I Twitter and I Don’t Know Why

Dear Readers, I have a confession.

I twitter and I don’t know why.  In fact, speaking as a baby boomer that’s not getting any younger at an alarming rate,  I predict that  “I twitter and I don’t know why!” will be the new aging-boomer catch phrase that officially replaces,  “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”

I have a feeling it all boils down to Bob Hope

Do I have any idea why I twitter?  I have tweeted 696 times. But to what purpose? To what end?  Frankly,  I suspect since I have to ask, I’m too old to be twittering (or is it tweeting?).

I think understanding Twitter is one of those generational-gap phenomenons that were so popular in back the 60′s — where we baby boomers would roll our eyes when our parents laughed at Bob Hope wearing a Beatles wig while singing, “she loves you,  yeah yeah yeah”.  Only now instead of Bob Hope, hashish and shaggy hair we’ve got Louis CK, hash tags and Friday Follow.

Hey what’s everybody talking about?  I said what’s everybody talking about?  Hello?

Twitter, for me, is like being in a group of people where everyone is laughing and talking about something — but I’m late to the conversation and I can never quite get the gist of what they are discussing.

So I just try faking it by smiling and laughing along hoping I’ll figure it out in minute. During a lull, I might ask the person next to me what everyone is talking about, and just as they are about to fill me in, somebody says something funny and the person starts laughing again and never gets back to me.

Now Just Slow Down There A Minute Sonny . . . Granny don’t go that fast!

Take this morning for instance.  I went to my twitter account and I saw that a blogger who used to have a funny WordPress blog is now a comedian.  So I tweeted a reply congratulating him and went to click out of Twitter one second later  and saw that he had  already replied to my reply.   And he has thousands of followers!  How can he go so fast?  That’s what this old lady wants to know?  (Btw, you can follow Rob https://twitter.com/MyHairyLife — maybe, I don’t know.)

And so I put it to you, Dear Readers.  Why do you tweet?  What is the purpose of tweeting?  I would love to know why I tweet from those of you young enough to understand why.

I thank you in advance, and, as a lovely parting gift for reading this far, I will leave you with a few of my  favorite tweets:

Rob ‏@imaudihere 2 Nov 11

Good friends are a lot like this can of Spam in my cupboard; always there for me, and I know I can eat them in an emergency.

Will Phillips ‏@TheThryll 30 May

Giving up on your dreams can actually be very relaxing.

Samuel Palmer ‏@deptofetc 5 Oct 11

Genius is 16% ‘G’ and 84% ‘enius’

These days George Lucas’s first film is just known as “Thanks! 1138″.

I’m trouble with a capital ‘T’. But only when I’m at the start of a sentence or a proper noun.

Have a great weekend everyone!

Until next time . . . I love you

 

Linda’s Ten Writing Prompts for Unusual Stories

1)

A woman named Helene (the last “e” is silent so it’s just pronounced the regular way you would pronounce Helen) who was born into an aristocratic family in 1614 goes for a walk in the woods and finds a toothbrush left by time travelers.  Write a novel chronicling Helen’s life-long attempts to figure out what it is.

2)

A man named Mr. Kneedyy (in this case the “k” isn’t silent but the last “y” is) leads a lonely existence as a shy, tightrope walker whose only joy in life is vacuuming. He often wonders whether his life is worth living at all –  that is until the morning he wakes up in a bed of overly-ripe bananas.

3)

Write a story about the life of a New York City, albino, street urchin in 1882 who is sent to live in an orphanage where they kill his parrot and tell him sawdust is sugar.  One day he contracts a horrible ear infection.  Write the story from the point of view of his eardrum.

4)

A woman who is afraid of her own shadow, opens the door to her closet to find the bogie man dressed in her clothes, but instead of being afraid, she falls instantly in love.  Write this story from the point of view of the red stiletto heels the bogie man is wearing.

5)

Colonel Conrad Bleen (most of the letters are silent but the word colonel is still pronounced nothing like it is spelled) has been shipped a faulty coffee machine from the aliens who reside on planet Wubbly. The Wubblyians are coming for a visit next week and are expecting Colonel Conrad Bleen to serve them coffee.    Choose your favorite historical figure to explain why the Wubblyians won’t be getting any coffee.

