One Act Daft Wordplay Play



The vigilant, diligent gent, Brent, lent a cent
to brilliant, militant, tenement tenant, Trent;
who spent it to rent a tent for his pet, pent-up
serpent; hellbent to dissent; via sibilant vent.


The End




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New Alice’s New Wonderland


Reflect on the Looking Glass; espy each Ancient Faced Clock
Where counterclockwise sweep hands, go tick-tock-tick-tock
Is this glass barrier unbreachable; doth it forevermore block?
Or have humans, yet, to discover; the occult key to that lock?

Each temporal mechanic, bedecked in crisp, tailored lab frock
Knows their beliefs can’t be berated; be belittled like schlock
Volunteer, aptly named Alice; her heroes Armstrong ’n’ Spock
Checks checklist; nears full-length mirror; she’s ready to rock!

Intrepid woman steps thru, infiltrates with one knuckled knock
Father Time waves her way, warily; in state of palpable shock
He quizzes, “Why are you here? To Revere Me? Jeer?? Mock???
Once she dispels his suspicions; towards each other both flock

She asks, “Can you halt aging, in here; set back our Bio clock?”
“Fade away wrinkles / crows feet; acne scars / the marks pock?”
“From our seen-better-days bods; can our years you lop; dock?”
“Alas Alice,” Pop sighs, “Your postulate’s PURE POPPYCOCK!!!




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Sigh… Sci-Fi?


Even had this past Wednesday’s numerology not involved all multiples of 7, I still would’ve thanked my lucky stars on 07/14/21: the very day I got my second chance to finally, fully and freely enjoy a far more meaningful, satisfying life.

That’s when the fortuitous, favorable conditions had allowed my 44-year absent, spacefaring friends to pull off a timely, unscheduled return pass thru our inner solar system; to briefly touch down on Earth (on my behalf); to pay me back for my long ago, last minute, mission salvaging sacrifice (on their behalf); to, in essence, repatriate me.

To better understand my now limitless elation, let’s begin where / when it all began; the summer of ’67; during a sweltering, steamy, Michigan heatwave; a couple hours past sundown…

At that pivotal moment, with the June Beetles repeatedly pinging against our patio door’s screen, this newly minted teenager was sitting across the dining room table from my well-versed in astrophysics father; savoring a fizzing, ice cold cola while rehashing the glum current events.

Eventually, my utter exasperation / revulsion re societal injustice, racism, sexism, classism, no-win endless wars, environmental ruin, etc. had culminated with my raw rant’s slew of Qs…

“I wonder what would happen were we to construct a spaceship to get the hell outta here? How tough would it be to get our journey to the stars off the ground? Would governmental mental misfits deny us a secure launch corridor thru American airspace? Or, attempt to appropriate our intellectual and actual property? Even bark out their ‘Blast ‘em out of the sky!’ command to the military?”

Next, in a sudden burst of inspiration, I began thumbnail theorizing; regarding the spacecraft tech capable of materializing wormholes; which in turn, would allow our crew to circumvent the Einsteinian posted speed limit of 299,792 km per second; to, ultimately, circumnavigate the universe.

Seeing how my questions had only been rhetorical; my notions theoretical, about all that was left to do, that night, was rise, yawn, stretch, shrug and wish my Dad pleasant dreams; and then head off to my own dreamland.

Well, by dawn’s early light, I found my father all smiles at the breakfast table as he said…

“Son, I’ve taken to heart virtually everything you spoke of, last night; so much so, I’ve already phoned my network of visionaries to schedule an impromptu meeting. And, seeing how you’ve amply demonstrated your own think-outta-the-box creds, I want you to skip school, today, so you, too, can meet with us.”

Well, my ability to view science in the abstract wound up “wowing” my dad’s associates; so much so, I soon became known as our team’s Abstract Artist (aptly nicknamed “Double A”). Of course, canvas and oils had nothing to do with the type of pictures I was “painting” for them. To cite an apt 21st century aside, I was more attuned to Jean-Luc Picard than Pablo Picasso.

My primary work assignments involved conceptualizing space-worthy hardware and ancillary devices; presenting these notions to my co-workers, who, in turn, would leap ‘em off their drawing boards; fast track ‘em into production; so much so, that it took less than a decade for our fully functional, starship, The Saucer to ace all its preflight tests; to be secreted within its under heavy guard, underground launch bay.

