Tag Archives: Donald Trump

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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Life in Dystopia…

There’s a long tradition in both science fiction and satire of predicting real-life events way in advance. Typically, when they manifest in reality, it’s in an even more ludicrous form then was previous jested.

Take the news for example. In the 90’s ‘The Day Today’ was a deliberately over-caffeinated parody of the emerging 24-hour coverage that is now commonplace – with unnecessarily grandiose graphics and brash, coiffured presenters. One of its creators (Armando Iannucci) has often been asked if he would ever consider bringing the show back, but has always cited Fox News as being far more pantomimic than anything he ever did as a joke.

In the 70’s Demon Koontz wrote ‘Demon Seed’- a book about a super computer that traps a woman in her automated house using an internet-like entity to take over all the applications in her house. There was a story in the papers last week about Russian spies hacking smart kettles and toasters (In the book the woman is also impregnated with a robotic abomination, but give the world time…)

The moon landing, cyber space, mobile phones, micro-waves, the atomic bomb and drones – all written about by HG Wells, Isaac Asimov et al long before they arrived.

And sixteen years ago The Simpsons did a sketch in which Donald Trump was president of the United States!

Here’s a dystopian thriller for you. It’s about a bunch of people who find out the most powerful country on earth’s been taken over by a monster and respond by going on social media and sharing comedy memes about it…

No, wait…That was Facebook this morning!

What has happened in America is insane. What is happening in the UK is equally crazy – not just Brexit (which I’m fervently opposed to), but also how vociferous many of the remain voters are about broad-brushing their opposite numbers as ‘idiot, racists’ and momentarily forgetting that we live in a democracy.

In-keeping with tradition I wrote a story last week that, this morning, happened exactly as described. It’s about a white, bald (Donald would hate him) male who rings up an energy company to complain about his gas bill. After speaking with a call centre agent he gets escalated up to a man with a Spanish name and a Spanish accent.

‘Could you go outside and check the meter for me?’ he asks.

‘Not currently,’ the bald man replies, ‘I’m in the bath.’

‘At this hour?’

‘Yes. I’ve got flu and I was up all night watching the end of the world on tele.’

‘Ah yes, the orange apocalypse.’

The Spanish sounding man calls back once the bald man is ensconced in a beanie hat and other apparel, and they continue to talk about politics rather than the bill. The Spanish man is an immigrant who voted Brexit, but now has buyer’s remorse. The bald man asks if it’ll even happen with all the anger and legal wrangling. No conclusion is reached.

At some point they resolve the bill discrepancy without partisanship or abuse.

‘Good luck surviving the nuclear winter,’

‘You too buddy.’

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