Falling Waffle

skywaffle

 

A waffle falling from the sky
Convinced a bee that it could fly.
It couldn’t, though, and you know why?
The syrup weighed it down.

The bee decided she would save
The waffle from an early grave,
So down she flew with haste and gave
A shout to raise the town.

A nearby man held up a plate
To circumvent the waffle’s fate,
But once it landed, safe, he ate
The breakfast with a smirk.

“How could you!?” cried the bee, appalled,
Then buzzed off to the clouds and bawled.
The man let out a belch and drawled,
“I guess I’m just a jerk.”

 

Bene scribete.

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O Stomach

Sick face
 

O Stomach —
You hate me today.
Did I eat something wrong?
Did I get in your way?

O Stomach —
That’s not very nice.
I’d say knock it off,
If you’d like my advice.

O Stomach —
I’ve got things to do.
I’m not making it up.
I promise it’s true!

O Stomach —
I’ll make you a deal:
You’ll get tasty things
If you don’t make me keel.

 

Bene scribete.

EEEEEEE

EEEEEEE

 

This car is…very excited to be a Prius.  Not a single E was spared.

Or maybe it’s an acronym?

Exuberantly ensuring environmentally endangered ecosystems exist eternally?

I don’t know, but like to imagine that’s the sound it makes when it’s zipping down the road, blissfully enraptured in the fact that it’s a car and can go faster than any cheetah, and never has to know what Pepperidge Farm Goldfish Mac & Cheese tastes like.

 

Bene scribete.

Dincton Flatt and the Heavy Taco

I’m going to be honest – this is not worth reading.


 

Taco

Dincton Flatt shuffled ponderously down Bendstrom avenue, eyes darting suspiciously at everyone he passed by.

“It’s far too small a day for bacon,” he muttered.

“I wouldn’t know,” said Featherby, trotting alongside him.  And he wouldn’t, for in addition to being a coyote, he was a robot, and could not eat bacon in the slightest.

Flatt stopped a short, round man coming from the opposite direction, placing his hands to his shoulders and leering into his beady eyes.  “You.”

“Me?” the man sputtered.

“Yes, you.  The very one I am accosting.  How long have you had that hat?”

The man reached up and grabbed at his driving cap.  “This one?”

“Yes, that one.  Out with it, man.”

“Er–a couple years, I imagine.”

“And how long have you been wearing it?”

“All day – what is the meaning of this?”

Flatt sighed and released him, waving him off.  The man gave a distrustful glance, but went on his way.

“Sir,” offered Featherby, “perhaps you shouldn’t be attempting to track down our hatleaver on an empty stomach.”

Flatt wiped a hand down his face.  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.  But what could possibly satisfy my hunger for justice?”

“There’s a newspaper-and-taco stand just over there.”

“Why on Earth is there a newspaper-and-taco stand on Bendstrom?”

“A question for the ages, sir.”

“Never mind.  It’ll do in a pinch.”  Flatt made his way over to the stand and got the attention of its attendant – an oily teenager with lank brown hair in his eyes (which could only serve to obscure his taco-related perceptive capabilities).

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the vendor.  “Would you like a taco?”

“As it happens, I would.”  Flatt looked the boy up and down.  “I see you’re not wearing a hat.”  He narrowed his eyes.  “Have you murdered anyone lately?”

The vendor got to work on the taco.  “I don’t think so.  I’m not really one for murderin’.  Mum would be none too pleased with that.”

Something on the front of the day’s paper caught Flatt’s attention, and he snatched up a copy.  Depicted in the side column was an all-too-familiar face.

“Cleben Render.”  A fart of a man if ever there was one, and there was one, and his name was Cleben Render.  His fiery red hair and leaf-green suit said it all.

Featherby nosed at another copy.  “What do you imagine he is doing back in Danesbury?”

“Who could say?”

“Likely the story written about him in the very paper you’re holding, sir.”

“There’s no time for that, Featherby!”  He slammed the paper back into the stand, and in the following moment, was handed a fresh, sizzling taco.

It smelled appetizing enough, but as he tested it out in his hand, he noticed an unusually generous heft.

“This taco is rather heavy, isn’t it?  Is the shell made of solid gold?”

The vendor shrugged.  “I think that would be cost-prohibitive, sir.”

“How much is it?”

“Two quid.”

“Lead in the beef, then?”

“Maybe if the cow was shot to death.”  The boy fired off a pair of finger-guns.

Flatt bit into the taco.  The flavor was loud, and it hit his gut as though his esophagus were punching him in the stomach. His colon began to rumble, and his eyes reached out in desperation for the nearest establishment with plumbing.  “Pay the man, Featherby.”  He began to backpedal.

“Sir?  You have given me no funding.”

Flatt turned and broke out into a sprint, calling back, “Oh, Featherby, why did I build you?”

“For good times, sir!”


 

Bene scribete.