And, such nomenclature was quite fitting, too, considering this vehicle’s uncanny conformity to descriptions found within Sci-Fi literature, TV and films. Indeed, our extraordinary tech, namely, the Wormhole Wave Generator and The Shroud (akin to the Trekian Romulan Cloaking Device.) could’ve been easily, mistakenly deemed to be of “extraterrestrial origin”.

Quite the tale of two vastly disparate space programs, huh? On one hand, NASA was merely setting their Sixties era sites on lunar landings; on the other, our would-be astronauts were boldly training our crosshairs on deep space and whatever else we may encounter.

Naturally, to ensure that our mission would not die of old age and old ideas, our carefully considered crew manifest did boast a diverse, cross section of humanity; namely, the mens sana in corpore sano, intellectually curious, humane, superbly scrupulous young women and men; all committed to hand down, from generation to generation, our principles and scientific / technological expertise.

Our actual launch date was slated for 07/07/77 at 07:07 UTC. However, unbeknownst to us, we had a quisling within our ranks; one whose top priority was to muck up everything by sabotaging The Shroud, which would either totally scrub the launch or force our, in full view, departure from Earth. In other words, to leave us completely vulnerable to military attack.

My father had outed this traitor who, via a landline, was a mere syllable away from outing our launch bay’s actual latitude and longitude to government muckety-mucks. Even tho dad had severed the phone’s wire in the nick of time, that call, if traced, still could’ve afforded them our general vicinity, ergo, we deemed it imperative to deploy a decoy to lead any in hot pursuit entities in the totally opposite direction.

In a heartbeat, I had volunteered to take ‘em all on the proverbial wild goose chase; soon thereafter, spotting the flashing lights of multiple military vehicles and civilian cop cars; all emerging from the dust cloud seen in my rearview mirror. And, while my mission to mislead ‘em had allowed The Saucer to launch precisely on schedule (in full view) I, too, found myself (as expected) in the figurative rearview mirror (of our starship). By the by, our enemies did manage to haphazardly fire off several missiles, but to no avail. Ultimately, our tech had amply proven our brains over brawn superiority.

Over the course of the past forty plus years, I’ve never lost hope that our crew (now a blend of originals and descendants), would return for me; my belief remaining so passionate that I continued to unleash talents worthy of my “Double A” nickname; so much so, that my latest drawing-board-to-reality tech involves the RTC (Real Time Communicator).

The fact that these words are now posted @WordPress is proof that the RTC is now online aboard The Saucer. Ergo, unlike in the past, we’ll manage to regularly stay in touch with our recently assembled, top secret, skeletal, global network; our ground crew, who in turn, will stay connected to you, the worldwide reader.

Oh, how good it feels to say good riddance to the husks of humanity Trumpers who still flat out refuse to mask up / vaccinate during a deadly pandemic; who remain hellbent on overthrowing America / fighting AGAINST freedom; who are DYING to empower fascistic freaks who, in The End, WILL suck the life blood from the masses they oppress.

To wrap this up, I’ve now swapped out our dismal, decaying, devolving society for the glowing, growing alternative reality where I’m at liberty to explore the vast multiverse. Might there exist a deep space / otherworldly solution to our worldy ills? Perhaps even an improptu meeting to mind meld with our omniscient Creator?

Will we / can we, somehow, succeed? Stay tuned for my next update.






I’ve Got Good & Bad (FAKE) News


The FAKE Good News: Ten years ago, the Hans Nopkins University medical research team, headed by D. Lou Shunz, MD, pioneered an entirely new classification of therapeutics to totally eliminate the human aging process, hyper-evolve the immune system and bat shit crazy augment both organ and tissue regeneration. (Aside: Say bye-bye to toenail fungus!)

“Back in 2011, we began seeding the clouds, globally, with these super-meds, and, ever since, the rain and snowfall has done the rest. Make no mistake about it, by now, this process has totally enhanced all water supplies; hell, not even the most remote farms’ wells could’ve possibly escaped treatment. Every paradigm we’ve ever projected indicates the same. gradually accumulating super powers. Within six months, the first reports of our accomplishment shall begin to surface! The projected results are nothing short of astounding. I mean, only a Sci-Fi vaporizing ray gun blast could ever obliterate any human being.”