6)

A girl named Swanda Smithers (the “s’s” are almost silent but not quite) is told a very important secret by a strange Italian man she meets while walking to the city pool.  If she tells anyone the secret — the universe will cease to exist.  Write a story about what a horrible swimmer Swanda Smithers is from the point of view of the secret.

7)

Write a short scene in which an arthritic court jester with dyslexia is sent in to tell the severely nearsighted Mary Queen of Scots she could use a bath.

8)

While a man is strangling his wife on a rowboat in Lake Superior, she dies of pancreatic cancer.  Write a story about why the man shouldn’t be tried for murder in Lake Erie’s opinion.

9)

A woman named Connie Knophughner (every other letter is silent) buys a used  car and opens the trunk to find a package that is ticking.  When she unwraps it, she finds out it’s a clock that has a bomb embedded in it.  Write a scene about what happens next from the point of view of the used car salesman who is hiding on the floor of the backseat of Connie Knophughner’s  car.

10)

A man named Ponts Nuggles (all the silent letters in his name have been removed so don’t worry about it) comes home to find that his wife has turned into a box of Ritz Crackers, but she can still talk; Ponts Nuggles, however, has been deaf since birth.  Write a dialogue about how they discuss each others’ day.

And there you have it, Dear Readers!  Linda’s Ten Writing Prompts for Unusual stories . . . Happy Writing!

Until next time  . . . I love you

Write a Bestselling Novel By The End of This Post!

Hello friends and welcome to the post that is going to change your life! 

Have you ever wanted to be a bestselling novel writer but thought it was too complicated or would take too long?

Well think no more!  Renowned Bestselling Novel Writer Wannabe Linda Vernon will have you mastering the art of writing a bestselling novel before the end of this post.  After all, they don’t call her  Renowned Bestselling Novel etc. etc. for nothing!

So let’s begin, shall we?

Step One: Obtain a Vocabulary

To become a bestselling novel writer, the first thing you are going to need is   are  is some words.  Here are (or is) some common places where words can be obtained:

1) Coming out of people’s mouths

2) Written on books, pamphlets, and brochures.

3)  Scrawled on park benches

4)  Cash register receipts

5)  Government documents

6)  Under rocks

7)  Carved into trees

8)  Hidden in tattoos

9)  Crop Circles

10)  Menus

Now that you are an EXPERT on how to find words, the next thing you will need is a bucket in which to place the words you just obtained like I did:

Vocabulary I have managed to obtain.

Step Two:  Find a Lucky Charm

Bestselling authors have always known that to be successful, they must beg, borrow, or scrape off the bottom of someone’s shoe a lucky charm.

Renowned Bestselling Author Wannabe Linda Vernon suggests you purchase an authentic Evel Knievel Lucky Charm Coin that renowned stuntman, Evel Knievel, kept in his pocket each time he performed a motorcycle stunt.

Yeah, he did break every bone in his body every single stunt, but think what would have happened if he HADN’T been carrying his lucky charm!

Artist’s Rendering of the Evel Knievel Coin

Evel Knievel Coins are free*
*(But allow $32,000 for Shipping and Handling –seems like a lot but they are handled non-stop for a couple of months!)

Step Three: Dump and Title

Now that you have successfully obtained your words and ordered your lucky charm, it is now time to dump you Lil’ Bucket o’ Words onto the pages of your novel.  (Depending upon how quickly your computer copy and paste function works, this should take no more than one to two seconds.)

Now for the fun part!  Coming up with a title for your bestselling novel!

To save you time, Renowned Bestselling Novel Writer Wannabe Linda Vernon has taken the liberty of designing a One-Title-Fits-All-Genres book cover design she guarantees they won’t be able to pull off the bookshelf fast enough!

The Wind Has No Last Name?
by
Your name here!

And there you have it, dear reader/bestselling novel writer!  You are now a bona-fide Bestselling Novelist.  If you don’t feel any different, don’t worry, it might take a couple of hours before this post takes effect.

