Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘humor’ Category

In Galaxy CTA #769 any discovery of a hospitable planet is news. When I was called up before the supremo the news was so hot that I had to follow the protocol. The news remained with the sentry, a bull dog that never let any one sneak past him. I greeted him as the protocol demanded and said, “News?” Handing a sealed envelope he barked,”For your eyes only. Got it?” I nodded and scanned it. As a newshound I took pride in my prodigious memory.” I can quote it verbatim”. I put the envelope back and gave it. “Strictly confidential and hot too!” The sentry simply barked, Move!” I ran up the steps at the door of the Presidential Palace. The terrier naturally was smug and growled, “Spit it out!” I repeated the news but it was so hot I said, ” I shall make it hotter as the protocol requires.” Pronto! The Boss is in foul mood.” Here is news that came in and what the bull dog has passed is only second in importance to what I tell you. For your ears only.” I rolled over before him in a deferential roll of eyes and held my left ear before his snout.” He snarled his news to which I did some turns as though a bee had settled in my tail. The terrier of course accepted it as due to his superiority. Thus I came before the supremo after carrying some 18 packets of news according to a strict hierarchy; and I was finally foot-weary and my ears a-tingling with news, all hot and before a Saint Bernard who said, ” You look loaded.”

“Here take a sniff of the finest brandy I always carry” The dog was jolly and after sipping the welcome spot I said “I carry hot news, Do I spill it right now? ” He asked me to go ahead. He heard me out. Finally he said, ” Excellent memory For sure; I give A for dedication. But what news you can add to what I know already?” I stood my ground defending my profession as very vital. “I never did a nut job. Everything hot stays hot, that is my motto”. St Bernard laughed and said, “Sorry for this elaborate charade.You are the only dog with a tail.  So all that they gave was fake news.”

“But why?” I asked.

Leading me to the grand staircase St Bernard showed me the dogs celebrating the discovery of a new planet. “We have docked our tails; we scorched our rainforests;” Before we move on to occupy the new planet we have an age old custom.” This was greeted by thunderous applause.

“What now?” I asked even as a pack of blood hounds approached me. The supremo said,” They want to see how a Golden Retriever rolls down with his tail.”

“There are some 150 steps?” The crowd growled as on cue,” The more the merrier.”

Shame of it.  I said with pride in my profession.”I am a tale bearer.” But the dogs were all merrily asking for a show! I did only one thing I could possibly do. I peed all over the Presidential carpet.

Benny

 

Read Full Post »

The book has 128 pages and the cover illustration shows the Mayor parleying with Prince al-Wa’sik. Size:6×9″

Read Full Post »

The other day I celebrated my 76 th. birthday and I treated my banker to a 8-course dinner- it set me back by a fortune which I shall of course recoup. It is not about my gambler’s instinct but my choice of company I woefully regret. Who but a loser will have a loan shark for company?  After stuffing tutti di mare and a night tossing around in bed  set me thinking of my family zoo.

If you choose a shark for banker it is de rigueur  to end up with a leech for physician. My ancestor Daddy Oddlegs, once, while on his grand tour was in Venice. He missed a gondola and where does he end up but in the jungles of Colombia!  After he had got back he never lost a moment to enliven his friends with his anecdotes. Crossing the Amazon with a personal physician in a dug-out canoe serenaded by a school of piranhas always had its charm.

His grand father a scapegrace for sure ran off from home and wanted to be a street Arab on the seamy side of Paris during the barricades. At the end he ended up in a leaky tub cooking for a sea dog who dubbed him sea cucumber. It is a family tradition since, no cumber is served unless it is salted. You see, he later made good as Sea biscuit and kept a healthy reverence for salt. His father was a Commodore of the Imperial Navy. When five he was taken by his father and after presenting to the old Admiral he stunned all by model behavior. At the end Admiral Pettifog pressed a bunch of flags into his hand. Pocketing them he stamped his foot and asked rather loudly, “Can I have my flagship, please?”

Benny

Read Full Post »

Long, Long ago,-
when the Danes fanned out of their land to the west they went in tall ships and many islands in their path dreaded. King Harold of the kingdom by the sea was at that point married. One day the young king and Matilda his bride went fishing along a river in their private hunting grounds. With some difficulty the bride landed a salmon that swam upstream. The fish began weeping and said,”Spare me, I shall certainly save your lives when you are in dire need.” The bride felt sorry and let it go. Next moment it swam away. The king meanwhile felt tug at his line and he found at the end no fish but a ring of curious work. There was a setting for a stone in it but no stone! While he wondered whether it was for good or bad the queen having cast her line was busy reeling in her catch. The king paused and wanted to know what it all meant. The young queen took hold of the small pouch, opening of which produced a cut stone- and evidently the stone meant for the ring.
The couple mystified took the pouch inside out. Though thoroughly wet and worn with age the message sparkled as new! Message embroidered therein said:”Keep me as one, so will keep house”. The king knowing the times were bad said, “I shall keep the stone and you wear this ring so safety is in numbers.” The king explained that if anything bad should happen to either one the surviving one shall keep both as one. “We shall save our house at least.”
When a marauding party of Vikings landed on the kingdom by the sea, they searched high and low for the king and his queen but they could not find them. King Harold and Queen Matilda had simply disappeared. They had become a pair of hermit crabs carrying their house on their backs.
Benny

Read Full Post »

This gun can kill one,-
Loaded but my trigger wont
jerk at another jerk.
2.
Blessed toy in hand
Is my glock- no holy gow
But self winding glock.
3.
Pittsburg synagogue,
Prayer all stopped because
A Schmuck with his gun sprayed.

