Tag Archives: witty

Aside

dear readers: “not your average day police claim” is NOT a true story, despite the fact that the places i mention do exist.

Kirsten had always dreamed of working at the post office or the county jail. Daily living and house chores were her bread and butter, and she craved it with a passion. Everything that was banal seemed to sing to her with an effervescent joy, and even the prospect of brushing her teeth filled her with a strange sort of wonder. Today was a Monday, and her school was having a taste of danger.
Wanted serial killer number twelve had just escaped from the Terre Haute Federal Correctional Complex and was passing through the small town. Kirsten did not like the sound of it at all- and not because she was afraid of menacing criminals, but simply because it was disrupting her average Monday drone.At the moment, she was fumbling around in the dark, musty classroom of Mr. Bingler’s English class, trying vainly to whisper a conversation to her friend, Nora.  Nora suffered from over twelve different illnesses, none of which Kirsten could pronounce or differentiate from one another, and all of which seemed perfectly plausible at any given moment. Nora’s favorite of the twelve was the piercingly white hair she acquired from living with Waardenburg syndrome.

Unfortunately, this ailment also left Nora with a very bad left ear, and blurry vision, which bore Kirsten’s whispering attempts quite fruitless. As mentioned previously, Kirsten also had the inability to remember all of the diseases Nora suffered from, and so she carried on whispering, unfazed by her friend’s lack of response. Andrew Klein, who sat next to Kirsten, was enjoying the awkward exchange between his fellow pupils. Most of the school knew of this unusual friendship, but had failed to communicate this knowledge to their peers, for fear that it would be considered unthinkable to speak of such lowly peasants, or-as they were affectionately called by the rest of the student body -“nerds”. This label, oddly enough, was not quite accurate in this case, despite The girls’ nebbishy outward appearances. Kirsten was failing three of her classes, and Nora was quite unable to work in the school environment at all. The disabled program at the school was unable to find a suitable category in which to place her, and had no option but to file her under the title of “hopeless case”.
Of course, in order to resume this saga of unusual proportions, one must be reminded of the horrors awaiting Kirsten and Nora’s hometown. As the students sat cramped and sweaty in the dank unlit classrooms of Alpine Mountain high school, the Wanted serial Killer (whose name was Artie) was sweeping across the city in a frantic rage. Fortunately, the townsfolk knew how to carry out the mandated precautions like the backs of their hands. They had all been trained at early ages on how to prepare for all types of disasters, due to the hard work and effort of the late Martha James Brawn (1875-1960), a nurse and educator at St. Mary-Of-The-woods College, and the pride and Joy of Terre Haute city.
Artie the serial killer was not that surprised to see that the place was in a state of great angst. He had escaped from prison on a dare. He spoke in a strange dialect not known to most city dwellers and was having a hard time communicating his situation to people. In reality, Artie was not trying to pose as a threat to anyone. The act of looting and thieving was second nature to him, almost the same as an impulsive reflex. No, on the contrary, he had been forced into most of his earlier gang activity and found it quite unfair for the government to rule him out as a real danger to anyone.
Or, as Artie would have put it “I had more friends nutted up than me most times. The whole thing is just a load of bum beef. All I got was a case of broke weak when they called me a cracker. They just made me do shit cause all I had was drag and they said they heard it a thousand times already. I put it on my skin!” The killer took the rest of the day committing crimes until he was captured fisherman named Gregory Ipswich, and was sent back to the Terre Haute Federal Correctional Complex, safe and sound. Kirsten could have sworn she had never been so happy.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Not your average day, Police Claim — a fictional story by me, golden star poetry

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School update!!!!

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As many of you do not know, my Freshman High School days lurk ever closer from the depths of my summer cocoon.

Therefore, I will  be faced with numerous challenges (a.k.a a large workload!) VERY SOON.

THIS MEANS INFREQUENT POSTING! (wait, I’ve already started to do that…hmmm…)

BUT!! fear not, good gentlefolk!!!!

I am planning to change my posting schedule to once a week instead of once a day!

on some occasions I may only post once every two. (*GASP*)

On those occasions I will give you all proper notice in advance, so do not fear!

Alrighty, then-

peace out, friends!

–Golden Star Poetry

The Conversation

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BEN: God, I’m livid. the house caught on fire,

GOD: I know-

BEN: SHUT UP!

GOD: DO NOT TELL GOD TO SHUT UP!

BEN: As I was saying.

GOD: (crossing his arms) Continue.

BEN: The house caught on fire, Nancy has cancer, Amy is sick with whooping cough, James is broke, and Daniel still doesn’t have a girlfriend-

GOD: Figures

BEN: HEY! he was my friend, okay?

GOD: I’m just saying he could have asked for my help!

BEN: Well, you know he’s atheist, I’m sorry. I’m sorry he offended your compassionate little heart there, but uh, yeah, no use convincing him…(winces) ..like I said God, we’re not all that clear in our heads… I mean, I just really want some peace and quiet. Something that will let me know that this  string of horrors is going to be over and I can reassure myself that you exist.

GOD: but you never needed reassuring, Benjamin.

BEN: I know, I know. but I’m older now and…I mean..I think everyone gets doubtful once in a while.

GOD: What’s there to doubt?

BEN: I don’t think you’d understand it, God. it’s a…it’s a mortal thing. We- cling to our senses and what our mind tells us and nothing else. It’s why I’d still like it if you helped us out more…

GOD: Son, have you ever heard the phrase “everything happens for a reason” ?

BEN: (long pause) really?

GOD: I’m just saying, maybe you should start thinking about the divine purpose behind everything that goes on in your life.

