The Lonely Mushroom

There once was a mushroom who sighed,

“Oh dear, I’m so dreadfully shy.

There’s a lot goin’ for me

But women ignore me

I guess I’m just not a fungi.”

Le Dragon et le Carniche

There once was a girl whose name was Kate

She took French lessons every day

She learned grammar and pronunciation

From a tutor named Madame Lafay

But while at lessons, she noticed a whisper

That repeated whatever she said

It wasn’t from inside the house

And it wasn’t from inside her head

So she went out to investigate

As to who this eavesdropper could be

And just under the window in the tulip bed

She found a dragon the height of her knee!

Kate was so startled she turned perfectly white

And had to sit down on the bench

She stuttered, “Y-you mean it’s a d-dragon

Who’s been eavesdropping on my French?”

“Pardon moi, little girl!” the dragon replied

“I know what I did was a sin.

But I wanted to brush up a bit on my French

So I thought that I’d just listen in.”

“You sneaky thing!” said Kate with reproach

“Why didn’t you hire your own teacher?

And why on earth do you want to learn French?

After all, you’re a mythical creature!”

“Well, I’ve recently fallen in love,” he replied

“With a woman who’s not from this nation.

And as she’s a francophone mademoiselle

I’m improving my French pronunciation.”

“I haven’t been able to ask her out yet

Though I’m certainly hoping to try

But she’s so very pretty, and my French is so poor

And frankly, well, I’m a bit shy.”

“Who is she?” asked Kate in a curious tone

And the dragon pointed straight down the block

Where a little old lady wearing plenty of rouge

Was taking her dog for a walk

“Don’t tell me you love Ms. Pimkins?!” Kate asked

In a tone of complete disbelief

“But of course not, my dear!” the dragon replied

“I’m in love with the lass on the leash.”

“That’s Cosette, her poodle,” Kate pointed out

“I guess she’s not a bad-looking dame.”

“I love her,” said the dragon, with wistful eyes

“But she doesn’t even know my name.”

“I could help you with French,” said Kate after a pause

“If you don’t mind me being pedantic.

It would help me improve if I taught someone else…

And besides, this is all so romantic.”

“Oh, merci!” said the dragon, embracing Kate’s legs

“Not a problem,” said Kate with a grin

“Just come tap on my window tomorrow at noon

And your cours de francais will begin.”

They studied together each day for a week

And the dragon was doing just great

So he decided that very same Friday

He would ask out Cosette on a date

Kate helped the dragon get all spruced up

She gave him a file for his nails

And a fire extinguisher for his breath

And some oil to shine up his scales

Then she dropped him off at Cosette’s house

And was almost was as nervous as he

But she never saw him again after that

And wondered if Cosette had said, “Oui”

Soon after, Ms. Pimkins was babbling

That Cosette had escaped from her leash

And no one believed her, but she swore un dragon

Had eloped with her precious carniche

My Pet Bunny

There are lots of pets in this big wide world

And some aren’t quite right in the head

There are cats that insist they’re not cats at all

But friendly dogs instead

And then they are dogs who think they’re cats

They’d rather purr than bark

But I’ve got the weirdest pet of all

A bunny that thinks she’s a shark

She’s really quite demented

And she ought to be on meds

She’s fond of swimming in the bath

And tearing rubber ducks to shreds

She’s horrible to visitors

Like my sister’s boyfriend, Brendan

She stalked him for a while

Then sunk her teeth in his Achilles tendon

She sharpens her bunny teeth with a file

To perfect her frightening grin

And she’s tied a banana to her back

(She considers it her fin)

She slides along the carpet

Like she’s gliding through the sea

And she’s keen on blood, so she shows up

Whenever someone skins a knee

Yes, she thinks she's a shark, and we’re not really sure

Where on earth she got the notion

But at this point we think it might be best

To release her in the ocean

Rose Revises Shakespeare

There once was a woman named Rose McDocks

Who smelled as sweet as a daisy

But Rose wasn’t fond of the name she had

She wanted to be called Maisy

So she told her friends, “I’m no longer Rose.

From now on I’m Maisy McDocks.”