Until next time . . . I love you

Trifecta Weekly Writing Challenge: The Transformation of Smidley Pench

This week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge is to write a story between 33 and 333 words using the third definition of the word wild : a (1): not subject to restraint or regulation : uncontrolled; also : unruly  (2) : emotionally overcome <wild with grief>; also : passionately eager or enthusiastic

The Transformation of Smidley Pench

Smidley Pench was so unassuming his mother barely remembered having him. But within the confines of Smidley Pench’s cranium, it was the Fourth of July – owing to the fact that Smidley Pench was absolutely wild about the Slimp sisters.

“I’m leaving for work now, Mother Dear.”  Smidley Pench would say to his mother every morning.

“Who’s that?  Is someone here?”  His mother would always reply.

Smidley worked at the five and dime selling tiny turtles and goldfish from 9 to 5 and mooning over Loretta and Lolita Slimp who, thank the good lord above, worked in close proximity to Smedley Pench in the candy and popcorn department.

Every morning before opening, Smidley would say hello to the Slimp sisters and every morning before opening either Loretta or Lolita would reply by asking, “Do you work here little man?”

Smidley tried everything to get the attention of the Slimp sisters.  Sometimes he would put several tiny turtles in the isle and pretend as though they had escaped and valiantly run after them.

Sometimes he would take his goldfish net and make a big show of scooping seven  . . . sometimes even eight goldfish up at a time.  But the Slimp sisters paid no attention.

It wasn’t until the day that Smidley’s boss came over and told Smidley in a loud voice that  Smedley was doing a fine job and that he was going to give him a big fat raise that Loretta and Lolita took notice.

The next day was first day of the rest of Smidley Pench’s life.  Loretta and Lolita took turns feeling Smidley’s muscles as he scooped up goldfish and squealed with delight as he rescued tiny turtles seconds before being crushed under the wheels of shopping carts.

Casual observers would have never guessed that within the cranium of this expressionless little man  the Fourth of July, Christmas day and New Year’s Eve were happening.

And best of all, when he had left for work that morning his mother had even told him goodbye!

Yup, Smidley’s got a new attitude!

Trifecta Weekly Writing Challenge: The Day Scrubby Whodiddle Got What She Deserved!

This week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge is to write a story between 33 and 333 words using the third definition of the word trouble:  3 : an instance of trouble <used to disguise her frustrations and despair by making light of her troubles

The Day Scrubby Whodiddle Got What She Deserved!

Farmonica Hull walked trouble, jumped trouble and sometimes, when she sprained her ankle, limped trouble. Every breath she took had some kind of trouble in it. Trouble followed Farmonica Hull around like Wrigley Field followed around Yogi Berra if he had ever played there and if stadiums could follow people around and if that person happened to be Yogi Berra.

For you see, trouble was double parked in Farmonica’s DNA — ensuring that no matter how many things went wrong, there was always another kind of trouble waiting in the wings.

Take this morning for instance. Farmonica Hull had been jarred from her slumber by an earthquake so powerful, it shook her out of bed like an angry maid shaking out a dust mop for a boss who was not only disrespected, but despised.

Farmonica Hull picked herself up off the floor and look around. The devastation was two-fold (maybe even three-fold). Not only had a wall collapsed on her brand new flat screen TV causing all its inner workings to pop out and puff up like a bad bee sting-; but the new chaise lounge she had purchased from which to view it was a now flatter than the flat screen TV!

Farmonica Hull knew there was a word to describe something like that but she also knew she would never be able to remember what it was.

“Yoo-hoo!” called Farmonica’s disheveled next door neighbor, Scrubby Whodiddle. (Just Farmonica’s luck, Scrubby was still alive. Farmonica sighed so heavily a huge cloud of trouble filled the room.)

“Holy Toledo!”   Scrubby Whodiddle screeched as she entered. “I heard a crash and came a runnin’ and I thought that earthquake didn’t hit my place but I’ll bet Farmonica’s apartment is nothin’ but brick and rubble!” Scrubby Whodiddle cawed out a laugh so disturbing Farmonica Hull had no choice but to  pull out a gun and shoot her dead.

