Tag Archives: comedy

Too Many Clothes

Posted by Piscis on

Lots of clothes

 

During a summer I spent in Florence, I would frequent a little cafe that sat beside an upscale clothing shop at the top of a hill, in part because of their marvelous biscotti (mind you, every little confection and cracker there is a biscotto, but in this case I am specifically referring to cantuccini).  I’m normally not a huge fan of them, but the ones here took on a perfect texture when dipped in the liquid of your choice.

On a Friday morning of the last week I was there, I was busy stuffing my face with almondy goodness when a tall, bearded man wearing far too many clothes lumbered through the doorway.  And I do mean far too many – as I mentioned, it was summer, yet he wore so many coats and sweaters that he was scarcely more than a misshapen ball with little nubs of arms and legs tacked on at awkward angles.  Seeing him enter, the owner stood, face reddening, pointed an elongated finger, and shouted “Esci subito di qui!” (“Leave here at once!”).

The overclothed man screamed back something in Russian, then began to advance with all the speed and hostility he could muster, but was ultimately overcome by the limitations of his vestments and went toppling to the floor.  He struck a table on the way down and sent several patrons’ coffee flying, and all of the extra padding actually caused him to bounce when he hit the ground, which somehow flipped him onto his back.  He grabbed the leg of a nearby chair and started to flail it around, but someone wrested it away before he could do any real damage.

It took the owner, myself, and three others (including a seven-year-old girl) to heft him up and heave him back out through the threshold and into the street.  As we were at the top of a hill, the slope in the road caused him to tumble down at least thirty meters, where he finally came to a rest, once again on his back.  Unable to right himself, he simply wailed upon the pavement with his padded arms like a child throwing a tantrum, screaming in deep, incoherent lament.

I went back to my biscotti, and never did find out what that whole ordeal was all about, but I think I prefer it that way, as I’m certain it’s that much more provocative without context.

The moral of the story, I think, is that absolutely none of that was true, and that you shouldn’t wear that many clothes.  It’s ridiculous.

 

Bene scribete.

The Flavor of White Babies

Posted by Piscis on

Ice cream baby

 

Ever get a hankering for baby?  A white baby in particular?  Maybe in smooth, rich ice cream?

Well, the bakery at Albertsons has got you covered, my friends, and they’ll do you one better.  They’ll satisfy your white baby ice cream craving in cake form.

You can pick up your very own baby-cake for $5.99 US dollars.  And it’s iced.

 

Bene edite.

The Flavor of Football

Posted by Piscis on

It probably tastes O.K.

Good Taste Restaurant.
Come on in and eat some food.
You’ll like how it tastes.

 

Who needs to spend all of that effort coming up with a catchy, memorable name?  Who has the time and mental capacity to remember some hip, catchy moniker that probably doesn’t even remotely suggest what’s being sold?

No, these folks know that when it comes to food, what you care about is taste.  And when it comes to taste, you want good taste.

No funny business.  No guessing games.  Just taste.  At a restaurant.  That’s good.

And you know that such keen insight into the needs of their customers wouldn’t mean much if they didn’t know what was popular here in the States, so go ahead and stop on by to enjoy the Super Bowl.

 

It's so super

 

Bene edite.

The Flavor of Oreos

Posted by Piscis on

Redundeos

 

Nabisco has been going crazy with their (often terrible) new Oreo flavors over the last few years, but the package that I picked up the other day seems to indicate that they’ve finally gone off the deep end: “Cookies & Creme” flavored Oreos.

Let that sink in for a minute.

When something is “cookies and creme” flavored, you know what that really means is Oreo-flavored-please-don’t-sue-us.  So what does that make these?

Oreo-flavored Oreos.

Nabisco is straight-facedly selling Oreos whose special flavor is Oreos.  They’re not even trying to hide it – for God’s sake, there’s a full-on Oreo in the background picture of what the flavor is supposed to represent.

Do you want to guess what these things taste like?

Did you guess Oreos?  Because it’s Oreos.  Oreo-flavored Oreos taste like Oreos.

Bang-up job, planet Earth.

 

Bene edite.

10 Minute Story: Dincton Flatt and the Perfect Chair

Posted by Piscis on

Here’s another one of these, I guess, why not.

WHY NOT.

 

A chair

 

“No, that simply will not do,” muttered Dincton Flatt, dismissing yet another chair as he wandered down the expansive aisles of the Sitting King Emporium.

“You can’t be too picky, sir,” offered his robot coyote, trotting alongside him.  “Surely there must be something here you fancy.  It is, after all, the premiere shop in Danesbury for all your sitting needs.”

“My needs are precise, Featherby.  I must be comfortable as a mouse who is – well, you must know, extremely comfortable.  And it must make me look important – but not as though I’m trying to look important.  It’s a delicate balance, you realize.”

“If you say so, sir.”  Featherby trotted up and sniffed at another seat – a wide, over-padded avocado-green affair.  “What of this one, then?  I’d say it would do your bum a service.”

“Heavens, Featherby.”  Flatt put a hand to his chest, eyes rolling over the thing in mortification.  “It is a punishment to behold.”

“Certainly unpretentious, yes?  Yet only someone of obvious importance would dare let himself be seen perched on such a seat.  And it looks quite comfortable, you must admit.”

“I shall admit to nothing.  Surely it must be as far from delivering a pleasant sitting experience as one might imagine would be a pair of large and unforgiving needles protruding haphazardly and expectantly from the earth.”

“That is startling imagery, sir.  Nevertheless, you will not know unless you give it a try.”  Featherby hopped up onto it and bounced up and down a little.

Flatt narrowed his gaze, then turned and continued walking.  “Remind me to have your reasoning algorithms refined.”

The coyote sighed and jumped back down to follow.

“Can I help you find something?” a friendly but businesslike voice reached Flatt’s ear.  A sharply dressed middle-aged woman approached him from a couple aisles away, navigating awkwardly between the tightly packed rows of chairs to get to him.  She was carrying a clipboard.  It was always clipboards.

“You’re likely to be of more help than him, I suppose.”  Flatt nodded toward Featherby.

The attendant let out a small gasp on noticing the coyote.  “What?  Er, sir, I don’t think you’re allowed–”

“Hold the cream,” Flatt interrupted, eyes landing on a tall, ruddy-brown wingback the next row over, elegantly stitched and expertly beaded.  He squeezed through a pair of plush recliners to reach it, nearly tripping over them and falling on his face, but no, gravity would not best him on this day.

“Sir?” the attendant called after him.

“This one.”  He stroked the perfect chair in admiration.  “Yes.  This is the one.  Have it prepared for me, will you?”

The attendant scanned her clipboard, offering a sympathetic smile.  “I do apologize, but that item has already been claimed.”

Flatt grew pale in horror.  “What?  No, you must be–by whom?”  He searched the chair in a desperate fit, hands landing upon a small blue tag.  Across it was written one word – a word which Flatt whispered in despondency: “Cheverly.”  He slumped miserably down into it, becoming only more distraught as it greeted his posterior with immaculate support.

Featherby hopped up onto his master’s lap and nosed his face.  “Take heart, sir.  There is still the green one.”

Flatt leaned his head back, frown threatening to unravel his features.  “Oh, Featherby, why did I build you?”

“For good times, sir.”

 

Bene scribete.