“Hey Hank! What do you think of my letter?”
Dear Felicity,
Your duplicity is unprecedented. Your name implies delights unimaginable and yet you refuse to go down on me. What gives?
“Errr, Stan? Her name’s Felicity. Not Fellatio.”
“Oh. OHHH!”
Dear Felicity,
Please accept deepest apologies for my recent behaviour…
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Mittens on kittens
Cute, but what are you thinking?
It’s a freakin’ cat.
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I’m so wicked! I have brought dishonour on my family by letting him put his hands on me and lift my skirt. I was even wanton enough to let him put his thing in me! But I’m secretly pleased with myself, losing my virginity at ninety-one glorious years of age.
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“And so, Mr. Lennon,” said the Chairman of the school board’s committee on Bringing Healthy Foods into the Cafeterias, “you need to work on introducing more meats and vegetables into your school. As Chief Cook and Bottle Washer, you are the man in charge of obtaining the groceries, are you not?”
“I am,” said Mr. Lennon. “I am also responsible for making sure I buy groceries the children are likely to eat. You have on the list,” and here Mr. Lennon unfolded a sheet of paper and propped up his spectacles on the bridge of his nose, “pork chops, chicken, carrots, corn, and broccoli.” He looked up from his paper and frowned at the Chairman. “And now there is another thing you’d like me to add to this horrendous list?”
The Chairman cleared his throat and leaned his elbows upon his desk.
“All we are saying, Mr. Lennon, is give peas a chance.”
This post is part of SoCS! Find it here: http://lindaghill.wordpress.com/2014/09/12/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-september-1314/
Badge courtesy of Doobster @ Mindful Digressions
“So, Jones,” said the boss as he seated himself behind his desk. “What do you do for fun when you’re alone?”
“Well, sir, I enjoy fishing…”
“No Jones, I mean when you’re alone.”
“Um… well, I sometimes go down into my basement…”
“Yes,” the boss said eagerly.
“…and work on my train set. It’s a 1:160 scale…”
“Jones?” the boss interrupted.
“Yes, sir?”
The boss leaned across the desk, close enough so Jones could see the pores in the man’s nose. They were deep and dark.
“What I want to know,” he wiped his brow, “is what you do for fun when you’re really alone. I mean, completely and utterly alone. Can you share that with me, Jones?”
“Well sir,” Jones blushed, “it’s rather personal. That’s why I do it when I’m alone.”
The boss sat back in his chair, clasped his hands across the expanse of his belly, and twiddled his thumbs. He smiled like a man satisfied that he was about to receive precisely what he wanted.
“I, um…” Jones swallowed. “I like to, um… dress up in my wife’s clothes, sir.”
A grin spread across the boss’s face, lifting his jowls and creasing his eyes. It wasn’t a malicious smile, nor was it meant to mock. It was merely a smile.
Jones relaxed a little.
“Jones, I have something for you.”
“You do?”
The boss reached under his desk and Jones expected him to come out with a gift bag, perhaps with a nice pair of heels or a frilly dress. Instead, a small device rested in the palm of the boss’s hand that looked like a tiny silver doughnut.
Jones leaned forward to have a closer look. “What’s this, sir?”
“It’s a listening device.”
“And what would you like me to do with it?”
“I would like you to break into Kramer’s house and plant it in his bedroom.”
Jones studied the boss’s face. He didn’t look like he was joking.
“Why should I do that, sir?”
“Well you see, Jones,” the boss placed the item on the desk and sat back again, “this is the very listening device we retrieved from your house this morning. I need it put into the next employee’s house to help us determine what he is doing when he is alone. The next one on the list, alphabetically is Kramer.”
“But… why?”
The boss leaned his elbows on his desk and regarded Jones seriously. “We’ve heard rumours, Jones.” He lowered his voice. “I can’t have you telling anyone this. Can I trust you, Jones?”
“Of course, sir.”
“All right. We have reports that say someone in the organization,” he whispered, “has been masturbating.”
Jones’s bottom jaw dropped. “You’re joking!”
The boss shook his head, as grim as night.
“I don’t need to tell you what that means for our company, do I Jones?”
“Of course not, sir!
“Harry Palmer Sterile Products would never be seen the same again!”
Liz and Henry were as childless as a couple could be, meaning they’d been trying for years, but according to the doctors, Henry’s ‘swimmers’ just weren’t up to the task. They’d been living on the farm for a few years, raising goats and chickens, but as the years passed, so did the chances that they’d be raising young ‘uns.
One day, as Henry limped over to the trough that held the goat’s water (Henry had twisted his ankle the day before when he slipped in goat shit) he noticed that his bucket was getting lighter as he walked.
“Shit,” he said out loud.
“What is it?” Liz asked, making Henry jump. He hadn’t heard her sneak up behind him.
“Would you please announce yourself instead of scaring the bejeesus outta me?”
The tension between the couple had been rising like an snail on a year long sabbatical meaning to get up a mountain, but Henry was almost at the peak. He was this far away from dashing back down the hill.
“Sorry,” Liz mumbled. “So why’d you say ‘shit’?
“There’s a hole in my bucket,” Henry grumbled.
“So fix it.”
“With what?”
“I don’t know. A straw.”
Henry stood, water dripping from the leaky bucket onto the sock which encased his sore ankle, and glared at his wife.
“What the fuck does that even mean?”
“I don’t know, I heard somewhere that you can fix a bucket with a straw,” she shrugged.
“But it doesn’t make any sense!” Henry took note that his voice was reaching a soprano pitch and made the effort to bring it down. “How in the hell can I fix a bucket with a goddam straw?”
“I dunno. Here,” at that point she pulled a paper wrapped McDonald’s straw from her back pocket and handed it to him. “It’s all I’ve got on me anyway.
“Fold it over or something and stick it in the hole.”
“Whatever,” Henry grumbled, plucking the straw from her fingertips and heading back to the barn with it.
“What if it’s too long?” he called over his shoulder.
“Cut it!”
He could almost hear her eyes rolling around in her head.
Bitch, he thought.
Five minutes later Liz came into the barn. She stopped by him to see what he was doing.
“How’s that cutting coming along?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
It was a McDonald’s straw. It shouldn’t be taking five minutes to get through with a hammer.
“Um… no. Why don’t you use a knife?”
“Oh for fuck sakes. The knife is dull!”
“It can’t be any duller than a hammer.”
She was staring at him. He hated it when she stared at him that way. It made him feel stupid.
Liz sighed as if she was tired. Of him. Yeah, well he was getting tired of the whole, ‘Make me a baby or I’m leaving you,’ too. She whined it in his head at least fifteen times a night while he was trying to get to sleep.
“Why don’t you sharpen the knife?”
Henry felt the blood pressuring up in his veins like someone had pumped a shitload of heat through his pores and inflated him like a balloon.
“Because,” he growled, turning on her with his eyes bulging from their sockets, “the sharpening stone I have here,” he held the object an inch from her nose, “is too fucking dry!”
She looked him right in the eye. Without blinking, hell, without batting a friggin’ eyelash, she said, “Wet it.” Just like that.
Henry lost it.
“Wet it? FUCKING WET IT? I’LL FUCKING WET YOU!!!”
Nine months later their son was born.
Linda G. Hill 