Category Archives: dark humour

Gotcha

abstract tree_cave

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The tunnel shimmers with a tempting threat;
….its marbled darkness beckons and repels.
……..Her instinct is to flee this place, and yet
…………some hunger in her quickening soul rebels.

She stoops to taste the water at her feet,
….and gasps at fruity flavours rich and rare,
……..Bending low she sups the nectar sweet,
…………then steps into the cave without a care.

Reflections from the water light the walls,
….to.dance with twisting shadows of the tree,
……..Behind her, warning silence weakly calls,
…………But she’s enchanted by the leaping filigree.

The air grows dank, and scratches reach her ears.
….She hears an evil grunt, and rasping breath,
……..a distant, deadly scream awakes her fears,
…………then silence reigns, as if a breath is held for death.

The grunts resume, and splashing sounds ensue
….like clumsy footsteps searching out their prey.
……..Her horror deepens; she cannot construe
…………from whence they come; they echo everyway.

The light retreats and deepest darkness falls
….within the depths of that unhallowed hollow,
……..while lumbering evil bounces off the walls;
…………she knows not which dread trail to follow.

All at once she sees the apperition,
….the gnashing teeth and angry threads of drool.
……..She screams in fearful recognition…
…………the teacher drags the truant back to school.

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Gotcha… (inspired by an image I put together in an idle moment)

©Jane Paterson Basil

Odd thoughts

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Sometimes, even twenty years on, I feel like crying when I think of the father of my eldest Grandson, lying dead in his bed.

Maybe I have PTSD – very dis-ease must have a name tagged to it, validifying it, making it a bona fide mental disease, which – since they came into fashion – deletes the shame.

I have a list of such fun conditions, but they didn’t think to offer me PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder).

Maybe I’ll apply to my psychiatrist to have those initials added. The great thing about having all those letters assigned to your case, is that you don’t have to pay to put them after your name.

You can’t say I’m a pathetic worry-guts – I have GAD (Generalised Anxiety Disorder).

You can’t say I’m crazy – I have ISIP (Intermittent Stress-Induced Psychosis).

You can’t say I’m cold towards my son – I have BO (Bullying Overload). OK, so I made that one up…

This post gives the impression that I’m feeling low – I’m not. I’m having a great day, while I wait for the phone to ring, and this time, it won’t be bad news.

Time to sign off…

Jane Basil G.A.D. I.S.I.P. B.O.

PS I left out the RDD (Recurrent Depressive Disorder), as there’s nothing humorous about those initials. I wish it was ODD (Ordinary Depressive Disorder), so I could have put “Gad, I sip odd BO” after my name, but it’s not a recognised condition…

©Jane Paterson Basil

Trussed

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you trussed me like a goose to this old bedfame
you told me a lie, said it’s a just a game
twenty hours later, I’m still tightly trussed
feeling like my bladder is about to bust
I’ve tried to work loose, but no can do
it makes me wonder, why did I trust you?

The Daily Post #Trust

©Jane Paterson Basil

Terminal flattery

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Flattery may be fine when you have the time
Though it often works better with a gallon of wine
But don’t try it with me because I don’t drink
I’ll pour all your booze in the kitchen sink
And if you try to flirt I’ll make mincemeat of you
Take you to the bathroom and flush you down the loo.

What was that you said? You like my lips?
The softness of my skin and the curve of my hips?
You like my poise when I walk across the floor.
I think you’re sincere, and I could listen to more
Though you’ll only see my bedroom if you marry me.
I’ll lock us in together and throw away the key.

I don’t understand why you’re backing away
A moment ago you had lovely things to say.
You’ve changed your mind about my hips, lips and skin,
So you won’t be going out the way you came in.
False flattery is forcing me to do this to you,
Soon you’ll be mincemeat swirling down the loo

The Daily Post #Flattery

©Jane Paterson Basil

Going solo

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Dan and Ann were keen on writing reams of rhymes in tandem;
Dan accepted challenges both obvious and random:
So when the one word prompt ‘Unfinished’ came to hand,
He suggested they should pen a funny poem without an end.

But Ann was feeling angry; said she had a bad headache;
She told Dan not to be “so self-obsessed for goodness sake,
I’m sick and tired of writing silly rhymes, you foolish man.”
Then Dan determined he would write his poem without Ann.

He muttered and he mumbled, ’till the steam came from Ann’s ears,
She nimbly kicked him from the house, dispite protests and tears.
Poor Dan he felt dismembered by this sudden turnabout;
No more within he had to pen a funny poem without.

Upset by this unhappy state, poor Dan became unstuck.
He scratched his empty, vacant head; but what a bit of luck;
A ten ton truck lost all control and drove right through his home,
Squashing Ann but bringing inspiration to his poem.