But then for no logical reason at all

She started to smell like old socks

She showered and scrubbed the whole day through

She shampooed and conditioned her hair

But she still smelled of socks, and she blamed her new name

So she changed it from Maisy to Claire

As Claire her stench was even worse

For although she wore clean clothes

She smelled exactly like the fungus

That grows between athletes’ toes

So she gave up trying to change her name

And sure enough, smelled fresh and sweet

And that’s 'cause a Rose by any other name

Would smell as feet

An Insect's Punishment for Piety

There once was a church infested with bugs

Where a priest was giving a sermon

He didn’t use the Bible much

Except to smash the vermin

When a bug landed on the pulpit

He’d whack it and not blink an eye

Then he’d continue with his sermon

About how God was a merciful guy

But he later glanced at what he killed

And he found it rather odd

That he’d smashed a praying mantis

On his hard-back Word of God

The Song of the Cactus

Sometimes a cactus is friendly

And sometimes a cactus is crass

Sometimes a cactus will sing you a song

But you won’t know until you ask

Just head out for the desert

And ask the first cactus you find

Be polite and say, “Mr. Cactus…

I’d love you to sing, would you mind?”

The cactus will clear his poky throat

(For it gets bit dry, you know)

And then he’ll start his singing

In a voice that’s rough and low

“Oh a cactus in the desert

Is the wisest plant there is

He knows what makes the rivers flow

And what makes soda fizz

He knows why elves have pointy ears

And he knows how wildfires start

But the one thing that he doesn’t know

Is the way to a woman’s heart

Oh, the very first of the cacti

Was a plant so moist and green

And it had the biggest flowers

That two eyes have ever seen

But this plant, he loved a woman

And her name was Isabel

He said, “Izzie, would you marry me?”

And she said, “Go to hell”

So the cactus cried his tears of dew

Until he could cry no more

And pretty soon he was all dried up

Just like the desert floor

And his heart was sad and bitter

And he had long and lonely nights

So he kept women far away from him

By growin’ a thousand spikes.”

Now you know why the cactus has his spikes

And why he’s so hard and dry

But as for the elves and their pointy ears

You’ll have to keep wonderin’ why

P.S. I actually wrote a tune for the cactus's song, so ask me and I'll sing it for you sometime.

Writer's Block #3

A crocodile was resting on a rock in Africa.

“She has big, sharp teeth,” said the turtle

“She has nutritious blood,” said the skin parasite

“She has tasty skin parasites,” said the bird

“She has a warm, soft belly,” said the rock

“She’s a vicious man-eater,” said the man

“She loves me and wants me to be happy,” said the crocodile’s baby

“Don't break my heart, my achy breaky heart,” crooned the crocodile, who had a penchant for country music.

Why is it that walking down the street with your arms by your side you look normal, but when you hold them up in front of you with your fingers curved like bear claws people give you funny looks?

“Noooo, Larry, noooo!!!” she screamed. But it was too late. Larry had voted Republican. He later blamed the Imperius Curse.

Dirk: He’s got tentacles.

Acorn: Ah, but that’s not terribly unexpected.

Dirk: For a house cat? Acorn, you’re bloody mad. I suppose you think badgers have fins?

Acorn: Naturally, Dirk, how else would it swim? Besides, the dandelions have been marvelously talkative this year, which proves my point.

Dirk: We’re talking about my house cat. He didn’t have tentacles yesterday but he’s got them today. The vet really doesn’t know what to make of it.

Acorn: That’s because he only knows how to shoot people

Dirk: The vetrinarian

Acorn: Are you wearing ladies’ underwear?

Dirk: Am I what?

Acorn: I said, did you feed him a grape popsicle?

Dirk: No, Acorn, I don't feed my cat popsicles. But I do let him outside sometimes, and come to think of it, his lips were tinged a bit purple when I found him…He could have gotten one from a litter bin I suppose.

Acorn: A child could have fed him one. He is quite a cute little beastie.

Dirk: Well now he’s a tentacled little beastie with purple-stained lips and I haven’t the faintest idea what to do about it.

Acorn: Does he seem uncomfortable?

Dirk: No, not exactly. He’s having a bit of fun using his tentacles to tease the shrews before he eats them.

Acorn: Then there’s nothing to be done, is there? Accept him, Dirk, tentacles, purple lips and all.

"Quickly, quickly!" said Agatha to Yolanda. "We’ve got to eat the pineapple, milk the cow, water the ferns and taunt the midgets who sing in the church choir!" "Hey Agatha, you've got elbow blubber!" a voice yelled. "Hey Yolanda, you've got tuna-breath!" another squeaky voice chimed in. "You're both uglier than wilted kale!" said a third. "It's too late," said Yolanda. "The choir midgets got to us first."