D. Lou Shunz, MD ~ 03/07/21

Shunz went on to reveal the name of the most prominent patient he has ever bio-engineered in the lab; namely, ruthless dictator wannabe Vladimir Limpdick.

The FAKE Bad News: Comrade Limpdick possesses the one and only arsenal of hand held ray guns / rifles. Additionally, having already ruthlessly and successfully hacked into our world’s top ten nuclear launch facilities, he now commands sufficient WMD to hold all 7.8 Billion of us humans hostage. Before the year is over, he intends to and will conquer the whole freakin’ human race.

FAKE Op-Ed: Hmm, how ironic that billions of immortal human beings will soon be condemned to eternity in a Fascist State.

BTW, a friendly reminder, you know, just in case you may have missed repeated usage of the word, FAKE, and this post’s headline:


Well, at least, to the best of our knowledge…

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Ashes for the Asholes!


Once upon a time… there lived a pathetic, churlish child; a bona fide, boneheaded bully, who, somehow, managed to masquerade / market himself as a grown-up.

Oh, how he loved to egg on bedlam and brutality on his playground; doing so by forcing his odious, oppressive self on whoever he singled out. Typically, that nasty bastard would, first, pit one faction against the other, next, incite riotous blood splattered brawls and, in the end, go online (ya know) just to get off while recounting and reliving the emotional misery, physical pain and inevitable carnage he had inflicted. Ofttimes, he’d end each of his thick with sadism Tweets ROFLMAO!

Sometimes he’d even bogusly boast that he was the Super Hero, who, just in the nick of time, with cape all aflutter, had swooped down to save the day!

Seeing how he had never, actually, done one lick of work in the real world, and coupling that issue with his state of arrested development, it shocked nobody when that freak would frequently wish aloud…

“I wanna be either a truck driver or a fireman when I grow up!”

Well, then came the day where fantasy, kinda sorta, met up with reality. Indeed, the little hellion even got to park his yuge keister behind the wheel of big, badass rig. Hell, he even got to TOOT-TOOT the horn!

Later that very night, with visions of vicious violence dancing and prancing within his twisted, warped little noggin, he actually dreamt in phantasmagoric magnitude, virtual reality. He was now the driver of a firetruck; not loaded with H²O, but instead with the highest octane gasoline ever refined. With each passing highway marker, he was nearing his destination: Blue City.

Upon arrival, he instantly spotted two diametrically opposed, infuriated factions. It was The Goods vs. The Goons; their bitter battle already in progress (uh, if progress is even the operative word, in play).

Coming to a screeching halt at the epicenter of that war zone, he leapt out of his firetruck, took aim and hosed down that entire metropolis. Just then, an ill-timed bolt of dry lightning (supercharged by climate change) crackled down from the sky. Whilst The Goons fled from the scene of their crime (ya know) in order to totally flout justice, nary one Good person survived and Blue City burnt to the ground.

For four fortnight, into early November, the ferocious conflagration spread all across that once great nation; only burning itself out when nary one combustible twig remained.

To the malevolent “victors”, The Goons, went the spoils of war; namely, Ashes for the Asholes!

The End


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Diarrhea of a Dictator


Once upon a time, within a homeland… hopefully, not like your own… there existed an amorphous 150kg / 330lb blob of ferociously fetid, fecal matter.

Owing to this dung heap’s proximity to a deregulation dilapidated, radiation spewing, nuclear waste dump and the multiple lightening strikes from an amped up by climate change, freakish thunderstorm, that oddly, orange hued lump soon was able to manifest its newfound superpowers, lickety-split, to take on, more or less, human attributes.

In essence, IT had become a shapeshifter and IT had become a HE and henceforth, HE became Dungy Dump. Alas, any other reports of any other resemblance to humankind would be greatly exaggerated, for he did not possess a humane disposition. In fact, ol’ Dump did not give a shit about anything… uh… anyone… other than himself. And so… it was what it was.

