On a Break

Yesterday was so JAM PACKED with activities I didn't have time to sit down and write anything.  Which made me sad.  Although I suppose that technically, I did post something as the day before didn't end until 2am.  

So today, I'm sitting here trying to think of something to say.  I usually like to sit down with something specific in mind before I get going.  But instead, today I've chosen to sit down with nothing to say.

And so, as I'm pondering what on earth I could possibly write about, I'm going to... instead... continue with Raul and I's poem contest and throw out a new contest.  Because this entertains me and I think it's good fun. 

So.  If you are interested, please come up with a 100-word --or less-- short story (yes, I know 100 words is a VERY small number of words.  It'll force you to be creative with your structures)  It must have the following things:

Lust, Aprons, a knock knock joke, telephones and a dump truck. 

Post your entry as a comment.  It'll be fun.

No.. really! Fun!  

I have mine written, I'll post it later.

Chainsaws and Moustaches

In response to the fantastically confusing and somewhat terrible poem "Alien Vs. Predator" that was recently featured in the New Yorker, Raul and I have decided to have a poem-off. 

[note: I am in no way an aficionado of  poetry nor am I really suited to judge poetry.  BUT... I didn't like it.  That's how I feel about it.]

I gave him the following topic:  Hybrid Cars and Teddy Bears.

He retorted with my topic: Mustaches and Chainsaws.

Here we go.

Just Cut It Down, a terrible poem written in 3 minutes.

Chainsaws roar to life just as

a mustache motorboats two breasts.

The saw rips down what has grown

While the 'stache grows every day.

A barbershop chair waits 

for yet another heated face.

To feel the cool breeze of morning

air where once their was hair.

The saw turns round and round

whisking away leaves, bark with 

seeming ease yet the operator

cannot feel its murderous guilt.

And so the murderer is left to 

cope and endure such loss

while the mustache gleefully curls

upward to the heaven it will find.

end terrible poem.  What'chu got Raul?!