BEN: Arrrgk, stop with all the philosophy! I just wanted to complain, just wanted some answers- I didn’t want a lecture. But, of course, I knew I wasn’t going to get it anyway, so what was I thinking?

GOD: (smiles) have a good day, Benjamin

BEN: Yeah, have a great one.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

 

Inkblot Test

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Yes! you guessed!

This is the Rorschach inkblot test!

No worries, friend! Please! have a rest!

No, no, I assure you

You aren’t being a pest!

Now, try your very best

To see what you see in the ink blots

Lest

We might call the asylum at my behest.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Golden Star Poetry and Edgar P. Roger-Fitzwalden’s “the floating Duchess of Biggleswade”, footnotes by Golden Star Poetry

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The Floating Duchess of Biggleswade, by Edgar P. Roger-Fitzwalden (and Golden Star Poetry)

It was snowing outside, and Laura was only half awake. or half asleep- but she was  an optimist, and always was one, so to her she was  nearly half-awake, and not the other way around. Once she regained consciousness, she groped for the lamp shade to turn it on, but only swished at the air where she so often felt something.  But how?  “where is the lamp?” she asked out loud. ” It’s…” she struggled for the right word, since ” lost” did not seem to fit the situation. Her lamp could not be lost, nor was such an idea possible. It was there last night, so surely it had to be here this morning.  “p’raps I’ve been dreaming. Yes!” , she thought , ” I must be dreaming! S’pose I’m  lucid..”. Suddenly, she became very exited, for it had been a very long time since she had last had a lucid dream. Quickly, she  thought of flying, worried that her lucid state would fade, but did not stir the slightest bit. She was definitely not dreaming.

Laura flopped back onto her bed. “then how?…” She thought, incredulously. ” My lamp doesn’t have legs, and it doesn’t have arms, so what in heaven’s name happened to it? A robber stole into my room in the middle of the night, perhaps? “But no”, she remembered ” that couldn’t  have happened! oh, heavens no! I’m the lightest sleeper around! you can’t wave a feather over my face without startling me! well, no matter, I shall take a look around to see if everything is in order”. To Laura’s shock, this was absolutely not  the  case. Every single lamp and electronic item had either lost a bulb, gotten smashed into pieces, or been thrown away altogether. The floor was littered with random piles of nic nac, bric-a-brack, bone-china platters,  and deed settlement papers, among other things.   “WHAT?!? Laura shrieked” WHAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON?!? WHO’S BEEN IN THIS HOUSE?!?” she moaned, falling onto a partially ripped chaise lounge. “I just wanted to be a simple HOUSE WIFE! OH XAVIER! XAVIER!” she wailed, chanting her husband’s name, (who, as it seemed, was not going to appear any time soon).

Trying to regain composure  she dabbed her eyes, got up, and tip-toed out the french doors and into the patio.  For a second, she froze. Not only could she see clouds all around her, but, she realized, she was In them! her entire house, and the patio garden, was in the air2

x  x  x  x  x  x  x x  x  x  x

“I must be going mad!”, thought Laura “One moment my lamp has gone on holiday, and the next, my house is floating above the ground!” “heavens help me! I’ve gone hopping mad! Insane! off my rocker! lost my marbles!-” ” you haven’t lost your marbles, madam.” said a voice. Laura jumped.  ” Blame me if you want to throw someone under the bus. But it certainly isn’t you.” Suddenly, a well dressed gentleman with light brown curls and soft hazel eyes stepped out of the corner hedge in the garden, where, apparently, he had been hiding. He smiled at Laura, then turned around and looked up at the sky. slowly he turned back again and looked directly into Laura’s eyes.  “Isn’t this just lovely? I know I’m having a splendid time! “, he said, cocking his head sideways “Aren’t you?”

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry 

FOOTNOTES

1-Edgar P. Roger-Fitzwalden is a Oxford student who currently resides on a cheap little flat in Northampton. He is your typical college student who chooses to spend his time by playing World of Warcraft, shopping at Waitrose, watching football on the telly with his mates, and running after his secret admirer, Harriet Braddock, who, according to Ed, does not know that he exists-and rightly so, for he is simply a character spun from my imagination and is not an actual living entity.

2 this story was later made into an animated short  by a dastardly movie company called pix-something, loosely basing it off of this story by Edgar P. Roger-Fitzwalden And Golden star poetry. 3

3  disregard all other footnotes. they were a horrid attempt at nonficionalizing a fictional idea, and therefore have been written for the enjoyment of the reader only.

Four limericks

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Four limericks

1.

I once took a trip to an isle

who’s native young girls had no style

they would walk to the zoo

dressed in rags and one shoe

(for the other was lost back one mile)

2.

On the side of a lake called Gadib

is an orphan still stuck in his crib

all surrounded by muck

and quite terribly stuck

without water or clothing or bib!

3.

when  you closely inspect through my room

you will see it’s in need of vaccuumme

all my sheets are a mess

(mom expects nothing less)

and to clean it is surely my doom!

4.

As I study alone for a test

I do find that it seems to be best

if I stand on a tree

with my leg to my knee

and the yoga takes care of the rest!

 

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

 

 

THE LAST SPY

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After the great boating accident of 1972, my friend  Therissa and her husband, John, moved out to a little farm in Indiana to escape from city life, and to prevent their identities from being revealed. It was an unpleasent  way to say goodbye, especially because they had managed to rid themselves of phone numbers, social security numbers, birth sertificates, and family history. I, on the other hand, grudgingly moved back to live with my mother, who had heard all about my misadventures with the government. She was the type of woman who would posses an AK-47 and not be afraid to use it; especially on her loved ones.

Copyright 2012 Golden Star Poetry