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Category Archives: Poetry

Texas Timmy and the Quid Pro Quo (Story #100!)

Whoa!  Check us out!  It’s the 100th Story of the Week!  This means something.  Oh, well, moving on.

I have recently developed a love affair with a company called Peace Tea.  For those of you who know me at all, this may seem a little hippie for me, but the fact is that I love iced tea, and these guys know how to do it.  It is almost exactly the same as Arizona Iced Tea, pretty much the only difference being that, while Arizona Teas use HFCS, Peace Teas are made with real sugar.  Boo yah.  Why am I shilling for Peace Tea on my story blog?  I wish I could say I’m getting an endorsement, but no.  I simply bring it up to let you all know that the convenience store across the street from my work just started carrying a new Peace Tea this week, the “Texas Style Sweet Tea,” and I’m so excited about it that I’m going to write a story about Texas.

If you think that introduction is disproportionately large when compared to the reasoning, just remember that everything is larger in Texas.

TEXAS TIMMY AND THE QUID PRO QUO

"I Don't Like Your Face!" art by Eric Jansen

Way down south where it’s hot and sticky

And tumbleweeds tumble the land

There lived a man who was mean and tricky

Who lived by the strength of his hand.

Texas Timmy they called this pest

For Timmy, indeed, was his name.

He lived in Texas, you may have guessed,

But Texas is not to blame

For the way that Timmy wound up, you see,

And that is the tale that I’ll tell.

You may not remember you heard it from me

But it’s probably just as well.

Now, Tim was like a train wreck

And every Friday night

He’d drink away his paycheck

And try to start a fight.

But, once upon a humid eve

As Timmy tied one on,

A stranger drank, then tried to leave

And just before he’d gone

He found a man was in his way,

A wall named Texas Tim

Who tried to make the stranger stay

But found the joke on him.

“I don’t like your face!” Tim cried,

Which made the stranger laugh.

And after a moment he calmly replied,

“You should see my other half.”

Of course ol’ Tim, he got confused

And then ol’ Tim got mean.

He’d never been easily amused,

And his intellect wasn’t too keen.

“I don’t know what you mean by that,”

Said Tim, “but you should know

I’m presently planning on pounding you flat.”

The stranger said, “quid pro quo.”

Tim got angry and shook his head.

“Stop using that fancy talk!

I’ll beat you within an inch of dead!”

The stranger said, “walk the walk.”

Tim screamed, “come on! Let’s go outside!

I’ll deal with your wise-crackin’ ways!”

The stranger said, “if it’s a matter of pride,

I’ll go anywhere he says.”

So out they went into the street

And everybody followed.

Tim saw just a man to beat,

Not pride there to be swallowed.

“Before I pound you just for sport,”

Tim said to make a scene,

“You seem a mouthy, egg-head sort.

What’s all that hogwash mean?”

The stranger sadly stared at Tim,

Then sadly shook his head.

No one knew what to make of him,

But this is what he said.

“When I say to ‘walk the walk,’

It means to follow through it.

You’re loud and brash with talking talk,

But don’t just say it; do it.

‘Quid pro quo’ is easier yet

And I’ll explain quite neatly.

It means I give as good as I get,

So careful how you treat me.”

Well, Tim had had enough by now

So he swung his mighty fist.

But the stranger ducked the blow somehow

And Texas Timmy missed.

The stranger then returned the swing

And rattled Timmy’s teeth.

A punch as hard as anything

Hit Tim’s jaw from beneath.

Well, Tim, he fell.  And Tim, he bled.

The stranger stood and waited

While Timmy sat and held his head

And acted addlepated.

After a moment, the stranger knelt down

And just before he went,

He said, “before I leave your town,

I’ll tell you what I meant

When I said you should see my other half.”

Then he whispered in Texas Tim’s ear,

“The story might not make you laugh,

But it’s one that I think you should hear.

I came to Texas in order to find

Someone to take home to my mother.

Someone that she’d once left behind;

My long lost baby brother.

She said his name was Timothy.

She said he’d grown up mean.

She said that she was trusting me

To tell her what I’d seen.

That’s why I came, and who I found

And now before I go

And leave you bleeding on the ground

There’s something you should know.

We could have been a family.

We could have had a ball.

But I’ll give you what you gave me,

And that’s no chance at all.”

And, just like that, the stranger left

Without a backward glance

And left ol’ Texas Tim bereft

Of any second chance.

So now if you see Tim drinking here

And ask him, “what do you know?”

He’ll buy you a drink and he’ll shed a tear

And he’ll just say “quid pro quo.”

THE END

Why that turned into a poem, I’m really not sure, except that when I came up with the first line, it sounded awful poetic and the rest just sort of followed suit.  Hope you enjoyed it!  It WAS the 100th Story of the Week, after all.  🙂

See you soon,

the SotWC

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2 Comments

Posted by on April 20, 2012 in Poetry

 

The Story of Linguine’s Drink (story #71)

I’m tired and I feel like writing this week’s story entirely in limericks.  And what?

