Irish Ayes Are Smilin’

Guinness

 

 

 

 

 

Two Irishmen, looking to get rich, open a pub. After a year, they’re deep in red ink. One says, “I know, let’s turn it into a brothel.” The other replies, “Don’t be daft! We can’t get ‘em to drink beer. How are we goin’ to get ‘em to drink broth??”

***

A group of chess enthusiasts had checked into a
hotel and were standing in the lobby discussing
their recent tournament victories. After about an
hour, the manager came out of the office and
asked them to disperse. “But why?” they asked,
as they moved off. “Because,” he said, “I can’t
stand chess nuts boasting in an open foyer.”

***

Do you know what is black and blue and found in a ditch?

A man who told one too many blonde jokes.

***

Give a man a fish and you will feed him for a day.
Teach him how to fish and you can sell him equipment.

***

Error, no keyboard – press F1 to continue.

***

The brain is a wonderful organ. It starts working
the moment you get up in the morning and doesn’t
stop until you get into the office.

Robert Frost

***

The Pentagon recently found it had too many
Generals and offered an early retirement bonus.
They promised any general who retired straight
away, his full annually benefits PLUS $10,000.00
for every inch measured in a straight line along
the retiring general’s body between two points
he chose. (Something only Congress came up with!)

The first General accepted. He asked the pension man
to measure from the top of his head to the tip of
his toes. 6 feet. He walked out with a check of
$720,000.00.

The second General asked them to measure from the
tip of his outstretched hands to his toes. 8 feet!
He walked out with a check for $960,000.00.

Meantime, the first General had tipped off the
third. When he was asked where to measure, he
told the pension man. “From the tip of my penis
to my balls.” The pension man said that would be
fine, but he’d better get the Medical Officer to
do the measuring.

The Medical Officer attended and asked the
General to drop ’em. He did. The Medical Officer
placed the tape on the tip of the general’s penis
and began to work back. “My God!” he said.
“Where are your balls?”

The General replies, “In Viet Nam!”

***

The kindergarten teacher is trying to explain to
her class the definition of the word “definitely”
to them. To make sure the students have a good
understanding of the word, she asks them to use
it in a sentence.

When called upon, the first student says
“The sky is definitely blue”. The teacher
said “Well that isn’t entirely correct because
sometimes it’s gray and cloudy”.

Another student says “Grass is definitely green”.
Teacher again replies “If grass doesn’t get enough
water it turns brown, so that isn’t really correct”.

A third student raises his hand and asks the
teacher “Do farts have lumps?”  The teacher
replied, “No, and that is not a suitable question
for class discussion”. The student replies,
“Then I definitely shit my pants”.

 

Flash Fiction #35

Fishing boat

 

 

 

 

 

Walking On Water

Mischa had made his living fishing this little inland sea all his life, and his ancestors had done so for untold generations, back into the mists of time.

First the water had got thick, and saltier, then the fish had all but disappeared.  Now it was the sea itself which was disappearing.  The little cottage where his parents had raised him was now half a kilometer from the new shoreline.  His fishing boat sat stranded on the mud flats.

He recently met a group of outsiders, “scientists”, studying the Aral Sea.  One had taught him a new term – Global Warming.

 

Go to Rochelle’s Addicted to Purple site and used the Wednesday photo as a prompt to write a complete 100 word story.

Flash Fiction Inflation

VISTA EVENESCENT

 

tree2bcrook

 

 

 

 

 

It’s tough being nine years old, and alone.  He had climbed part-way up this big old oak tree back in the spring, but it had taken a boost from his friend Gordon, to get him up to the first forking of the trunk, where he could get handholds.  Now, Gordon was away on holidays, which was one of the reasons he was wandering his neighborhood alone.

He took a run at the tree, planted his right foot on the knee of a protruding root, lunged upward, and caught the fallen branch, stuck in the crotch.  Swiftly he climbed, and soon the tree had lifted him into its topmost branches.  Unusual in a town full of maples, this oak was the tallest tree, and sat at the top of the highest hill.  The view from up here was magnificent.

He was as high as the top of the nearby water tower, the entire town spread out below him.  Right beneath him was the park, with its empty ball diamond.  Down the hill was the arena.  He could see tiny cars, and miniature people walking.  Below him were three church roofs and bell towers.  Beyond was the main street, with its businesses.  It led right down to the lake and the beach.  The crystal blue water and the bright white sand both sparkled in the sun.

Lighthouse Lighthouse II

 

 

 

 

 

Off to the south, the sandy island sat half a mile offshore, with its stone lighthouse.  He seemed level with the top of its 100 foot tower.  A bit to the north, he could see the river mouth, with the commercial fishing boats chugging into and out of the harbor.

Boat

A block down the street, where the highway crossed the main street, stood the century-old red-brick town hall, with its four-sided clock tower.  Just this side, was the library, where he usually checked out a couple of books each week.  A block to the right was the elementary school where he would happily return to his education in a couple of weeks.

Townhall School

 

 

 

What he could see, was his entire, nine-year-old’s universe.  What he could not see, from his eagle’s perch, with his youngster’s eagle eyes, was the oncoming juggernaut of maturity, physical aging, responsibility, and social change.

All too soon, he would not have the time or the freedom, the strength or the agility, the acceptance or the inclination, to randomly wander his tiny town, talking to bullfrogs or climbing trees just for the fun of it.

Soon, like a Monarch butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, he would leave his protective, supportive home to seek training and experience, employment and income, marriage and family.  What was now his entire universe, would become first, merely the center of his greatly expanded universe, and finally, just a reflection in the time-fogged rear-view mirror of fond memory.

Instead of remaining a carefree child, he would become one of millions of parents.  While he would not do so, most of the others would allow, even urge, their millions of children to embrace myriad electronic distractions and babysitters, till they could not think or act for themselves, instead of encouraging them to read and learn.

In the name of protecting the children, the parents would cocoon them, and change them into hydroponic couch potatoes, denying them the chance to run and play, to enjoy the sun and fresh air, to commune with nature and build strong, healthy bodies and minds.  And so would begin the slow, perhaps inevitable, slide into oblivion, of the great, free society.

 

This is the expanded version of a thought which recently triggered a 100 word story on the Flash Fiction stage, along with some observations, feelings, and pretty pictures.  Much of this has previously appeared here, but I like the redecorating job.  How about you?

 

Coals To Newcastle

I say that I didn’t know what a “Newfy” was until after I moved here to the Big City, but that’s not exactly true.  A Newfy (or Newfie) is a resident, or ex-resident of Newfoundland, the easternmost Province of Canada.  It’s a big rock that sits in the Atlantic Ocean.  I said in a previous post that a redneck might live a bit further off the paved road than most of us.  Just imagine a place that requires a boat to get to, not just the big Rock, but little fishing villages along its coast, outports, which have no roads, and must be reached by smaller boat.

It’s a delightful place.  Even in the few cities, life moves at a slower, more casual pace.  Because of the collapse of the fishing industry, large numbers of Newfies had to leave the Rock, to seek employment elsewhere.  Many of them moved to Alberta, to work in the oil industry.  It is said that, there are more Newfies in Fort McMurray, Alberta, than there are left on the island.  This is almost ironic, because they have now discovered oil under the ocean bed, just off Newfoundland, and many of these experienced workers can now return home to work in their own Province again.

They have been insular in the past, because they are, literally insular.  There had not been a great deal of cultural cross-pollination. The Province, and the people of it, continue to grow towards integration with the rest of Canada, and the rest of the world, because of improved communications abilities.  Still, they have their own ways of doing things.

One of the men of my home-town came back from the Second World War with a wife, a woman he met and married when he was posted in Newfoundland.  She was a bit eccentric, but really, not much different from some of the other characters in the comedy stage-play that was my little town, not until the strawberry jam.

We had had a beautiful spring, and early summer.  It had been perfect weather for strawberries, not just my area, but the entire eastern section of Canada.  Supply and demand, you could obtain as many as you wanted, at bargain-basement prices.  This lady bought flats and flats of them….and then had to figure out what to do with them.  “I know, I’ll make fajitas jam”, so jam she made.  Now, what to do with all this jam?

She decided that she would send some of it back to her sister, still in Newfoundland, despite the fact that the strawberry crop there, was even better than it was in Ontario.  Now, “normal” people (myself not included) might have called up FedEx, or maybe taken it down to the nearest Canada Post office, for shipping.  Dat’s not de way we Newfs does t’ings.

She knew a Newfie guy in a town about a hundred miles away, so she called him up to ask if he was “goin’ home” that summer.  He admitted that he was, so she asked him if he would take this case of jam back with him.  He was happy to oblige.  To get the jam to him necessitated picking a mutually empty Sunday, and driving the hundred miles, two hours, to get it to him.  And then it was, sit down and chew the fat, have some rum, and maybe a few beers, and you’ll be staying for supper, and then some more gabfest and rum and beers, and another hundred-mile drive home.  Nothing to it.

He eventually drove it down east, and over to The Rock on the ferry.  When he got where he was going, he phoned the sister and her husband, long-distance.  Like the Ontario end, they lived a hundred miles away too.  Then the game started all over again, this time in reverse.  Pick a day, drive the hundred miles, almost three hours, the roads in Newfoundland aren’t quite up to mainland standards.  Shoot the shit, drink the rum, stay for supper, yak till the flying fish come home, and then drive three hours back.  Because of the isolation, almost any excuse is accepted for socializing and a wee party.

When the ride finally came to a stop, the sister in the wilds of Newfoundland phoned the sister in the wilds of Southern Ontario to ask why she had sent this jam down….without asking, or warning.  “I’ve got a pantry full of the stuff.  I’m trying to give some of mine away too.”

A small vignette about Newfoundland hospitality.  Another female co-worker came to Ontario with her parents when she was eight years old.  She didn’t have a chance to “Go Home”, as they say, until she was 23.  She’d graduated, got her first job and saved for vacation.  It had been fifteen long, very formative years.  The thing she missed the most, and the first thing she wanted to see again, was her beloved grandmother.

She went over and knocked on Granny’s door.  Grandma greeted her with a big smile and an invitation to come in.  Sit down, girl.  Would you like some tea and scones, and jam?  And how are you this fine day?  Small talk for ten or fifteen minutes, finally Granny looked at her and said, “So, you must tell me.  Who are you darlin’?”  As far as she knew, she’d been entertaining a perfect stranger, and was amazed to meet her own granddaughter.  You or I might find that strange but, down there, if somebody knocks on your door, there must be a good reason.  They’re home, and they’re welcome.