Sunday, July 31, 2005

Old Woman with Scarf and Earrings


Doug's Story
"No, no, no," Jonquil explained, "it should be over here between your molars...yes, yes, very good, does it feel soft and supple? Does it taste like meat or vegetable? With the tip of your tongue, dear...ah, yes that's nice...meat or vegetable, dear? Ah, spinach, wonderful, wonderful...how old does it seem? Still green? Oh, you can tell because it loses it's flavor for awhile then takes on the taste of your mouth. Can't taste it? Probably three days then. That's all I need dear, you'll live into your sixties, marry a wealthy insurance broker at 28 and will adopt one child."


Mushroom's Story
Grandma Conchetti couldn't eat carrots without a bit of them sliding up the back stairs of the breathing passage. Carrots were the only food she had this trouble with, and she never understood why it happened to her. Her brothers taught her how to remedy the problem, back when she was a preteen in Sicely, and two generations later a snort and a hock still drew the offending veggies back down her gullet like they always had. Family dinners were always great at Grandma's house -- and, for some eaters, truncated affairs once the appetite was lost when she'd have to do her manoeuver. Her children and grandchildren had asked why she doesn't just leave the raw or gently cooked carrots out of her dishes, and she'd say with a snap "because they are good for the eyes, bimbini!" Not only did she have good eyesight, she seldom had competition for dessert.

[This is based on a true story... I have that exact problem with raw carrots. What, am I inhaling while I'm chewing?]


Jamie Dawn's Story
I'm Pat and I'm a pirate wench. I've sailed the angry seas for over 65 years now in search of fine booty. Well, no fine booty could be found and I had to settle for my wimpy husband, Johnny.
(Insert Phyllis Diller laugh here.)
Now, seriously, whenever a drunken scoundrel would try and have his way with me, I'd give him this face here, and the rotten vermin would scurry away like a scared mouse.
But, not Johnny, no.
He never gave up, or ran away, and he pillaged and plundered the heck outta me. It was afterwards that I found out he was blind. (Insert laugh again.)


Sue Donim's Story
It was the worst orgasm in the history of the Universe.


Michael's Story
Janet's grandson Gerald loved playing in the dirt. He would move dirt with his yellow bulldozer. Making roads for all his toy trucks and cars. Janet watched him all morning until just before lunch.

"Gerald its time to go in for a bath before we eat"

"Bath!?" Gerald spit at her. "I don't need a bath"

As he looked at her he couldn't help make such ugly faces at her. He spent quite a few minutes perfecting the perfect look.

Janet didn't know whether to play along or laugh at him. He was such a dramatic child.

After Gerald got the look down he spat at her, "What's for lunch?"

"Grilled cheese and tomato soup"

"Eeewww" another grimace formed making it hard to resist.

Janet clenched her jaws and wrinkled her nose in her best impression of Gerald's expression.
Gerald was startled as he looked up at her but then fell into a laughing fit as he rolled in the dirt.

Janet reached down and tickled him making him laugh even more.

"Let's go eat"


My Story
Madame Bonair, great grandmother of the gypsies, wandered around her apartment berating her dearly departed spouse. There was no escape for him, not even in death. The idea! Thinking he could simply pass away and spend the rest of eternity haunting a strip bar or hovering around street corners, peering down women's tops. If he was going to see any skin in the afterlife, it would be hers, or her name wasn't Madame Bonair, which it was. So that settled it. The poor disembodied spirit had to accompany his sharp-tongued wife everywhere, even to the tedious séances she held. If only some visitors from beyond would pop in to hang out with him. But that never happened. Her spiritist sittings were such a sham it made his protoplasmic blood boil, all the while wishing vehemently that he could evaporate. He observed his wife at the hocus pocus, the crystal ball she stroked so mysteriously, seeing nothing but a distortion of her own gnarly reflection; and that annoying, nasally-pitched voice spewing forth in her phony trance, the same voice that had nagged him all those years of his life and past his deceasement. Enough was enough! It made him so furious he'd lift up the table and hurl it across the room. But even in death he couldn't win. All that he achieved was a generous tip for Madame Bonair and an increase in her reputation as a mistress of mysticism.

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