thoroughly undesirable families make way for what would be brand new housing for our heroic and worthy returning G.I’s. As you know, the Rumps have always gone all out for our Veterans.”
“What happened to those who were evicted?”
“Who cares? You? That simply wasn’t the purview of men like my dad and Howie
Rump. I don’t want to sound cold-hearted but really, the lowest common denominator always settles somewhere. Like sand on the shore. You don’t have to worry about them.

The Government was constantly building low-income housing, is constantly coddling people like that. Not that they know how to look after the homes they’re given.”
“Tell us about Ronnie growing up.”
“He was a tough little stinker. I bore a bit of the brunt of his fiery ways. Howie and
Maddy had their hands full…that little hellion had a temper. Course, came by it honestly.
As much as Howie wanted to have all his offspring as independent as they could be, if you didn’t pay Ronnie to do something, he’d dig his heels in, wrap his arms together across his chest, scrunch up his face like he was saying, “whose gonna make me?” a look, I have to say, you can see in most of his debates, like he’s got the world by the tail and no one’s gonna chew his butt. As I said, a tough little stinker.”
“Yes, I’ve have seen that look. Is that why…?”
“Right you are. He plays it for all its worth. The people love it. You know why he’s gonna be President? He’s a straight shooter. Can’t help it. Always says what he thinks. Even if he ain’t thinking, that don’t stop him from saying it. Like that old movie said, “Appeal to their emotions. Make them laugh; make them cry; make them mad, even if they get mad at you. But for heaven’s sake, don’t try to improve their minds.”
“That’d be…?”
“All the Kings Men. And now, Ronnie’s poised to be the King. And no one will ever be able to accuse him of trying to improve any one’s mind. Am I right or am I right?”
“You’re so right, Mr. Carroll.”

Is there anybody out there?

by Doug Jacquier

Is there anybody out there?

Thomas stared at the image that had replaced the program he was watching on TV. It was an amorphous blob. Except for the eyes.

He sat in his recliner for a while, expecting normal transmission to resume, consuming his pizza and red wine while he waited.

‘Well, are you going to speak to me or what?’ the image said, sounding a trifle miffed.

Startled, Thomas spilled wine down his shirt.

Still trying to mop up the wet mess on his shirt with a paper napkin, he replied ‘Speak to whom?’

‘Me, of course, the image on your screen.’

‘I’m sorry but is this some sort of hidden camera thing the guys at work have set up’ said Thomas, desperately scanning the room for cameras.

‘No’ sighed the image. ‘I’m a life force from another universe and I’m trying to communicate with you.’

‘You mean like ET or Martians?’

‘Close but no cigar. Your universe is one of our experiments and I’m the technician assigned to what you call Earth.’

‘Experiment?’

‘Yes, we have several going on at any one time, looking into what evolves in a range of atmospheres. I have to say that you humans are way more fun than most.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Well, we’ve been able to deduce that, past a certain point in evolution, an organism’s intelligence goes into reverse until it destroys itself in an orgy of stupidity.’

‘So everyone’s going to die in some sort of apocalypse.’

‘Not everyone. A few will be saved, like you, if you so choose.’

‘What do I have to do to be saved?’

‘Simple. Just believe.’

‘Believe what?’

‘Believe that you are communicating with an intelligence from another universe that is controlling everything, has always controlled everything and will always control everything.’

‘But how do I know that’s true?’

The image sighed. ‘You humans are so tedious sometimes. OK, look at your shirt.’

Thomas looked down at his shirt, still damp but now clean.

‘Wine into water’ the image said wearily.

‘Do you have a name?’ Thomas said timorously.

‘For convenience, you can call me Gordon. I’m always here. All you have to do is think of me.’

‘Why would I have to think of you?’

‘In case you ever need any help. With anything.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, say you’re lying on the beach sunning yourself and suddenly a tsunami rises up and is about to engulf you.’

‘Now I get it. I’d call for you or just think of you and you’d save me.’

‘Maybe. Or maybe not. I might be attending to something else at the time.’

‘But then I’d die!’

‘Oh, for goodness sake, that’s going to happen anyway. But if you believe, your body would simply be converted to eternal energy. And then you’ll be one of us.’

Thomas seemed satisfied and said. ‘So should I tell other people about this?’

Gordon quickly said, ‘No, don’t do that! Leave the evangelising to me. It’ll end up like Chinese whispers and then there’ll be arguments about which version of the story is correct.’

‘But that’ll take forever’, protested Thomas.

Gordon rolled his eyes and said ‘Which part of me being everywhere at once did you miss?’

‘Oh, OK. So what do I do now?’

‘Do you believe?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.’

‘Then just keep doing what you’ve always done.’

Thomas paused and then said sheepishly ‘So, can I go back to watching FoxNews now?’

Gordon’s image began to fade from the screen and his voice trailed off, saying ‘Why do I even bother?’