Well . . . maybe things were going to be shaping up a little for Farmonica Hull –DNA or no.

Trifecta Weekend Writing Challenge: Stealing Rose Con Pollo’s Heart

This week’s Trifextra challenge is simple, but ambiguous.

 

Three truths and a lie.

 

33 to 333 words

 

Stealing Rose Con Pollo’s Heart

 

Whenever she watched Fernando, Rose Con Pollo’s stomach spasmed with a jolt of love and her heart went pitty pat, pitty pat,  pitty . . . pat . . . pat. . . pitty . . . because she was in love and because she needed a pacemaker – but mostly because she was in love.

 

Rose adored everything about Fernando. The way he could hold his breath for four and a half minutes at a time, the way he could dive so deep to the bottom of the sea; but mostly, she loved the way he looked at her when their eyes met through the green bubbly water of the glass-bottomed boat where Rose liked to sit and watch her beloved Fernando dive for pearls.

 

Fernando  had stolen Rose Con Pollo’s heart, plain and simple.

 

Of course, there was no way Rose Con Pollo was going to leave her husband, Arroz, and run off with Fernando no matter how many pearls he found for her.  Don’t make her laugh!  No way!  Not a snowball’s chance  . . .

 

 

 

Slightly Obscure WordPress Blog Award Categories I Would Like to See Circulating the Blogosphere!

The weekend is almost upon us which means it’s Friday!  I would like to celebrate the arrival of our weekend by taking the lazy route and  re-running this post from the archives about a few blog award categories I would love to see circulating here on our beloved WordPress Blogosphere.  And so may I present:

Best Typed by One Finger Blog

Best Typed While Pretending to Look Busy at Work Blog

Best Typed by Head Falling on Keyboard After Too Many Whiskey Sours Blog

Best Typed by Elbows While Posing for Photo with Chin in Hands Blog

Best Typed by Falling Teardrops Blog

Best Typed by Oakridge Boy’s Beard Blog

Best Typed by Debris from Collapsed Ceiling Blog

Best Typed by Hoof of Steer Landing on Keyboard During Tornado Blog

Best Typed by Glacier Scraping Over Keyboard During Last Ice Age Blog

Best Typed by Cat Burglar While Shoving Keyboard into Bag Blog

Best Typed by Jaw Dropping onto Keyboard During Jaw-dropping Revelation Blog

Best Typed by Cat Walking Across Keyboard to Bat at Feather and Bell Tied to End of  String Attached to End of Long Stick Blog

Best Typed by Spewing  Coffee Over Keyboard While Reading The Day the Dopes Came Over by Steve Martin Blog

Best Typed by 100-Year-Old Man Grabbing onto Keyboard to Help Break Fall Blog

Best Typed While Wearing Keyboard as Hat for Computer Man Halloween Costume Blog

Best Typed by Making Panicky Typing Motions on Keyboard After Accidentally Setting Hair on Fire Blog

And there you have it, Dear Readers!  Have a wonderful weekend!

Until next time . . . I love you!

Trifecta Weekend Writing Challenge: A 33-Word Letter of Apology

For this week’s challenge, you have to write a letter of apology in exactly 33 words. Addresses, salutations, closings, etc. (should you wish to include them) do not count in the 33 words.

Dear Ms. Pinkie,

On behalf of myself and the entire team, I would like to extend our heart-felt apologies in conjunction with the abrupt severing of our relationship last Thursday. It was purely accidental.

I remain,

The Hand from Whence You Came

 

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz oops!

 

Wahoo! 

The Tullberry Todgrass Brooch Scandal came in 2nd in last week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge!

Until next time . . . I love you

As Lonely As a Five-Hundred Pound Barbell in a Steroid-free Fitness Center

Hey it’s Rerun Friday!  And as we ride through the Friday conveyor belt of time on our way to that sunshiney weekend of joy, I’m going to throw in this back story for today’s Friday Rerun which is about winning the Bulwer Lytton Fiction Contest.

Back in the year 1990, when my kids were little, my husband, 37, decided I needed to get out more so I signed up for a creative writing class.

