CARTOON FRIDAY 26

“It’s just an abstract of what will eventually evolve.”

“It’s just an abstract of what will eventually evolve.”

roast head of dragon on a bed of nails
candied bile scrapings
Lucky Charms over rice
mead in fanciful tankards
blooded corn
moles on a stick
sinews dipped in chocolate
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veni, vidi, vici
wenny, weedy, weaky
I came, I saw, I conquered
As for me
I came, I saw, I had a little soup
The Painfully Shy Street Performer
Franklin Semproch took Zenobia Snowe to be his lawful wedded wife. His farm was small, but not overly grumpy, and there the couple thrived. In time, they welcomed their son Harlan to the tear (tier, not tare) veil, and the circle of their family was complete.
Twenty years passed, and Harlan, painfully shy, but with perfectly formed knees, longed to be a street-performing mime. His parents, ever ready to fulfill his most trivial whim, did the best they could. In the midst of the north corn field, Franklin built a brick facade of a mercantile emporium three stories high, authentically windowed and signed. He troweled a wonderful cement sidewalk and curb. He installed a lamp post. Zenobia baked 3000 ginger snaps, and the couple mixed these with asphalt and rolled out a fine short segment of street next to the cement sidewalk and in front of the mercantile emporium facade.
Harlan, garbed in lederhosen and wearing white gloves, stood on the sidewalk in front of the mercantile emporium facade. His eyes gleamed out from his painted white face. His little hat with its flower on a wire clutched his head.
“I AM TRAPPED IN THIS BOX!” he shrieked. He moved his hands along the invisible walls. “SEE!! I CAN’T GET OUT! HELP! HELP! FOR GOD’S SAKE, SOMEBODY HELP ME!!”
Harlan’s heart exploded, and he died. His parents buried him a stone’s throw from the nearest silo. A tear (tier, not tare) ran down Zenobia’s worn canvas cheek. A tear (see previous parenthesis) ran down Franklin’s worn corduroy cheek. They hung each other gently in the parlor. The dream was finished.
Moral: A youth and his whims are soon parted
“Well, lop off my arms and call me Venus.”
“Well, get out the razor and render me hairless.”
“Well, dip me in vinegar and call me salad.”
“Oh, woe is me. Woe, woe, woe,” moaned the blueberry. “Sadness. Ah, sweet melancholy. Would that I were other than I am. Woe, oh, woe.”
“Would that I were elsewhere! Shees! You’re stuck, pal. It’s a basic nya nya nya situation. So nya nya na nya nya! What was she thinking? Raspberries and blueberries in the same pie? Ewwwwww! PPPPPPTTTHHH!” said the raspberry.
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Roars of laughter came rolling in waves from the conference room where 75 members of the Wicked Stepmothers Club were gathered. Jane Sturp-Henshaw, PFLAAB (president-for-life-and-anything-beyond) of the WSC, was well into her annual speech welcoming the delegates to the convention. Her topic was ‘What Bliss to be Free if Just for a Weekend the Curse of the Snot-nosed Brats’. After having succeeded in lifting the mood to one of general merriment, Jane invited the ladies to follow their inner demons and visit the ten ice-breaker topic tables placed around the room, each table being equipped with stacks of pamphlets and hostessed by an eager and knowledgeable wicked stepmother attired in proper Gale Sondergaard, Judith Anderson, or Margaret Hamilton array. In happy hubbub, the members milled and gathered, milled and gathered. The topic tables were identified with placards atop simple centerpieces of sculpted sneers. The various placards read:
1. ‘MESSING WITH THEIR HEADS’
2. ‘SHORTSHEETING TECHNIQUES, ETC.’
3. ‘INVENTIVE PUTDOWNS’
4. ‘HOMEWORK DESTRUCTION STRATEGIES’
5. ‘TRULY TERRIFYING BEDTIME STORIES’
6. ‘STAYING ONE STEP AHEAD OF THE LAW’
7. ‘HOW TO SQUELCH WHINING’
8. ‘PLAYTIME WITH SCISSORS AND TACKS’
9. ‘WINNING THE BLAME GAME’
10. ‘LOWEST RATED BOARDING SCHOOLS’
After about an hour, the whole group went down to the bar and got plastered. The weekend was off to a promising start.
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