For one fortnight… to avoid the sunlight’s purifying rays… Dungy lumbered thru the inky darkness of night until he stumbled upon the shoreline of a nearby swamp… where he giddily slogged through the knee-deep muck and mire and even took mud baths.

It was shortly thereafter, when churlish Chad, the chairman of the Archconservative Political Party (whilst on a mission to bury subpoenaed, incriminating evidence), spotted a frenzied swarm of blue bottle flies heading southward.

As all buzzed on by, he bellowed out, “Hark yonder flies, where go thee?” The leader went into a circuitous holding pattern, just long enough to query back, in his gruff gangster growl, “Hey, yooze fuckin’ nose blind, ya jerk? Just take a whiff!”

Indeed, “Dr. Fly” (not his real name) could’ve been an ENT specialist and a shrink, too. Consider his instantaneous, spot-on diagnosis and intuitiveness… i.e., knowing he had met up with a totally impervious to corruption’s stench, shitty politician.

However, upon fine tuning and refocusing his olfactory talents, Chad finally caught wind of the situation. He muttered, “P.U., how the hell did I ever miss THAT?” He also exclaimed, “Oh shit! This should be fun!”

On foot, it took about an hour for him to finally wind up swapside. However, Chad and Dungy had no sooner introduced themselves when Chad sensed it’d been worth the trip. And, once they got to shootin’ the shit… as it were… they both knew it was love at first sight! The air about Dungy had so overwhelmed / enraptured Chad that he swooned and nearly passed out… especially whenever his newfound BFF spewed forth his verbal diarrhea… a veritable shitload of icky autocratic, sociopathic, misogynistic, homophobic, xenophobic rhetoric.

Soon, arm-in-arm, they sauntered back into town, which just happened to be their nation’s Capital. Within one scant year, Dungy Dump’s gross, grotesque disposition and malodorous verbal diarrhea / dogma had so bowled over the masses, they too, had became noseblind… so much so that 51% of them first emboldened, next empowered him.

From that day onward… no questions ever allowed or ever asked… they’d eat up whatever shit Dungy Dump fed them… and asked for second heaping helpings, too.

The End



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Breaking News! Raw Footage!

The Republican National Convention is slated to run from Monday, August 24 thru Thursday, August 27, 2020 in Charlotte, North Carolina (day 1) and at various other locations remotely (days 2–4).

While this blogger cannot disclose sources, I have obtained raw footage… REALLY raw footage… of presumptive nominees Donald J. Trump and Michael R. Pence practicing their upcoming convention acceptance speeches (during a sound check).

The in the field journalist and crew… this REALLY in the field team of professionals… should have appropriate medals pinned to their uniforms for braving inordinately odious / adverse conditions while snagging this Breaking News Exclusive!

Considering the magnitude of this stomach turning, turn of events (wink / wink –> ) I must now turn this matter over to the U.S. Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) and the U.S. Department of Labor.

According to the latter federal agency, stringent rules and regs (re compensation), as set forth by Fair Labor Standards Act (FLSA), do expressly stipulate:

“Hazard pay means additional pay for performing hazardous duty or work involving physical hardship. Work duty that causes extreme physical discomfort and distress which is not adequately alleviated by protective devices is deemed to impose a physical hardship.”

Considering the disgusting, reeking manure, which our intrepid news gathering team had encountered, most assuredly, they’ve meet those FLSA standards, and as such, have all earned every, last damned penny of their hazard pay!

Gratitude and Kudos for an extraordinary job superbly done!

By the by, from the “Ahem” Department: This blog’s fake news is loosely based on a political joke, circa 1967, where (then) President Lyndon B. Johnson and (then) Vice President Hubert Humphrey were purportedly walking thru a Texas barnyard when, all the sudden, the latter, not really looking where he was going, first, encountered a cow pie and, next, quipped, “Look boss! I just stepped onto a Republican Platform!”


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Beating the Conundrum Drum


Just thought I’d post a “secret message” in a code
that only a select few will ever crack. You know, uh,
to gleefully yank the chains of only God knows who.

Actually, this is just a bunch of gibberish… Or is it?

Maybe the real code is in these readable words and
not in the blockquoted section below? Or vice versa?

And if I say I’m a liar, how do you know I’m not lying
about that? What a tangled web we weave… ha ha!