At first, I did the writing assignments quickly so I could get them over with and get back to more important things in my life back then which were:

1)  trying to figure out the best way to get whatever the dog just threw up out of the carpet

2)  gargling water for the amusement of my two-year-old.  

No wonder 37 thought I needed to get out more!  37  was right! (37′s birthday is next week and I think I’ll give him that last sentence for his present.)

Anyway, one of the assignments for the class was to enter the Bulwer Lytton Fiction Contest.  So I did and to my utter surprise I won.   The grand prize!  Which I soon found out was international big news!

My 15 Minutes of Fame

Suffice it to say, I got a lot of press. They read my sentence on the Today show.  CNN put it up on the screen every hour throughout the day. What a thrill!  I was also asked to give interviews to radio stations and newspapers from all over the country.   The local news even came to my house and did a story on me.  Phew! The whole thing was nothing short of surreal.

So here’s Friday’s rerun:

It’s nearly April 15th, so go ahead and round-up all those remaining brain cells that have yet to be killed off and put them away in a safe place because you’re going to need only the dead ones for this next task.

That’s because April 15th is the deadline for the Bulwer Lytton Fiction Contest, a competition sponsored Scott Rice at San Jose State, where contestants vie for the dishonor of writing the worst sentence to an imaginary novel. It was inspired by this overwrought beginning to a novel penned by Edward Bulwer Lytton:

“It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents–except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.” –Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, Paul Clifford (1830)

Now since it was still a couple of days before the first day of the rest of my life, I decided to enter it and guess what? Turns out I’m a horrible writer! So horrible, in fact, that they picked my sentence as the very crummiest of  them all!

My triumphant mess went as follows:

Delores breezed along the surface of her life like a flat stone forever skipping along smooth water, rippling reality sporadically, but oblivious to it consistently, until she finally lost momentum, sank and due to and overdose of fluoride as a child which caused her to suffer from chronic apathy, doomed herself to lie forever on the floor of her life as useless and an appendix and as lonely as a 500-lb. barbel in a steroid free fitness center.

Now because I aspired to be a tad bit better than bad, I sat down to my keyboard and made the following attempts to write at least one sentence that could possibly be considered “pretty good.”

Amanda’s obsession for making homemade bread for the entire neighborhood was beginning to take over her life, and as she sat at the kitchen table with her flour-covered face in her flour-covered hands, the warm sun shone steadily through the kitchen window and Amanda began to slowly rise up out of her chair — suddenly realizing that she needed to be kneaded.

and

Charlie dreamed that he was dreaming he was awake and had fallen asleep.

OK, truthfully, at this point, I was starting to get a bit nervous about being able to come up with a pretty good sentence. It seemed the harder I tried to write pretty good, the more elusive “pretty good” became. Frankly, serious doubts were beginning to pierce the ears of my soul. But still I forged onward:

Rayton, a fine Guppitoid from Repocalox VII couldn’t put his slimy little fingerling on why Jessica, an ichthyolgist’s dream, wouldn’t have him for her husband when he had made it abundantly clear that the only domestic duties she would have to perform would be to boost his ego and to bear him several million live young a year, which he was even willing to help her eat.

and

As soon as Mary got to her walk-up, she was held up, tied up, and told to shut up, but luckily the culprits were picked up, locked up and Mary was helped up and then she threw up.

Ah! Finally I was warmed up. But one thing was certain. If I was ever going to write that pretty good sentence, I needed to relax.

I began taking deep breaths, one after another until the last thing I remember was falling off my chair and hitting the floor like –what else — a 500-lb. barbel in a steroid-free fitness center.

Which brings me to the moral of this story:

She who enters the Bulwer Lytton can take a lick in’ and keep on tickin’.

Hey now! That’s a pretty good sentence if I do say so myself. But my quest for a pretty good sentence does not end here. I’m going to keep at it until I come up with the Perfect Pretty Good Sentence. It may take awhile but, after all, I do have until the last day of the rest of my life, or April 15th — which ever comes first.

********

The deadline for entering the Bulwer Lytton Fiction Contest is April 15.  So there’s still time to enter, if you’re so inclined, go here to find out all the details.

