Tag Archives: humour

We Should Unionise…

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Harriet’s husband came home early, prompting a mad dash across the bedroom, into a walk-in-wardrobe. There, the adulterer discovered a similarly naked man cowering amidst fur coats and party frocks.

His first heightened thought: Is nothing sacred?

They listened as a (potentially) murderous and drunken Goliath showered his wife with clumsy kisses before collapsing into an uneasy stupor.

A sliver of light illuminated their escape route – a bathroom and a flat roof beyond.

Creeping and held breath led them to freedom. Under the moon’s gaze, one crammed into a little black dress; the other resplendent in a ball-gown, they exchanged unfathomable expressions before parting company, their adrenaline sufficiently expunged for the time being…

 

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

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Twittering Tales: Let’s Get Tattoos…

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With each stab of ink the message slowly revealed itself: I’ve only paid up to the words ‘I’ve poisoned you’. Wire £1m for the antidote…

 

138 Characters

 

Written for: Twittering Tales

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Henpecked Incorporated…

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With Faithful Jenny deliberately scuttled there was no going back. The rip-tides in the bay were well renowned, and the lack of a body would be easily explainable.

He outstretched his arms and let go of everything – his materialistic trophy wife, the kids who hated him, the stock portfolio, the endless competing with other alphas – all expelled in a single glorious belch of freedom.

Hidden behind a rocky outcrop he encountered two other men – one standing in the mangled wreckage of a hang glider, the other kneeling by a bloated cadaver. He greeted them with nervous exhilaration and gave a false name as he’d been instructed. They reciprocated.

‘The likeness is uncanny,’ he commented, gesturing towards the cadaver.

”I paid extra. It’s a little macabre stealing from a morgue, but it’s not like anyone was murdered!’

A speedboat was moored at the tip of the archipelago. With a fair wind they’d be in Gibraltar by morning where a vagabond utopia awaited…

 

164 Words

Written for: Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers

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Twittering Tales: Manoeuvres Against Humanity…

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Greg was a fine father, a great cook and always made the guys on the bowling team howl with glee, but he was also hogging the middle lane, so he was ultimately an asshole!

 

138 Characters

Written for: Twittering Tales

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The Annual Purge (2017 Inspirational Calendar)…

It’s the annual purge of all the terrible things I’ve heard and imagined this year – the corporate equivalent of being overcome with food lust in the middle of a diet and wolfing down a dirty burger.

It’s a long held lament amongst many of my peers that we weren’t taken aside at school and informed: ‘Once you leave education and join the workforce you’ll notice that many people stop speaking English and adopt a farcical hybrid slang in which they’re always looking for bases to touch whilst spoiling games by putting skin in them.’

The zenith / nadir was reached in 2013 when I was handed a copy of ‘Aspire Systems’ unintentionally hilarious calendar in which their staff made nonsensical claims to ‘dare the unknown,’ ‘overtake fear,’ and ‘go upstream!’ My retaliatory effort in which I pledged to ‘dream the impenetrable’ and ‘tick boxes’ did little to foster ongoing relations.

As with previous years I’ve had the problem of coming up with joke names for fictional companies and then finding that they actually exist. These include: Proactivate, Solutionary, Eurekarma and Investigreat (!) but so far no one’s stooped low enough to come up with…

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Barring submissions to Companies House, next year’s entry will either be ‘Analytican,’ ‘Passion FruI.T,’ or ‘Unabler’.

violin2JANUARY: ‘I Square the circle’: Like saying ‘I bacon the banana’ or ‘I shave the shark,’ only MORE retarded…

FEBRUARY: I Mind-Fondle: Because if you can use the phrase ‘Thought Shower’…

MARCH: ‘I’m a Thought Leader’: After My mind-fondle I ascend the strategic staircase and get into my cerebrocopter…

ringAPRIL: I lobotomine for gold: Where you see imbecile, I see visionary…

MAY: I go on mute: See, it wasn’t wasted time after all. I’ve mowed the lawn, painted a bathroom, done the weekly shop and…what was that? No, no any other business from me…OK, bye…

JUNE: Where others only ‘whelm’ I SUPERUNDERWHELM!

unnamedJULY: I Can dig I.T: I respond to a colleague’s remark that I look like the 70’s cop ‘Kojak’ by doctoring his pass-card and calling him ‘Shaft’ for 3 months.

AUGUST: I Youthenize: ‘When I grow up I want to write PowerPoint presentations,’ said no child ever.

SEPTEMBER: I testiculate: Like gesticulating, but with more bollocks.

OCTOBER: ‘I react within a 5 day Service-Level-Agreement’: ‘Hey, how are you? What do you mean you can’t tell me till next week?’

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NOVEMBER: I am a man of single-minded foh…
seriously dude, what’s with the violin?

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DECEMBER: I integrate vertically: Christ, I hear my own words and don’t know what they mean anymore. I look at myself in the mirror and my reflection mouths ‘You’re an asshole.’ How do I find my way out of this labyrinth?

Being a grown-up isn’t what I thought it was going to be…

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Guff & Gubbins…

Imagine an embryo in a suit sitting at a desk in a cubicle disguised as an adult. Somehow it has made its way into central London on a grad scheme; the main responsibility of which appears to gravitate around the concept of making me feel old and decrepit. More pressingly (he) is now occupying the room that houses the cabinet in which my work shoes reside. I tap on the glass and open the door.

‘Hi, do you mind if I just get my shoes?’

All the blood drains from of his face. The transformation is quite dramatic. ‘Yes.’

‘You do mind?’

‘Yes I do…sorry.’

‘Oh…well I’ll jus-‘ The wall of stench hits me. He was been breaking wind – a lot. It’s a very tiny room and he clearly wasn’t expecting company. I am physically repelled and contain the outbreak with a hefty slam of the door.

Given a moment to think I realise that I probably should’ve handled that better – maybe acted as if there wasn’t a paint-stripping reek assaulting the inside of my throat and calmly returned later. I smile through the glass to show him that there are no hard feelings and that I shall retrieve the aforementioned footwear in due course. Shortly thereafter he scurries away.

4084833608a5daa7c93e65460d0af83b885b907724ee782c48b0b2c36307d596d5ad42c7Later I am returning from lunch when I see the lift doors closing. I make a dash for it and step inside. There is already someone within – the graduate! He seems mortified to be in a confined space with me. The lift takes an eternity to begin its accent, and we are only moving for a few seconds before a robot announces ‘Emergency call activated.’ The graduate steps forward. A red light is flashing in the space recently vacated by his ass-cheeks. He becomes flustered.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I reassure. ‘It happens every other day. They should probably think about relocating the button. Someone’ll ring through in a minute and we’ll be on our way.’

…And then the stench hits me – worse then before! We are in an even smaller room. There is no escape. Embryo won’t look me in the eye. His suit looks highly flammable. He is taking a very great risk. This is too glorious an opportunity to pass up.
‘Seriously, there’s no point squeezing one out stealthily. I’m the only other person in here and I know it wasn’t me.’

‘What wasn’t you?’

Come on!’

‘How do I know it wasn’t you?’

What wasn’t me?’

‘…Whatever it is you’re talking about.’

‘How do you know? Cos it was you. If there was one other guy in here then there might be an element of mystery, but as there isn’t, there isn’t.’

Before we descend into a he-who-smelt-it-dealt-it territory a muffled, metallic sounding voice comes from the lift’s side panel. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Yeah, you can let me out of this dutch oven before I asphyxiate.’

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