Cara considers herself a cool chick with chic taste of the highest pecking order. Chanel No. 5, her signature scent, leaves a come-hither fragrant trail. To amp up her avant-garde style and complement her charm, she decides to try a new procedure. One that cements her credence of being the ultimate trendsetter not only in clothes, but also in cosmetics. A believer in all things natural (even though she never goes au naturel), she has herself implanted into her favorite flowering plant – the rose. Rain or shine, she always has a rosy demeanor.
“Make your bed,
Cook your meals,
Fold your laundry,
You’re on your own now,
So . . . mom up!”
Bro’ to Bro’:
“Buy your own beer,
Ask her out,
Pay your way,
You’re a big boy,
So . . . man up!”
Jamaican to Tourist:
“Quit reading your emails,
Hold your calls,
Order a cocktail,
You’re here to chill,
So . . . yeh mon up!”
Awakened by a full bladder, Lola scrambles out of bed when she realizes her alarm clock didn’t go off. She has a meeting to facilitate at the federal building and not much time to spend showering off her sleepiness. After barely toweling herself dry, Lola grabs what she thought was a pair of underwear but sees now it’s a pair of tights. Immediately, she pulls out a skirt suit and a blouse from her closet and puts them on. She then dons the pair of tights. As she takes a step, she feels the garter of her tights slip. Thinking quickly, Lola cinches a leather belt around her skirt to help hold up her tights. Proud of her simple solution, Lola dashes out.
As soon as Lola reached her building, she goes inside and is alarmed to find a line of people of starting to form. Then she remembers the security to enter the upper floors uses X-ray machines like those found at the airport. Soon it is her turn. Hurriedly, she places her purse, jacket, and briefcase in the bin on a carousel. She then walks between the sensor poles, which beeps.
“You have to take off your belt, ma’am,” the security officer extends his hand out to take the belt from her.
Conscious only of the time, Lola unbuckles her belt and gives it to the security staff.
As she steps forward, Lola is aghast at how quickly her tight schedule and loose tights lead to her downfall—right down to her ankles. No X-ray machines required.
Sermon 1: The Sinner
“Boo-hoo . . .”
Sermon 2: The Devil
“Hiss . . .”
Sermon 3: Fire and Brimstone
“Hiss . . . boo . . . ahh!”
The meeting adjourned and the people started getting up to leave the Boardroom. As Sarah rounded the table, heading toward the door, she saw the CEO, who had just gotten up from the table, walk toward her.
“What do you think of the new way to approach our target market?” The CEO asked as he neared her. Sarah walked back toward the table as he moved in closer, extending his right arm. At first anticipating a handshake, which never appeared, as Sarah drew closer to the CEO she then figured he intended to hug her. Not really knowing what to do and hoping to avoid any personal display of office emotion, she reached out first to deflect his extended arm, wrapping her left arm around the CEO’s waist in the process. Then she lightly patted his back. Suddenly she saw from her peripheral vision that he had been reaching over to push the chair that was near her back under the table. So much for the hug.
Subtly stepping back from the CEO, Sarah enthusiastically voiced her thoughts about the meeting. Then she asked some questions, hoping he would fail to notice, or forget, that she had nearly embraced him. Toward finishing their brief conversation, Sarah reiterated her excitement about the business strategic changes, as she subconsciously weighed the importance of making some changes of her own–like being more aware of her blind spots.
Get ye thee to SlasherMonster Magazine, a mean scene of wackiness and streaks of raciness. Relax for a change; shed your worries and share some funnies.
Here’s a sample of my silliness:
Is such a whyner.
“Why you do dis?”
“Why you do dat?”
“Why you . . .”
With my Weedwacker,
I whack off the head of Mr. Whyner.
Silence is golden,
My glass bong I be holdin’.
For hours I smoke my wacky weed;
I hear a voice – Why am I a bad seed?
Some days are serious and call for decorum. Well, that ain’t happening at SMM this weekend, so go right ahead and throw all that classiness out the window—it’s time to get wacky and maybe a tad obnoxious, too! Pour out all the goofiness from your pores…let it soak into the cyber pages of SlasherMonsterMagazine.
Do you have a wacky poem to share? Perhaps a loony limerick you want to rap? Don’t be shy! Come on over to our house, baby, and let it rrrrrrrip.
Whoa! Things are going to get a little wacky—participate in the SMM event and you’ll have a chance to win a wacky magnet. Let’s face it…you’re crazed, amazed and dazed. Is your refrigerator looking a little too normal? Don’t worry! Ryn’s wacky magnets are full of unique character, just like you!
Give a warm welcome to our ghoulish host, Karina Pinella, who also happens to be insane………
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The Garden Hall Room at the Radish Hotel is brimming with activity. Laughter and excited conversations rise above the music. A classic color-changing jukebox is playing a 1960s song by The Platters, Under the Boardwalk. Atop a long banquet table is a generous spread of various foodstuff. A variety of fruits are gathered together, focused on their own animated chatter among themselves, as the following snippets are overheard:
Bananas: We about peeled when we learned we won for doing the best split.
Grapes: You know some people think we’re just a bunch of winos.
Pineapple: I hope you know that you’re always welcome to visit.
Watermelon: My doctor planted a seed in my mind to make me think it’s all water weight.
Cherry: So one night my young lover and I agreed to go for it . . . for the very first time.
Peaches: We swear by the brand of that blade, which will cut through any fuzz.
Oranges: Everyone thinks we’re so irresistible they can’t help but squeeze us.
Kiwifruit: We prefer not to be called Chinese gooseberry anymore.
Pear: Okay, so I’m not from a shapely lot. So eat me.
Strawberries: We were left out in the fields . . . seems like forever.