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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Pretty Sharp, See?

I think this has been around for a bit, but I just saw it the other day and thought it was pretty great.

Anyone with a little programming experience (or even if not, it should still be fairly easy to see where it’s going) should get a kick out of this:

csharprhapsody

 

Bene scribete.

When in Doubt

Facebook presented me with these two entries in direct sequence the other day.

 

libraryisclosed

 

I can’t help but feel there’s some sort of existential metaphor here.  (>^-‘)>

On a related topic, the closure of that and other local libraries is due to the greatest amount of snow this area has ever received since I’ve lived here.  My car is stuck on the street and none of the usual tricks have been successful extricating it.  It’s not very cool.

Except in the literal sense, I suppose.

 

Bene scribete.

Have a Better Year

Snowflakes

Another year has passed us by,
And this one uglier than most,
So now it’s time for you and I
To cheer its ending with a toast.

 

Well.  That was…not a great year, was it?

How to ensure 2017 is a better one?  Throw some salt, do a dance, will it unto the cosmos?

Maybe just resolve to be as good as we can be and hope for the best?

Celebrate tonight if you can, let 2017 be born to joy and revelry, and have a happy new year.

 

Bene scribete.

Peckin’

woodpecker

Woody, Woody, cut it out.
   Please don’t make me have to shout.
Woody, Woody, go away.
   Please don’t be a dick today.
Woody, Woody, that’s enough.
   Please don’t bang upon my stuff.
Woody, Woody, can’t you see
   That my house is not a tree?

 

I awoke yesterday to a strange knock – couldn’t tell if it was coming from inside or outside.  Thought it might have been a neighbor doing some yard work, but the cadence wasn’t reflective of any productive human activity I could think of, and it almost sounded like it was coming from inside the wall.

I went outside to find a cheeky woodpecker perched on the decorative trim on the side of my house, banging away at the stucco.  I reached down to pick up a snowball to throw at it, but when I looked back up it was gone.

It came back later.

And then again this morning.

Frowny face.

 

Bene scribete.

The Bag of Promises

No.


 

bag

 

Somewhere deep within the Forest of Meaning there lay a bag filled with promises for every creature, great and small.

On one bright and meaningful day, as woodland critters gathered around to await their chances at it, a nervous brown squirrel approached and ruffled through the bag as though, one might say, he were rooting for acorns.  When at last he found his, it promised him:

Your tail will grow much larger this summer.

This pleased the squirrel greatly, for he had chosen a very large tree as his home to compensate for the lack of confidence his currently meager tail provided him.  A large home and a large tail?   Well, the squirrelettes wouldn’t be able to resist him then.  He thanked the bag and moved on.

Next, it was the turn of a fluffy white bunny.  She sniffed around in the bag and quickly located her promise:

Your hops will be bouncier than ever this week, and by its end, you will find your one true rabbity love.

The bunny hopped in excitement and nuzzled the bag with gratitude, then bounded away.

A deer came afterward.  She hoofed around the bag and located a promise just for her:

You will run with more grace and speed than you thought possible, and avoid the jaws of the wolf.

This was, of course, splendid news.  The deer had a very young fawn and would not like to see him orphaned.  Well, naturally she wouldn’t see him orphaned, as in such a scenario she would be deceased.  The opposite was entirely preferable.  She sighed in relief and trotted off.

A cricket followed.  He crawled into the bag and searched around.  He dug through all the promises, explored every corner, scoured every inch, but could find no promise meant for him.

The cricket was crestfallen.  “Dear bag,” he pleaded, “have you nothing to promise me?”

“I’m certain I must,” replied the bag – the bag can speak when it suits it, let’s say.  “Did you try looking harder?”

It was an astute suggestion.  The cricket tried looking harder, but still uncovered no promise for himself.  “I see nothing, o magnificent bag.”  The cricket was quite despondent.

“That is so very unlike me,” mourned the bag.  “I can think of not a single reason why I would have nothing to promise you.”

It was then – exactly then – that a grumpy and impatient sparrow fluttered down, snapped the cricket up, and ate him bodily.  It was not very satisfying.

“Oh,” said the bag, relieved.  “That would be why.”  The world made sense again.

The sparrow eyed the bag suspiciously.  “Have you anything for me, bag?”

“I don’t see why not!”

The sparrow shuffled through the bag and found a promise all his own:

You will find no sugar this week.

“That is a terrible promise,” grumbled the sparrow.

“I am sorry, Mr. Sparrow.”

“I feel this entire ordeal has been quite meaningless.”

“I understand, Mr. Sparrow.”

“Just a waste of everyone’s time.”  The sparrow pecked the bag in irritation.

“Please do not peck me, Mr. Sparrow.”

Thoroughly displeased with the day’s events, the sparrow took his leave.


 

Bene scribete.