“How could they think you had something to do with Larry’s death?”
“I don’t know. I went for help as soon as I found Larry, lying on the living room floor, beaten over the head by an anonymous assailant. What else could I do? Larry was still alive at the time.”
“I guess the police automatically suspect the spouse. Have you gotten a lawyer?”
“What does he say?”
“He thinks I’m in trouble.”
“Why? After all you did to save Larry’s life!”
“He says it’s going to be difficult explaining why I drove 300 miles to report the crime.”
When I was a kid I found a penny and bought a little stick of candy. A little later I found another penny, and bought my first penny stock with it. My fortune grew over the years; five failed marriages later and I knew you couldn’t by love or happiness.
I keep buying penny stocks; I keep on getting richer, and more miserable by the day. I long for the old times; I wish I could return and do it all over again.
But this time I’d take that second penny–and I’d buy me another little stick of candy.
“Wow. A bunch of people liked my Facebook status. Cool!”
“Big deal. They’re only some likes.”
“We need some buttons people would really use.”
“Let’s start with Dislike. How many corny statuses do you usually see?”
“Then we could use a Poke, for those people who think they’re so smart.”
“And how about a Stab, to punish those punsters?”
“I like it! We also need a Tickle, to inflict giggling discomfort on irritators.”
“Another good one? Eye-roll, for obvious reasons.”
“Heck, we should be running the company.”
“People would thank us. When do we start?”
Hi everyone. This is one is dedicated to our founder together with her husband. I’ve also attached a link to a faintly-related Monty Python sketch, for no other reason than it’s funny.
Evening in the Sártre Household, by Gordon Lawrie
“Do we have to watch this Great Bake-Off rubbish?” he asked.
“Come on,” she said, clutching the remote tightly, “it’s my one pleasure in the week!”
“The Rugby World Cup’s on the other channel. That’s only every four years!”
He stared at the screen, willing it to switch over. Some sort of brown cake mix swirled dizzyingly before his eyes.
“If I make you a cup of coffee will you let me watch the rugby?”
“Suppose I throw in a chocolate biscuit?”
Defeated, she flipped the channel and smiled. “You’re so persuasive, Jean-Paul.”
“Words are loaded pistols, my dear.”
Someone once told her that being an adult these days meant you spent your time Googling “how to” articles.
How to remove red wine stains from your sofa. How to lace up ballet shoes. How to do exercises that slimmed your tummy…
Tick, tick, tick.
Flexing her fingers in preparation, she thought about her next lot of queries.
How to avoid dating a rat. How to find a job you love. How to stop falling for online advertisements saying, read this one weird tip…
“I’m expecting great things, Ms Google,” she told her laptop. “Gimme your best life lessons.”
Dr. Gandhi’s nameplate had many degrees.
Chunky paid the fees and entered his office.
“What is your difficulty?” the doctor asked
“Have come to you for identifying that.”
The doctor laid him on the examination table and inspected him with the stethoscope and sphygmomanometer, wrote a list of investigations and medicines.
“What’s my disease?”
“Tests will only confirm.”
“Not you, with so many titles and a fat fee?”
“Degrees justify my remuneration, which takes care of my family expenses, the percentage from investigations pays my student loan, medicine companies sponsor my foreign trips,” Doctor smiled.
Len played skins at St Andrews with Dawie, Terry and Pauline. The winner of a skin had to down a pint. If a hole was shared the pint was divided equally between those who halved. By the 17th all the holes had been halved between the three male players. No hole was won outright. This must have been chance because Pauline was an eight handicap golfer or was it by design? It’s not a hard guess that by the 17th the male’s golf was wobbly. The 18th is a short par 4 and Pauline aced it – dumb males, clever Pauline.