Category Archives: humour

Sarcasm

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“Only Truth matters. I know the truth; there is no God,”
he proclaimed.

I placed my hands together as if in prayer or worship. With rounded eyes I exclaimed:

“In human form, you appear as insignificant as a speck of dust in this massive, shape-shifting galaxy, which, in itself, is comparable to another – albeit larger – speck of dust floating amid the infinite galaxies beyond, and yet your mind apparently contains great knowledge. Surely you are the highest God, and yet you deny your deity. I bow down to your sacred wisdom and supremacy, but above all, I bow to your remarkable humility.”

I could read his mind:

“But… but…” it said.

Ha! So much for his honours degree in philosophy.

.

©Jane Paterson Basil

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The Noise Machine

Shaped like a little nissen hut, it arrives, pulled by a grey van.

About a metre high, it is the colour of a canary and it has a round lid on top. I recognise the blue initials on the side. It is owned by the Housing Association.

A man gets out of the van and attaches a cable to its side. He unrolls the cable, puts the plug end through the community room window.

He strolls inside, evidently to push the plug into a socket and switch it on.

An intrusive mechanical Noise ensues. I think someone must be using a chainsaw in my kitchen. I go to check, but no, The Noise is roaring from hollow inside the yellow mystery.

The Conveyor of  Noise absents himself, leaving The Noise Machine to do its job of producing The Noise.

I close the windows. The Noise hammers at the panes, forces its way through the double glazing, squeezes angrily through the cracks. It will not be crushed or diminished.

I shut down the thingies and batten the whatsits, but The Noise continues to crash through, battering at my senses.

I study the yellow machine.  The Noise. must be contained in the yellow belly of the mini-hut.

I wonder where The Noise came from – what is its natural habitat?

What does it look like?

How does it reproduce?

What does it feed on?

What are its dreams?

Is it an endangered species?

How was it caught – with nets, or with a lure of kindly words or sweet treats which cunningly led it to the nissen hut, through the trapdoor at the top, and into its dark prison?

Is it well cared for, are its needs being met? I can guess the answers, and I don’t like them.

The entrapment of The Noise presents many ethical questions.

Two hours pass noisily. The Conveyor of Noise returns, goes into the community room.

Above a sudden silence, I hear the welcoming lullaby of cars passing along the road nearby.

The Conveyor reappears, rolls up the cable, detaches it from the tucks it into the passenger seat of the van, lumbers around to the driver’s seat, climbs in, and drives off, towing The Noise Machine – doubtlessly satisfied that he has enriched the lives of the few dozen tenants in this block of sheltered homes, with the sounds of wild machinery, imprisoned in a canary coloured, undersized nissen hut. Freed from the ear-splitting attack by the poor, incarcerated Noise, I am moved to pity. painfully aware that only the sound escaped; the essence is still contained.

Sometimes, an animal rescue woman brings cats and dogs to the community room, where special needs and elderly residents are free to pet them, while they listen to a talk.

Maybe the Noise Machine is intended to enrich our lives in a similar way.

It doesn’t work for me.

.

The Daily Prompt’s word for today:  Conveyor

©Jane Paterson Basil

Where there’s Muck

 

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Patrick MacTaverty was brash in his depravity;
his habit was to excavate his every gap and cavity.
His shamelessness was infamous – sickening and unpleasant –
he dug away with mild disdain no matter who was present.
He was known in local restaurants, in the corner shop and library,
for ignoring every plea and threat and all attempts at bribery.

He shovelled at his eyes and ears, and in his mouth and nose,
he flung off shoes and smelly socks, to delve between his toes.
His heights of degradation would defy imagination;
there clearly there was no limit to his inner salutation
while he wiggled spindly fingers deep within each hollow part
as if to wave a greeting to his tonsils, brain and heart.

Aquaintances and strangers always gasped and were appalled
when he loosened up his belt and they saw his trousers fall.
His naval display was his greatest pride and joy –
a showcase for his dug-out waste from the day he was a boy.
The orifice extractions drove the viewers to distraction,
owing to the acrid odour,  rotting matter and compaction.

A dog appeared from nowhere – all claimed that it was mad
when it bit off Patrick’s fingers – but most of them were glad.
Furthermore, once he ceased collecting  murky treasures,
the mess turned sweet and friable by soft and silent measures,
and out of his round belly button mounds of flowers grew –
some were well-known species, but others were quite new.

Now Patrick’s makes a fortune from the sale of blooms of class –
which serves to prove the saying true, that ‘where there’s muck there’s brass’.

