The plebeian aardvark directed the movements of her troops from the top of a knoll. The harsh cry of ‘Advance!’ tore from her throat as she pointed with quivering rage at the enemy encampment. The aardvark army surged in response, spilling madly across the plain. Neck muscles tensed. Teeth ground. The armies crashed together. Cries of victory mingled with cries of agony and death. When night fell, silence reigned. The plebeian aardvark, victorious, moved through the mounds of dead.
‘That’ll teach ’em,’ she said.
The moon on high remained indifferent.
Loon: For the special Thanksgiving edition of the 3 Question Interview, the Lords of the 4th Dimension have brought one of the hosts of the 1st Thanksgiving at Plymouth Plantation, a Mr. William Bradford. Tell me, Mr. Bradford, was Miles Standish short?
Bradford’s ghost: He was a short person.
Loon: I thought so. Did Squanto eat more than his share of squash at the celebration.
Bradford’s ghost: No, he did not. He showed us how to plant corn and where to take fish.
Loon: And finally, did you eat a lot of buffaloes?
Bradford’s ghost: By the grace of His providence, I admit to ignorance on the subject.
Loon: Thank you and good-bye.
(Bradford’s ghost nods, vanishes.)
9 out of 10 doctors say that eventually you would be unable to lift your arm to complete shaking your stick at all of Cookson’s books.
This is Catherine Cookson, prolific novelist. She wrote more books than:
a. you could shake a stick at if you happen to be the sort of person who wanders about shaking sticks at books.
b. she could remember. In fact, having forgotten earlier works, she often wrote them again later.
c. Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy combined into Storlivane Layrudharel.
d. all the tea in China.
Once upon a time an old miller crafted new paddle staves to replace the many worn out staves of his waterwheel. Sacks of oats ready to be milled lined the walls of the long shed where he worked. After many hours of labor he decided to take a nap. He arranged three oat sacks to that purpose and stretched out in comfort. Soon he was asleep and dreaming.
In the dream he stood by the mill stream. He felt afraid and soon knew why. For from the stream there arose inch by inch slowly until completely emerged a river hag wrapped in a long red cloak. As rivulets of water ran down the sodden cloak, the hag engaged the old miller eyes to eyes with a dark frozen stare.
‘When you awake, be quick, be sharp, and bring to the mill my lost golden harp,’ croaked the hag, and poof she was gone, and the miller awoke.
He ran home and told his good wife all about the dream. She sat in the rocking chair, rocking and thinking, rocking and thinking. The old miller, who always relied on his good wife for counsel, waited patiently for her to speak.
She stopped rocking and said, ‘It’s this. A sorceress has enchanted you. You must find her golden harp and bring it here. I will send for our nephew to run the mill until you return.’
And so the miller set off. He went from village to village, castle to castle, explaining his quest, and not once did he hear tales of a river hag’s golden harp until a day many years later when he rested sitting in a deep wood with his back against the thick trunk of great twisted oak. Soon he nodded off to sleep. He dreamed.
Again, in the dream, he stood by the mill stream. He trembled with fear and soon knew why. The river hag rose from the stream and engaged him again eyes to eyes with a dark frozen stare.
‘When you awake, be quick, go home, never more so far to roam. I found my harp, no thanks to you. Forget all about it, and I’ll forget, too,’ croaked the hag, and poof she was gone, and the miller awoke.
He arose from the oat sacks in his long shed and returned to crafting new staves.
Arthur got Fenny a tomato juice, and himself a pint of yellow water with gas in it. – from So Long, And Thanks For All The Fish