Until next time . . . I love you

This Week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge: The Slappening

This week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge is to use the word “cheap” as defined below in a story no more than 333 words.

a: of inferior quality or worth: tawdry, sleazy

b: contemptible because of lack of any fine, lofty, or redeeming qualities

The Slappening

“Ok, let’s just get this out of the way right off the top. Those hideous pants look tacky and cheap!” Vicky Van Gogh eyed Becky Lynn’s attire with her usual disdain and continued. “Please tell me those pants are an April fool’s joke or maybe we can only hope and pray that you’re going to a costume party dressed as trailer trash. Honestly, Becky Lynn, what am I going to do about you? You’re an embarrassing excuse for a little sister,” Vicky lit up a cigarette and emphatically shook out the match. “Embarrassing as all get out!”

Becky Lynn’s face glowed red. “I’m sorry . . . I thought they were kind of cute . . . but I’ll go change, Vicky, it’ll only take me a minute!” Becky Lynn flew up the staircase as fast as her legs would move in her tight yellow pants and returned moments later in lime-green Capri’s.

Vicky sucked on her Salem like a baby taking its first breath. “No!” She decreed.

Ok, I’ll be back in a sec,” Becky Lynn flew up the stairs again — returning this time in a burnt-orange, pencil skirt and breathlessly asked, “How’s this, Vicky?”

Vicky Van Gogh tucked her cigarette into the corner of her mouth and looked at her watch. “Well it will have to do, won’t it? Since we have to leave NOW! Stay a ways behind me, Becky Lynn; I don’t want people thinking we’re together.”

Suddenly the years of Vicky’s abuse rose up in Becky Lynn like a flash flood in the desert. She reached out and slapped her sister’s face so hard it sent Vicky’s Salem cigarette flying.

Vicky let out a startled yelp,”Ow!” Then stood there rubbing the side of her face.

“That’s for the way you treat me, Vicky Van Gogh!” Becky Lynn said angrily.

“That was a cheap shot!” Vicky whimpered.

But Becky Lynn didn’t answer. She threw open the front door and marched out. Her sister slinking behind.

This Weekend’s Trifecta Writing Challenge

This Weekend’s Trifecta Writing Challenge  is to finish these 33 words with 33 words of your own:

“There’s nothing cute about it,” he said. The register of his voice indicated decision more so than discussion.
She disagreed heartily and privately, staring past his head and out the window behind him.

The elephant caravan was just cresting the hill.  “We can still make it if we hurry!” Barbara pleaded.

“I told you!  I go nowhere without my nose, Barbara!” Bozo shouted angrily.  “Nowhere!”

Trifecta Challenge Nineteen: Sven and the Smorgasbord

This week’s writing challenge is to write a story not less than 33 words and not more than 333 words incorporating the 3rd definition of the word “clean”.

clean (adjective)
1: free from dirt or pollution 2: unadulterated, pure 3 a : free from moral corruption or sinister connections of any kind <a candidate with a clean record>

   b : free from offensive treatment of sexual subjects and from the use of obscenity <a clean joke>

  c : observing the rules : fair <a clean fight>

Try your hand at this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge here.

Sven and the Smorgasbord

“Oh how I hate scrubbing rutabaga stains out of white, shag carpet!”  Brigitte shouted to Astrid, even though Astrid was only a foot away blotting at a big purple stain with a wad of paper towels.

“Tell me about it!” Astrid shouted back.  “I’ve been trying to blot up this Blåbärssoppa for the last hour and a half.

“Oh, Astrid, I just wish your husband, Sven–”

“What about Sven?” Astrid sprinkled more  baking soda over the purple stain without taking her eyes off Brigitte.  “Surely you’re not blaming Sven for this!”

“Well . . . he’s the one that –”

“He’s the one that what?”

“Tipped over the entire Smorgasbord! For godsakes, Astrid! The man’s a human hurricane!”

“How dare you say such a thing about my Sven, Brigitte Smorganborganson!  When you know he was born with a congenital coordination problem!”

“I just call ‘em like I sees ‘em, Astrid!” Brigitte picked up a bottle of Lysol and poured it over the rutabaga stain.