THE STORY OF LINGUINE’S DRINK

Art by Josh Judd

There once was a man named Linguine

Who drank a thrice daily martini

He never got drunk

But his breath really stunk

For he made drinks with foot-long weenies!

You see, old Linguini resigned

to make drinks with whatever he’d find

So he went to a store

With hot dogs galore

(And also was out of his mind).

Now he’ll sit in the meat and cheese aisle

Grinning a welcoming smile

And if you stop by

He’ll see you and cry

“Why don’t you sit down for a while?”

Perhaps you’ll sit down to be nice

But, friend, you will not do it twice

For he’ll make you a drink

And before you can blink

You’ll know that one drink will suffice.

Perhaps you will smell the drink first

But the smell isn’t hardly the worst

For he’ll mash a frankfurter

and laugh, “meat is murder!”

And you will believe yourself cursed.

You may want a drink at first glance

It has apples and gin (made from plants)

But the first time I tried

I thought I had died

And the fright made me pee in my pants.

So, while I am never a meanie

I’ve told you the tale of Linguine

To warn you and say

You should run far away

From Linguine’s long-weenie martini!

THE END

What is wrong with me? I know limericks are inherently dirty, but I thought I could escape that pitfall by writing about something innocuous like food and drinks.  Oh, well.  Please don’t read any meaning into this poem; it’s too late for me to write something else instead.  🙂

See you in seven,

the SotWC

 

 

 
1 Comment

Posted by on October 5, 2010 in Poetry

 

Oh gosh, oh gee, it’s Moofster McGee (story #39)

Howdy howdy howdy.  Look at us, writing the story on time this week!  Sure it’s late on Monday, but it’s still Monday.  At least it is as we write this.  I have no idea what day it is as you read this.  Your life is your own, and we don’t want to pry.

So, this past week, we have been reading a lot of Dr. Seuss and have decided that, for the first time ever, we are going to write the story this week as a rhyming poem.  Get ready to witness history, folks.  Or an incredible flame-out.  We’re fond of walking that tightrope here at the club.

OH GOSH, OH GEE, IT’S MOOFSTER McGEE

Art by Holly Knevelbaard

Oh gosh, oh gee, it’s Moofster Mcgee!

And how do I know?  I’ll tell you, you see.

I’ve seen that raggedy coat before

I’ve seen that old hat and I’ll tell you what’s more

I’ve never seen someone so dreadfully dressed

I’ve never seen someone who, wearing their best,

Still looks like a vagabond, stinky and dumb

But still I am proud to call Moofster my chum!

He’s so very interesting, silly yet wise

Just look at the riddles that dance in his eyes

“Who are you really?” and “who do you love?”

And “what is the meaning of wearing a glove?”

I’ve told him and told him and told him again

“Oh, Moofster, dear Moofster, my name isn’t Ben.”

And Moofster, he smiles, and Moofster, he frowns

And when he goes swimming, old Moofster, he drowns

He’s never gone under a third time, of course,

Though he flails and he coughs and he neighs like a horse

But he won’t stop his breathing, the water won’t win

A lake or an ocean could never begin

To meddle with Moofster, to shake his pride down

So don’t get me wrong when I say that he’ll drown

Old Moofster, he’s never been one to die so

Old Moofster, he’ll go when he’s ready to go

And Moof will go smiling, shod just in his rags

He won’t take no suitcase, he won’t take no bags

He won’t take no body, he’ll leave that behind

And old Moofster’s body is all that we’ll find

And then on that day

We’ll all smile and say,

“oh, Moofster, dear Moofster,

please come back an play.”

And Moofster, he’ll smile

And come back for a while

To live in the hearts

And the dreams of a child

He’ll laugh like a snowman

And sail like a yeoman

And when he tries archery,

shoot like a bowman

And no one will dread

That he’s already dead

Because all of our hopes

Will be with him instead

Because Moofster, he’ll still have that coat and that hat

And everyone with him will smile at that

And when he is ready, he’ll call me aside

And he’ll say to me, “Ben, I’ve got nothing to hide.”

And I’ll ask him, “but, Moofster, oh what have we learned?”

And he’ll answer me, “Ben, you will get what you’ve earned.”

And I’ll smile and I’ll cry and I’ll hug him and then

I’ll remind him one last time my name isn’t Ben

And when he is finished, and Moofster moves on

The world be silent, cuz Moofster is gone

But we’ll all have the memory of one special day

When old silly Moofster came back just to play

So, though he’s still with us and looks tired and worn

He’ll go away someday and, sure as you’re born,

All that he’ll leave us is riddles, you see,

Like “who in the world was old Moofster McGee?”

THE END

Okay, we have no idea what just happened there.  Feel free to read meaning into that at will.  Or dismiss it as drivel.  Whatever floats your boat.  We’re into boat-floating here at the club.  Maybe we’ll write a poem about it someday.

See you in seven,

the SotWC

 
2 Comments

Posted by on December 29, 2009 in Poetry