Benny

Read Full Post »

Past Imperfect

A sloppy chop from a surgeon’s scalpel shall require many more stitches to set right the first mistake. Not to mention a cosmetic surgery to conceal what went before. Is not history somewhat similar to this? A war creates many ripples, and tsunami of two world wars did not occur by themselves. It is how man’s fall in disobeying God has set to write history. Instead of having one Authority man found nations and every nation many masters and the combined weight of history we see even at present. Are not the steady stream of migrants from Central America or Africa reminiscent of the great migration of our ancestors out of Africa? Such is human predicament man speaking of national identity is fooling himself. Man shall be eternal wanderers on the face of the earth given the alarming rate at which the climatic changes. The Tunguska event of 1906 owed to a celestial object hitting the Siberian woods. When the Bible records the Judgment of the Harlot of Babylon in the Book of Revelation (Ch.18) it is one event the nations so secure in their own security should be concerned about. History of mankind is past imperfect. It shall be only perfect when God determines a point of time to put a stop.(To be continued)

I shall leave with something of my past imperfect.
In popular culture have we not read how our civilization got a boost from Aliens? If with their intervention we could only produce Facebook and conspiracy theories and racial profiling as we see now, we must be the most stupid to take advice from imbeciles. It reminds me of a time in my sixth form I had the answers to arithmetic test copied from one who was by all common consent the maths whiz. My father who was a martinet for facts insisted that I had answers to the sum entered against each question. For once I thought alternates facts would let me off the hook. No At home my father after checking my paper almost was screaming,’idiot!’ Later only I realized I was the victim of a sting operation. My mistake was not to stick to my own facts. I had good marks for maths. Even so arithmetic has been my bugbear ever since.

Read Full Post »