Brass = money.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Red

carrot-33625__340Why do people walk so slow,
Ain’t they got no place to go?
They won’t let me forge ahead –
a mist descends in specks of red.

They strut along with bags and thighs,
then turn and look me in the eyes.
A gap appears, but far too narrow
to fit the smallest autumn marrow.

They gasp to see their small mistake
and every inch they quickly take.
“Let me past,” I boldly cry,
“or face a deadly duel, and die.”

They pay no heed, but mockingly
slow their pace and grin with glee.
I face them with my trusty carrot,
but turnip tops are all they’ve got.

Do you think I have no chance
as I begin my fighting dance?
“Why, two on one?” you brashly say;
I’ll give you two on one today.

They stand their ground, and face me bravely.
My carrot makes them into gravy.
My goodness, what a sorry sight…
I raise my carrot, take a bite.

Rage and vengeance; both are red –
it’s time to hurry home for bed.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Candid Camera.

This is just a quickie, if you’ll pardon the pun…

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She couldn’t resist what she saw
when she gazed at her brother-in-law.
He slipped her a key
thinking no-one would see
through a solid wood bedroom door.

But sometimes walls contain eyes
that record our deceit and our lies.
Their passion was brief
and their randy relief
preceded a nasty surprise.

A candid camera had caught ‘er
doing what she didn’t aughta.
her behaviour so lewd
was what started the feud
with her mother’s other daughter.

.

©Jane Paterson Basil

What’s That Word?

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Every day I rouse myself to almost write a rhyme,
it almost works almost well, almost every time.
I almost have an idea, I almost have a theme,
I almost have the words to fit into a tidy scheme.
It drives me almost crazy that I can’t finish it,
and almost every word I write looks to me like…

I’m searching for an epithet to end my little rhyme,
but now my mind is empty; it happens every time.
A goblin must have gobbled up every clever phrase
and perfect words have been mislaid within a foggy haze.
I search my mind for useful nouns as in this chair I sit,
but everything I come up with, turns out to be…

armpit?
counterfeit?
Split?
ill-writ?
Unfit?

Am I missing something obvious…?

©Jane Paterson Basil

Celebrate your Legs

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Some of us are weak kneed, knock kneed, knuckle kneed,
dreaming of much nicer knees, knees that are nobble-free,
knees that never creak, or no knees at all.
We’d not need knees if we were lacking legs,
but if our legs dropped off we’d be heading for a fall;
so we all want legs, and without our knees
our poor old legs would be stiff as pegs,
good for little more than standing tall.

The shape and the size and the state of our thighs
may be sore to the eyes, but a word to the wise –
some of us may agonise, may disguise or try to downsize,
thinking them too wide or too pied, but they help us to stride
down the roadside, hillside, wayside, on any side and every side,
waggling our backsides, or gliding like a bride.

Shins are pretty thin, their bones sit next to skin
sensitive to irritating scraping and scratching,
low furniture abusing them, banging them and bruising them,
at every opportunity, but they’re streamlined for sprinting.

Calves are often floppy, they may be thick or thin,
they often swell in places where you want them to go in.
If they get too flabby our jeans may be a squeeze,
while skirts can swing and rise up in a sudden gusty breeze,
revealing all our bulgy bits, and that is not much fun,
but the chub will turn to muscle if we regularly run.

Ankles are all angles, and at risk from hockey stick,
which with a careless swing, can deal a painful clip,
they’re delicate, and sensitive to every graze and bruise,
and when ambushed by a table leg, they usually lose.
But they’re worth all the pain and the occasional sprain,
as the moment they recover, they’re in action again,
helping you to balance and lifting up your feet,
while twisting round to steer you up and down the street.

Legs may be lanky, flabby, lean or even beautiful –
however they may look, they are usually dutiful,
taking you to places far too narrow for a car;
from bathroom into bedroom – then to ballroom or to bar.
They’re useful on a bicycle if you want the wheels to turn,
and if you didn’t have them it would cause you some concern.
You cannot do the can-can without a working pair,
and for roamin’ in the gloamin’ there’s nothing to compare
with your legs, whether hairy, freckled, ugly or glamorous —
and they prove to be an asset when yer man is getting amorous;
You can wrap ’em round or lay ’em flat or bend ’em at the knees,
or contort them in whatever way the two of you may please.

To celebrate your legs, play some music, have a dance,
jump and hop and wiggle while you still have got the chance.

I wrote this poem a few months ago for a friend, to include in a book she was writing about legs, which has just gone to print.

©Jane Paterson Basil