Here it comes! The brigade of French walruses! Oh, aren’t they magnificent? Flags on their tusks, stately whiskers…I don’t know about you, Harold, but I’d lay my life on the line for them.

You either had to hate him, or love him. Or be sort of lukewarm towards him. Or find him quite pleasant at times, and unpleasant at other times. Or understand, that as a complex being, he is never as he seems, and has both dreadful and beautiful desires.

Oscar Wilde wrote that all great art is self-conscious. But he never put a paintbrush in the hands of a disgruntled orangutan.

Francisca had had quite enough of the silverware coming to life when she wasn't home. Returning to the kitchen was like returning to the scene of some horrendous culinary crime. Tomatoes stabbed and bleeding, Frosted Mini-Wheats scattered all over the floor, lemons squeezed dry, chunks of banana stuck to the walls, and sometimes even a creative touch, like a knife-impaled onion with a sticky note on it, with the words “YOU'RE NEXT.”

The adorable little children of the Italian mafia loved spinning the globe and seeing where their fingers landed. If a child's finger landed on Russia, that meant Russia would be the next country their family would move to in order to evade the law or escape murder. If a child's finger landed on the ocean, it meant daddy would soon go to sleep with the fishes.

Pirate Scraggly-Beard and Wilma the Wench knew each other well, as they had spent quite a bit of time together sailing the wild seas on the Scorched Mermaid, but never experienced any romantic attraction. Wilma considered Scraggly-Beard as more of a friend than an object of attraction, and Scraggly-Beard was known to say, “Arrrr, Wilma’s a fine wench, but she don’t excite me more’n if she was a barnacle.” Then one day, after both had imbibed a substantial amount of rum, Wilma and Scraggly-Beard found themselves alone on deck. The night was as black as a pirate flag and as silent as a dead parrot. Wilma, with an uncharacteristic tenderness, stroked Scraggly-Beard’s scarred and weathered cheek, and Scraggly-Beard felt a warmth within that was different from the heat in his bones produced by rum or whiskey. And once Wilma was done tracing the constellations on his face, Scraggly-Beard guided her mouth towards his and kissed her with the soft wetness of a mop and the determined precision of a compass needle. Then Wilma gazed into Scraggly-Beard’s right eye (the patch over the left wasn’t much to gaze at), and noticed for the first time how brilliantly it seemed to reflect the shimmer of the waves at mid-day. But neither Wilma nor Scraggly-Beard ever mentioned that night, as both preferred to pretend it hadn't happened. And so the memory of their kiss sunk to the bottom of their minds like the body of drowned man to the ocean floor.

“How’re you feeling today, Jameson?”

“Miserable. Like every other day of my life.”

“Now, now, that’s not true. Remember the day the Christmas elves came to town? You were ecstatic.”

“I had inadvertently inhaled large quantities of nitrous oxide.”

“Nevertheless, you thought the elves were wonderful. You felt the need to give each of them a hug and a kiss on the nose.”

“I was accused of assault and stabbed repeatedly with candy canes.”

“Ah, but you should’ve seen the grin on your face.”

The three Flemington sisters all attended Queetsley Senior High. Every morning, Linda would curl her hair and skip breakfast, Mandy would eat a grapefruit and a chili pepper (it was part of her most recent fad diet), and Frieda would eat bacon and eggs while reading the comics and using her fingernails to scratch the dandruff off her scalp. As soon as they got to school, Frieda would write obscenities in the bathroom stalls, Mandy would hungrily buy and devour a bagel with cream cheese (not a part of her most recent fad diet), and Linda would meet up with her boyfriend behind the gym and get to second base before the bell rang. Later, the three sisters grew up. As adults, Linda worked as a sales representative for Revlon, Mandy wrote for a celebrity gossip magazine, and Frieda became the president of the United States. She didn’t win re-election, which she blamed on the media’s discovery of her dandruff problem.

People over-simplify most things in life. Like, for instance, if Patricia doesn’t like oatmeal, is it more likely that she simply isn’t fond of its texture, or that oatmeal attacked and killed her baby cousin when she was only four and a half? Most people would say the former, but most people would be wrong.