“Well, if you didn’t have this stupid long, shag, carpet, Brigitte,  maybe Sven’s feet wouldn’t have gotten tangled up and–”

What are you implying?  Are you implying that you don’t like my carpeting, Astrid Borgenjorgenson?”

Astrid looked up from her blotting.  “I’m saying, Brigitte, that I don’t like your carpeting anymore than I like you!” Then Astrid picked up the box of baking soda and threw it in Brigitte’s long blonde hair.

Brigitte responded by grabbing the Lysol bottle and squirting its entire contents all over the front of Astrid’s smock.

Astrid screamed and hurled a wad of wet paper towels at Brigitte causing Brigitte to retaliate by slapping Astrid across the face with her wet sponge.

Just then, Sven entered the room.  “What is going on with you two?”

We’re having a fight, what do you think?  Brigitte yelled.

“Well at least it’s a clean fight!” Sven observed wryly just seconds before he got his foot tangled in the shag carpet and tumbled out of the room.

******

 Until next time . . . I Blåbärssoppa you

The Day Frieda Flerf Got Lost In A Bag of Skittles

While eating Skittles, Frieda Flerf suddenly found herself inside the bag hopelessly pinned between a red one and a yellow one. As she began gnawing her way to freedom she heard Mama calling, “Frieda!”

–The Weekend Trifextra Writing Challenge, Week 8: Write a story in exactly 33 words. The word “lost” must be in the title but not in the 33 words!

Frieda if you can hear me wiggle a yellow.

Until next time . . . I love you

This Week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge: Mickey McGergle’s New Pants

The challenge is to write a story in no less than 33 words and no more than 333 words incorporating definition 3 of the word “trail.”

trail verb \ˈtrāl\ 3:     to move, flow, or extend slowly in thin streams <smoke trailing from chimneys>

And then link up your story here!  That’s all there is to it.

Mickey McGergle’s New Pants

Matilda often boasted to her boyfriend, Mickey McGergle, that she could crochet anything into existence.  One day Mickey took Matilda up on her outrageous claims.

“Very well then,” Mickey said.  “Let’s see you crochet me a pair of golf pants made entirely out of magnets.”

“Magnetic golf  pants? You’re crazy Mickey McGergle,” Matilda giggled and since she was ever desirous of taking  their relationship to the next level, she agreed to crocheting Mickey McGergle some magnetic palazzo pants.

Now Mickey McGergle was crazy but that was beside the point.  Suffice it to say, that in this case, Mickey McGergle was simply trying to find a way to keep Matilda, a crocheting fool,  from crocheting him any more golf sweaters!

An example of Matilda's handiwork

Matilda got right to work crocheting a dandy pair of magnetic golfing palazzo pants that fit Mickey McGergle to a tee in the end – which was not only a nice play on words but a huge coincidence considering Matilda was horrible at measuring.

Mickey’s magnetic pants turned out so spiffy that Mickey McGergle refused to take them off.

“Matilda, everywhere I go,” said Mickey McGergle, “ while wearing my nifty magnetic palazzo pants –paper clips, thumbtacks and staples not to mention nuts, bolts and screws trail behind.  I like it!.  It’s lends me an air of distinction, do you not agree? “

Even so, when Mickey McGergle’s magnetic palazzo pants failed to take Mickey and Matilda’s relationship to the next level, Matilda got an idea!  She would crochet herself a fetching outfit made from scrap metal. 

The day Matilda donned her cleverly crocheted, scrap metal outfit was the happiest day of her life.

For you see, anytime Matilda got within five feet of Mickey McGergle, or vice versa — they were magnetically pulled into each other’s arms – which took their relationship to the next level post haste– as you can well imagine!

Made entirely of scrap metal.

Until next time . . . I love you

 

Trifextra Week Seven Weekend Challenge: A Justified Exclamation Point

The barbecue’s rotisserie was assembled and soon a delicious aroma wafted from the meaty morsel skewered thereupon.

“Mommy, my guinea pig ran away.  Little Suzy cried.

“No, “Mommy laughed heartily.  “He’s barbecuing.”

Little Suzy cried!

If you would like to enter, go to  http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/