Now angry, aching Ann is sadly buried without trace,
But if you look at Dan you’ll see a smile across his face;
He’s published his short ode, that resourceful little man,
In five words; thus:

Unfinished

penned
by Dan
but
lacking …

The Daily Post #Unfinished

©Jane Paterson Basil

The power of my brain

I tried to keep it peaceful
when you stabbed me in the back;
but you rose up and hit me
with a secondary attack.

So now I face a battle
that I can only win;
and you’ll be sorely punished
for your most recent sin.

because you cast the first two stones,
it’s me who gets to choose
what design of weapon
I would like to use.

Should I shoot you with a gun,
or cut you with a blade?
Should I drown you, garotte you,
or with a pillow suffocate?

Should I kick you from a rooftop
or push you from a plane?
Should I tie you to a railroad
to meet the noontime train?

Should I chop you and drop you
into an acid bath?
Should I relieve you of your life,
to avenge my seething wrath?

It’s not much of a dilemma,
as the truth is plain to see;
even when I’m broken,
you’re no match for me.

No, I don’t need to touch you;
I’m clever, you’re insane.
I can win this battle
with the power of my brain.

The Daily Post #Dilemma

©Jane Paterson Basil

10 ways to get your son to leave.

 

1. Ask him to stay a bit longer.

2.  Give him all your cash.

3. Tell him that if he goes outside he’ll probably be devoured by a man-eating she devil who will take his money and his sanity.

4. Invite your brother over.

5. Tell him they’re giving away money at the bank, but they close in fifteen minutes.

6. Tell him the police are on their way.

7. Try to have a reasonable conversation about his future, or give him some useful advice.

8. Throw his wallet out of the window.

9. Set fire to your home.

10. Throw him out of the window.

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See also: Ten ways to get your son to visit you.

NB. Free with this post! A bonus Way To Get Your Son To Visit You:

  • Borrow a phone off someone, call your number, and when he answers, tell him that if he doesn’t return your phone within fifteen minutes you’ll phone the police. Mean it.

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©Jane Paterson Basil

Ten ways to get your son to visit you

1. Tell him he’s not welcome.

2. Refuse to let his friends in – he’ll not only turn up – he’ll also bring along an odious female or a young man who’s so stoned he thinks he’s in love with you.

3. Wait up for him until 3am, then go to bed, fretting. He’ll arrive thirty-two minutes after you fall asleep.

4. Tell him you’ve hidden your life savings in your mattress.

5. Set fire to the town, leaving a narrow, unignited lane between him and your home.

6. Steal his bank card and take out all the money.

7. Go out for the evening. He’ll immediately have a crisis and call you up to say he’s on his way to see you.

8. Hell, just tell him you’re going out, and wait five minutes.

9. Tell him you have beer.

10. Wait for him to fall in the river – he’ll show up dripping stinky mud, ruin your carpet and sofa, splash filth over your walls, ask for a change of clothing, then pass out on the sofa that he hasn’t already soaked.

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©Jane Paterson Basil

Alligator

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Poor passionate Lee
hatched a lethal passion for an alligator
so she entered its cage.

The alligator ate her
but the alligator was not to blame for his nature
Lee’s passion was the alligator’s meal ticket
because Lee loved the alligator
actually
passion ate Lee

The Daily Post #Passionate

©Jane Paterson Basil

Winkle, Twinkle and Nod

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Winkle, Twinkle and Nod one night
Went to the pub for a drink
On a scorching summer evening
So hot they couldn’t think
So they took three seats by the edge of the cliff
These old companions three
but the heat sent Nod into sleepy land
Then he fell in the rippling blue sea
“Oh No! No fishing net have we”
Said Winkle
And Twinkle
And Nod sunk to the Bottom of the sea and drownded, he did, and got eaten by the fishes; who weren’t used to the beer, and they died, they did.

Winkle and Twinkle wept fat tearsgoldfish-30837_1280
until their eyes were red
Then Twinkle said, in a tinkly tone
“I want to laugh instead,”
so he clowned around and he flapped his arms
‘Til their faces glowed with glee
Then he fell in the rippling blue sea
“No fishing net! Oh my! Oh Me!”
Said Winkle
And Tinkle sunk to the Bottom of the sea and drownded, he did, and got eaten by the fishes; who weren’t used to the beer, and they died, they did.

Winkle wept for his Twinkly palgoldfish-30837_1280
Until his face was blue
All alone ‘neath the starry sky
Not knowing what to do
‘Till his eye happened on a shapely girl
and he slurred “Come home with me,”
And she pushed him in the rippling sea.
The water whispered “Goodness me!
And winkle sunk to the Bottom of the sea and drownded, he did, but the surviving fishes had been watching their little fishy friends dying from alcohol poisoning and they were wise to it, so they didn’t eat Tinkle, and they lived happily ever after, they did – isn’t that nice.

Moral: if you’re a fish, don’t taste your dinner until a few other fishes have tried it first – and survived to swim away.

With apologies to the estate of Eugene Fleld, author of Wynken, Blynken and Nod.

Written for The Daily Post #Twinkle

 

©Jane Paterson Basil