Tag Archives: humour

309. Don’t worry, we have abandoned anal probing long ago

“Don’t worry, we have abandoned anal probing long ago,” the alien comforted him.

Hogan breathed a sigh of relief. The first thing that had sprung to mind after the tractor beam had swooped him up from the corn field were those stories the National Inquirer ran about abductees and their ordeal.

Still, Hogan was not quite confident yet that the alien meant no harm. He was still lying on his belly on a cold operating table after all, his hands and feet firmly strapped to the sides to prohibit any movement.

“Why did you take me?” Hogan asked.

“Oh, we like Ohio,” the alien said. “You are a friendly people. Don’t make much fuss. Once we beamed up a New Yorker. Never again, I can tell you that. Never. Again.”

Hogan heard clattering metal but from his position could not make out what exactly caused the sound.

“You weren’t lying about the probing, were you?”

“Would an advanced race like ours really travel light years just to ram a rod up an Ohio farmer’s anus?”

The clattering continued.

“So why did you travel to Earth?”

“To test a theory.”

“What theory?”

“If I told you, that would ruin it.”

The sound of metal on metal. Again.

“About that anal probing…” he said.

“We’re not doing that, I told you.”

Hogan’s nerves weren’t settling, despite the alien’s soothing voice.

“Then what are you doing?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Yet more clattering. Hogan snapped.

“For the love of God, I think I’d actually prefer to have that probe up my ass!”

The alien smiled, turned towards his colleague and collected the hundred credits.

“Told you they actually like this,” he said as he prepared the big metal rod for insertion.

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282. Hey, God

“Hey, God.”

“Hey, Johnny. Been a while.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t sweat it. What seems to be the problem?”

 

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Read the rest of the tale and 100 more stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.

Available at the Createspace Store, at amazon.com, amazon.co.uk or any other Amazon store in your territory.  E-book is also available.

 

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272. Trust a Sikh and I fire a Jew

“Trust a Sikh and I fire a Jew.”

Her off-key singing voice overpowers the sound of water bursting through the showerhead.

She sure gets the lyrics of just about every song horribly, horribly wrong.

But I love her.

Nothing else matters.

 

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Did you enjoy this story? Then why not try the 101 stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.

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231. The revenge of the one-legged gunslinger

Today’s story is the third part of my one-legged gunslinger trilogy. This ‘threequel’ can be read as a self-contained story, but if you want to appreciate the entire story, why not check out the first part of the tale (story number 31) and its sequel (story number 131).

The revenge of the one-legged gunslinger would not contain a rolled R, as he had lost his tongue to a hungry buffalo. In Nothing Gorge, however, that tale was old news, as the entire town had gathered round Main Street to see the gunslinger finally take on the man who had cost him a leg, an arm and an ear: Scott Murray Jameson.

Contempt shot from the gunslinger’s one non-blind eye as he stood nose to nose with his nemesis.

“Ready to die?” Jameson snarled.

 

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Read the rest of the tale and 100 more stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.

Available at the Createspace Store, at amazon.com, amazon.co.uk or any other Amazon store in your territory.  E-book is also available.

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203. Women with glasses are sexy

Women with glasses are sexy, at least that’s how I see them.

I’ve always thought that might be because I’ve have watched way too many movies where the quiet wallflower – always wíth the glasses – turns out to be the sauciest minx of them all.

Or because glasses make you look smart (and I really, really dig smart girls).

Or perhaps it even harks back to the first girl I ever loved, who happened to wear them.

And all of the above might have been true.

Until I realised girls with glasses have just one thing in common.

Bad eyesight.

So basically I fall for girls who can never fully see me for what I am.

Which is depressing.

But also strangely convenient.

Especially for them.

 

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Did you enjoy this story? Then why not try the 101 stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.

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165. Dum-digge-dum-digge-dum-digge-dum

Dum-digge-dum-digge-dum-digge-dum.

Dirk had tried everything. Sleeping pills. Hypnotherapy. Earplugs. Everything. But finding sleep in a foreign bed proved an impossible task.

Dum-digge-dum-digge-dum-digge-dum.

He never had this problem at home. There he slept like a log. But away from the comfort of his own bed? Open eyes from dusk till dawn.

Dum-digge-dum-digge-dum-digge-dum.

It was his wife who had finally come up with the solution. A going-to-bed remedy that couldn’t fail.

Dum-digge-dum-digge-dum-digge-dum.

She was right. She knew exactly what Dirk needed to find comfort in Slumberland.

Dum-digge-dum-digge-dum-digge-dum.

That night Dirk slept like a baby, cradled by the soothing, loud sounds of his industrial printing press, as lovingly recorded on tape by his wife.

Dum-digge-dum-digge-dum-digge-dum.

Dirk’s wife had tried everything. Sleeping pills. Hypnotherapy. Earplugs. Everything. But finding sleep in a foreign bed proved an impossible task.