The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County
In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and inquired after my friend’s friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested to do, and I hereunto append the result. I have a lurking suspicion that Leonidas W. Smiley is a myth; that my friend never knew such a personage; and that he only conjectured that, if I asked old Wheeler about him, it would remind him of his infamous Jim Smiley, and he would go to work and bore me nearly to death with some infernal reminiscence of him as long and tedious as it should be useless to me. If that was the design, it certainly suceeded.
I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the barroom stove of the old, dilapidated tavern in the ancient mining camp of Angel’s, and I noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. He roused up and gave me good-day. I told him a friend of mine had commissioned me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood named Leonidas W. Smiley—Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley—a young minister of the Gospel, who he had heard was at one time a resident of Angel’s Camp. I added that, if Mr. Wheeler could tell me anything about this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many obligations to him.
Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with his chair, and then sat me down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which follows this paragraph. He never smiled, he never frowned, he never changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key to which he tuned the initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of enthusiasm; but all through the interminable narrative there ran a vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly that, so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter, and admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in finesse. To me, the spectacle of a man drifting serenely along through such a queer yarn without ever smiling, was exquisitely absurd. As I said before, I asked him to tell me what he knew of Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, and he replied as follows. I let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once:
There was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smiley, in the winter of   ’49—or maybe it was the spring of   ’50—I don’t recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big flume wasn’t finished when he first came to the camp; but anyway, he was the curiousest man about always betting on anything that turned up you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other side; and if he couldn’t, he’d change sides. Any way that suited the other man would suit him—any way just so’s he got a bet, he was satisfied. But still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he most always come out winner. He was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn’t be no solit’ry thing mentioned but that feller’d offer to bet on it, and take any side you please, as I was just telling you. If there was a horse race, you’d find him flush, or you’d find him busted at the end of it; if there was a dogfight, h! ! e’d bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he’d bet on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he’d bet on it; why, if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly first; or if there was a camp meeting, he would be there reg’lar, to bet on Parson Walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter about here, and so he was, too, and a good man. If he even seen a straddlebug start to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it would take him to get wherever he was going to, and if you took him up, he would foller that straddlebug to Mexico but what he would find out where he was bound for and how long he was on the road. Lots of the boys here has seen that Smiley, and can tell you about him. Why, it never made no difference to him—he would bet on anything—the dangdest feller. Parson Walker’s wife laid very sick once, for a good while, and it seemed as if they warn’t going to save her; but one morning he come in, and Smiley asked ho! ! w she was, and he said she was considerable better—thank the Lord for his inf’nit mercy—and coming on so smart that, with the blessing of Prov’dence, she’d get well yet; and Smiley, before he thought, says, “Well, I’ll risk two-and-a-half that she don’t, anyway.”
Thish-yer Smiley had a mare—the boys called her the fifteen-minute nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because, of course, she was faster than that—and he used to win money on that horse, for all she was so slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper, or the consumption, or something of that kind. They used to give her two or three hundred yards start, and then pass her under way; but always at the fag end of the race she’d get excited and desperate-like, and come cavorting and straddling up, and scattering her legs around limber, sometimes in the air, and sometimes out to one side amongst the fences, and kicking up m-o-r-e dust, and raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing and sneezing and blowing her nose—and always fetch up at the stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it down.
And he had a little small bull pup, that to look at him you’d think he wan’t worth a cent, but to set around and look ornery, and lay for a chance to steal something. But as soon as money was up on him, he was a different dog; his underjaw’d begin to stick out like the fo-castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover, and shine savage like the furnaces. And a dog might tackle him, and bullyrag him, and bite him, and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew Jackson—which was the name of the pup—Andrew Jackson would never let on but what he was satisfied, and hadn’t expected nothing else—and the bets being doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden he would grab that other dog jest by the j’int of his hind leg and freeze to it—not chaw, you understand, but only jest grip and hang on till they throwed up the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley always come out winner on that pup, till he harnessed a dog once that didn’t have no hind legs, because they’d been sawed off by a circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he come to make a snatch for his pet holt, he saw in a minute how he’d been imposed on, and how the other dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he ‘peared surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like, and didn’t try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out bad. He give Smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was broke, and it was his fault for putting up a dog that hadn’t no hind legs for him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if he’d lived, for the stuff was in him, and he had genius—I know it, because he hadn’t had no opportunities to speak of, and it don’t stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them circumstances, if he hadn’t no talent. It always makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his’n, and the way it turned out.
Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken cocks, and tomcats, and all them kind of things, till you couldn’t rest, and you couldn’t fetch nothing for him to bet on but he’d match you. He ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said he cal’klated to edercate him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in his back yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet you he did learn him too. He’d give him a little punch behind, and the next minute you’d see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut—see him turn one summerset, or may be a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flatfooted and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of catching flies, and kept him in practice so constant, that he’d nail a fly every time as far as he could see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do most anything—and I believe him. Why, I’ve seen him set Dan’l Webster down here on this floor—Dan’l Webster was the name of the frog—and sing out, “Flies, Dan’l, flies!” and quicker’n you could wink, he’d spring straight up, and snake a fly off’n the counter there, and flop down on the floor again as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn’t no idea he’d been doin’ any more’n any frog might do. You never see a frog so modest and straightfor’ard as he was, for all he was so gifted. And when it came to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been everywheres, all said he laid over any frog that ever they see.
Well, Smiley kept the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to fetch him downtown sometimes and lay for a bet. One day a feller—a stranger in the camp, he was—come across him with his box, and says:
“What might it be that you’ve got in the box?”
And Smiley says, sorter indifferent like, “It might be a parrot, or it might be a canary, maybe, but it an’t—it’s only just a frog.”
And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round this way and that, and says, “H’m—so ’tis. Well, what’s he good for?”
“Well,” Smiley says, easy and careless, “he’s good enough for one thing, I should judge—he can outjump ary frog in Calaveras county.”
The feller took the box again, and took another long, particular look, and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, “Well, I don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.”
“Maybe you don’t,” Smiley says. “Maybe you understand frogs, and maybe you don’t understand ’em; maybe you’ve had experience, and maybe you an’t only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got my opinion, and I’ll risk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county.”
And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like, “Well, I’m only a stranger here, and I an’t got no frog; but if I had a frog, I’d bet you.”
And then Smiley says, “That’s all right—that’s all right—if you’ll hold my box a minute, I’ll go and get you a frog.” And so the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley’s and set down to wait.
So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to hisself, and then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a teaspoon and filled him full of quail shot—filled him pretty near up to his chin—and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp and slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says:
“Now, if you’re ready, set him alongside of Dan’l, with his fore-paws just even with Dan’l and I’ll give the word.” Then he says, “one—two—three—jump!” and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off, but Dan’l give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders—so—like a French-man, but it wan’t no use—he couldn’t budge; he was planted as solid as an anvil, and he couldn’t no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn’t have no idea what the matter was, of course.
The feller took the money and started away; and when he was going out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulders—this way—at Dan’l, and says again, very deliberate, “Well, I don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.”
Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan’l a long time, and at last he says, “I do wonder what in the nation that frog throw’d off for—I wonder if there an’t something the matter with him—he ‘pears to look might baggy, somehow.” And he ketched Dan’l by the nap of the neck, and lifted him up and says, “Why, blame my cats, if he don’t weigh five pound!” and turned him upside down, and he belched out a double handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest man—he set the frog down and took out after that feller, but he never ketched him. And—
[Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from the front yard, and got up to see what was wanted.] And turning to me as he moved away, he said: “Just set where you are, stranger, and rest easy—I an’t going to be gone a second.”
But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation of the history of the enterprising vagabond Jim Smiley would be likely to afford me much information concerning the Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, and so I started away.
At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he buttonholed me and recommenced:
Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yaller one-eyed cow that didn’t have no tail, only jest a short stump like a bannanner, and—”
“Oh! hang Smiley and his afflicted cow!” I muttered, good-naturedly, and bidding the old gentleman good-day, I departed.
(ack:classicshorts.com)

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »