Tag Archives: Donald Trump

And Who’s Gonna Pay For It?

Russell-quarry

In the unlikely event that they manage to scale the sheer rock face, we’ve provided an added deterrent in the form of an electric fence. At this point even the most ardent aristocrat will thing twice about their dreams of a ‘Mexican Utopia,’ turn tail and rejoin their outlaw band of hedge fund managers and rapists.
It may seem a little Draconian, but think of the children, think of your watered down tequilas, your drooping moustaches (and even droopier sombreros). It’s a vision too terrible to contemplate. Mi nombre es Don Trumpino and I approve this message…

 

97 Words.

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Pope invents game: Rock, Papal, Scissors (#Six Word Stories)

VATICAN-POPE-MASS-CANDLEMAS

2. Michael Bay’s coffin transforms into Decepticon

3. British queue achieves polite repressed sentience

4. T-Rex forms prehistoric band “Marc Bolan”

5. Dalek confirmed as worst callcentre accent

trump_in_hell

7. Bono finds what he’s looking for

8. Territorial Army refuse to share barracks

9. First rule of acronym club: N.T.Z.A.R.G

10. Cannibal takes wife’s hand in marriage

 

Previous six-word stories…

Six Word Stories

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Serendipidouche…(Friday Fictioneers)

lampost-s-pier-sandra-crook

Percival was a steel magnate struggling to hide his family’s bankruptcy.

Because he was bankrupt he had failed to pay his gas bill.

As such the ornate lamps that lit his vast estate stood dormant.

Because it was dark a daring vision of loveliness lost her bearings and crashed her light aircraft in a nearby field.

Percival rushed to her aid and the two were instantly smitten.

News of their unusual and joyous union spread throughout the land, and lucrative public appearances abounded.

The vision of loveliness later lost interest…

But Perceval paid her little mind…

After all…

HE WAS RICH!!!

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Six Word Stories #5

Cuba_2005 032

2. Horse found guilty. Hung like donkey

3. Hypnotist accidentally becomes ballerina whilst shaving

4. Cat-astrophy foiled. Lack of opposable thumbs

5. ‘Greety Gobshites,’ shouted inept alien ambassador

6. Deceased adulterer dreads wife’s heavenly arrival

7. Sexist’s amnesty at your mom’s house

Morocco 100

9. Gardening blood-bath. Game of Gnomes

10. Chewbacca shaves and walks amongst us

11. Narcissist dies. Becomes ghost. Haunts himself

12. Motivational speaker believes himself into shark

13. Met God. Nice crib. Very roomy

14. Once upon a monster’s ass-crack

15…And JayZ lived rappily ever after

 

Previous efforts at: Six Word Stories #4

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Keep the Lexicans out…(100ww)

Trump_Wall

Ron Lexican was the greediest man to ever walk the earth. There was nothing he wouldn’t shamelessly usurp – other people’s land, other people’s wives

It got so bad that his neighbours banded together to build a big, beautiful wall with which to contain him.

When Ron learned of their treachery his cheeks burned incandescent orange with rage. He attempted to scale the spiky barrier but his tiny hands were not up to the task…

…So he tweeted out insults, but alas the wall was fitted with a device that blocked internet traffic. Ron was never heard from again #SAD…

(100 words)

Written for: Friday Fictioneers (100 word fiction)

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Six Word Stories #2

6 word story 6

2. Fine! I’ll raise our ginger child…

3. Went to Rome. Bunch of plebs!

4. Giant asteroid. No point in dieting.

5. I came. I sore. I ashamed.

6 word story 5

7. Sales slump attributed to cannibal holocaust

8. White supremacist baker killed. Brown bread.

9. Hospital full. Everyone Kung fu fighting.

10. Ventriloquist dummy blames owner for murder

Trump

12. Eve you minx. Fancy an apple?

13. Parallel universe. King trampled under suffragette

14. Harry, lets marry. Sorry Faye. Gay

15. Hell beast, loves cooking, GSOH seeks…

 

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The Cream of British Justice (You Can’t Handle The Truth: Part 2)

‘Good luck in court tomorrow,’ my colleague deliberately shouted as he stepped out of the train.

I met the gaze of a fellow tube traveller; an enormous mountain of a man. He immediately averted his eyes.

You’re damn right I’m a murderer, I thought. Don’t you be looking at me boy!

There’s a tactic I’ll be utilising again in future!

So today rolled around and found me driving through the drizzle to Oxford Magistrates Court and to the concluding  part of my epic fight for freedom (challenging a speeding fine).

As with my previous court appearance the greatest challenge involved getting into the building. I checked my reflection in the mirror (‘Good, not covered in blood like last time’: A Few Good Men). img_0011Now just the small matter of negotiating a metal detector. Despite emptying my pockets I set off the machine twice. With a queue forming behind me I identified the cause – a small tube with the words ANTI-IMFLAMMATORY emblazoned along the side. In the heat of the moment I could only conjure humiliating reasons why I would need said cream and where it would need to be applied. (To be clear, it’s for my finger. FINE! DON’T believe me!) I shamefully gathered up my things whilst holding up belt less trousers and scurried to the reception.

‘How do you plead?’ asked the receptionist.

‘Not guilty.’

Really? Are you sure? When presented with the evidence most people tend to change their plea. Would you like to change your plea, and would you like to fill in a means form?’

‘No I wouldn’t and what’s a means form?’

‘If you don’t wish to change your plea then don’t worry about the form.’

Now I was worried (Thank God I had that cream!)

To recap: It wasn’t the speeding ticket I was challenging, it was that the only letter I ever received about it was a huge fine for ignoring the previous letter(s). My defence (such as it was) was that I live at number 11, that on my street there is 11, 11a, 11 flat a, and flat b as well as another 11 on an identically named street across town, and that post is going missing all the time.

I was trying to work out whether or not to broach the fact that the other number 11 is a hairdressers without appearing facetious (‘Imagine that…me…a bald man…getting sent bottles of peroxide…for hair…when I haven’t even…is this mike on?’)

My ultimate fallback position was that, in this Post-fact Trump era, I judge my speed by an alternative metric, but if it got to that point I fully recognised that I was in deep shit!

‘MARTIN…’

I stood up.

…A different surname.

I sat down again; my nerves shredded.

(Note: I started writing this bit whilst inside the waiting area, but stopped because A. I thought it might end badly, and B. I kept accidentally turning on the speech functionality on my phone and had horrific visions of standing in the dock and having a metallic voice blurt out of my pocket GUILTY – AS – SIN!)

‘MARTIN KAH…MARTIN KOH…’

Jeez, every friction day! ‘CORORAN,’ I replied and rose to my feet.

I walked into a split level room with two magistrates on a raised platform above me. It was all over in a flash.

‘How do you plead?’

‘Just to be clear, I’m pleading not guilty to not identifying myself as the driver (Double-negative – the vernacular of the criminal fraternity), but as previously stated, I’m sure it was me driving the car.’

‘In that case we’ll forego this charge (6 points / £800) and go with the original speeding charge (3 points / £100). How do you plead?’

‘…Guilty.’

‘Thank you. The court official will show you out.’

I was a little dismayed at not having had the opportunity to trot out my flimsy defence, but mostly I was relieved. Emerging into the reception and meeting the gazes of the other be-track-suited defendants who (let’s face it) ALL did it, I gave serious consideration to punching the air and jubilantly shouting ‘GUILTEEEEEEEEEEEY!’

I can only imagine how many driving offences I committed on the way home…

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