 

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131. The return of the one-legged gunslinger

Today’s flash is a bit of a special one since it’s the first sequel of the lot. So, if you want to read the complete tale of the one-legged gunslinger, be sure to first feast your eyes on story number 31. And since I like this character so much, I can tell you that (like James Bond) the one-legged gunslinger will return… possibly for story number 231. Are there any other characters from my stories you’d like to see used in a sequel? Be sure to let me know in the comments!

The return of the one-legged gunslinger took Nothing Gorge by surprise.

It had been three months since the grumpy cowboy had set foot – or rather: hopped foot – into town, intent on revenge with a rolled R, in the wrong town.

The gunslinger hopped to the saloon counter. He was now missing an arm as well, luckily on the other side of his body as the absent leg, so it didn’t hinder his balance too much.

“Find Jameson?” the bartender asked, sliding a whisky the gunslinger’s way.

 

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Read the rest of the tale and 100 more stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.

Available at the Createspace Store, at amazon.com, amazon.co.uk or any other Amazon store in your territory.  E-book is also available.

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126. Serge smiled dumbly

Serge smiled dumbly. He didn’t even know if dumbly was a word – it sounded wrong somehow – but when the ebullient troupe that surrounded him showed the picture on the digital camera the word seemed apt enough.

One of the guys laughed loudly at Serge’s expression, though he himself wasn’t looking that much better in the frame. Still, Serge casually spat him in the face. A huge yellowy phlegm. But that didn’t seem to temper the good mood of the teenagers. On the contrary.

Judging by their accents they were French. Judging by their ethanol breath they were drunk. Very, very drunk. They tried to force a bottle on him too but it would have to be a cold day in hell for him to sink his teeth into a Heineken. Ghastly beverage.

Besides, he was starting to get a bit queasy. It was the first time Serge had taken a tram and the irregular oscillation of the vehicle didn’t totally agree with him. He wondered why he had gone along with the motley gang in the first place. But then again, they hadn’t left him much choice.

The other passengers were by now ogling them as if they’d never seen a drunken bunch of teenagers on a tram before.

Or maybe they had.

Just not one in the company of a dumbstruck llama named Serge they’d just broken free from a closed-down circus.

 

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93. Howdy, neighbour

“Howdy, neighbour.”

On the porch stood a man with an unnaturally big smile, his equally cheery wife and two bored but impeccably cute offspring. The woman handed over the bouquet.

“We’re the Johnsons,” she added. “We’ve moved into number 72?”

I’d seen the U-Haul trucks.

“Welcome to the neighbourhood,” I said.

“My name is Tammy,” the woman continued. “This is Jim. And these little rascals are Kim and Vince.”

Her elbow nudged the kids none too subtly. They almost simultaneously handed over the boxes of chocolates they had been hiding behind their backs the whole time.

“In there is an invitation to our housewarming party on the 17th,” Jim stepped in. “We hope you can join us? You and your husband and family of course!”

There was that unnaturally big smile again.

“That might be difficult,” I replied. “Zach is serving life in Folsom and Dustin should be getting the needle in a couple of weeks time. Unless the governor steps in of course. Fingers crossed. As for my hubby, if you see him around, you might want to give the FBI a call. You could pocket half a million. And if you could now please excuse me. I have a turkey in the oven and I need to baste.”

I shut the door on their flabbergasted faces and dunked the flowers in the nearest bin. As I passed the living room a question sounded.

“Who was that, honey?”

“The new people in number 72. Invited us to their housewarming.”

“You got us out of it, right?”

“Told them you were on the FBI’s most wanted list.”

“Love you, hon!”

 

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88. Smoke. Asparagus. A hint of seaweed.

Smoke. Asparagus. A hint of seaweed. This whisky did not give up its secrets easily but he would bring it to its knees.

He stuck his nose in the glass again, more prominently this time, to impress his daughter. She could not tear herself away from the sight of another big sniff from his nozzle.

Rosemary. Soy sauce. A sprinkling of morning dew.

He winked at her. He bet she was impressed. He was impressing himself too.

Burnt Argentine T-bone steak. An essence of cauliflower.

But there was one more odour in there. Veiled yet familiar. He was getting a bit restless. Where was it hiding? Why didn’t he pick up on it?

Wait… could this be it? Another whiff would tell. Yes! This was it, most definitely.

Nutmeg, he proudly proclaimed, putting the Glencairn glass down with an air of triumph his daughter had not seen before.

Nuts, she said.

No, nutmeg, her father corrected.

But she knew what she said.

For the subtleties of single malt whiskies, so essential to the thirtysomething renaissance man, seem very quaint to six-year-olds, who just don’t give a fuck.

 

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Did you enjoy this story? Then why not try the 101 stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.

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