I mean, these days, can anyone really say for sure?

OK sleuths… whoever ya are… knock yourselves out!


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Just Desserts? Just Deserts! [Part 3]

[Read Part 1 Here]
[Read Part 2 Here]


When we last left Brutus the Barbarian, his entire Kingdom of Doom was doomed… at the mercy of a take no prisoners, know no boundaries pestilence. That bloated, 250kg/550lb egomaniac, desperately ISO even one survivor (uh… beyond the one he admired, hourly, in his mirror) had taken to waddling about his palace… first inside… next outside. And he wasn’t having much luck. Not paying attention to where he was going, he had just taken a bellyflop into the royal pigpen’s mud puddle! And owing to a nearby passel of piglets, these oinkers’ “end product” had, little doubt, “bio-enhanced” that muck.

It was then and there that Brutus had his muttered “Oh sh…” interrupted by a big booming voice from above… way above! From the intonation, alone, there was little doubt someone was tsk-tsk’ing him, too…

“Brutus… Brutus… Brutus… just how the Hell am I to deal with you?”

The mentally muddled, muddied and mucked up monarch could not even correctly place the locale of that scolding voice. Despite his disorientation, belligerent Bru bellowed…

“Do with me? DO WITH ME??? Who the HELL are you? Dropeth down from yonder sycamore tree and presenteth yourself for punishment! NOW!! I COMMAND THEE!!!”

“YOU COMMAND ME? Let’s get one thing straight, my wayward son! I COMMAND YOU!”

While struggling to park his fat Fascist fanny upon the somewhat firmer, drier, adjacent soil, Brutus’ bluster… for the moment… had kinda, sorta upgraded itself to bewilderment.

“Wayward son you say? That’d be impossible… Dadsy was dead and buried the year just prior to the new millennium.”

“How dense of you… you, who pass yourself off as a Christian… to not know who speaketh to you.

“Haven’t got a clue, mister.”

“And how typical of you, too, to try pivoting our discussion away from your dense drama-cloaked character deficits… your incompetence, indolence and instability… all of which prevented you from dutifully defending the Kingdom of Doom from a deadly attack. It is indeed, stunning, how an insufferable tyrant… a totalitarian such as you… would not jump at the chance to totally wipe out a mere microbe!

“Moi? A tyrant? That’s faketh news! Every last damned one of my subjugated subjects worships the very poop I flush down my royal commode… or else! They LOVE me! They do LOVE me! They really, really do LOVE me! And DON’T YOU DARE even try to tell me otherwise!”

“SHUT The F UP… my son!”
“SHUT The F UP… my son!”
“SHUT The F UP… my son!”

This wholly unproductive “Father-son chat” kept going on and on and on… and at a rapid-fire pace that even a Mac’s command C / V key function could barely keep up with.

Brutus, who believed the entire Universe revolved around him, was obviously oblivious to the fact that he was engaging in a ferocious shouting match with his Maker. More to the point, Bru had so pissed Him off that it left the Almighty little choice but to wind up His pitching arm and sling, Earthward, a warning lightning bolt… ZAP!!! Upon striking the ground within mere millimeters of Bru… the multiple-millions of volts had singed his dyed blond, mangy mane and brows… ruddied the tangerine tone of his frowning, fanged visage.

However, having now amply demonstrated who still had the upper hand, The Voice had now taken on a decidedly testier intonation…

“Originally, my son, my intent had been to give you a second chance. Why, with the snap of my fingers I could’ve easily brought all of your subjects back to life.”

“Even Stormy Stephanie?”

“Not even in your most perverted fantasies!” But do shut your pie hole! Now, where was I? Oh yeah. Upon my having just judged you, up close and personal, well… I now ask… Why would I? Why should I resurrect the dead just to satisfy you?”

“Because by subjects need me!?” Brutus half asserted / half asked.

“Need you? You flatter yourself, you narcissistic parasite!”




The Creator of the Universe, accepted his challenge by lobbing another lightning bold… C-R-R-R–A-A-A–C-C-K-K! That near miss caused Brutus’ jawbone to tingle… so much so that it had left him momentarily dumbstruck.

With omniscient glinting eyes and smug ear-to-ear grin, God had finally meted out Brutus’ punishment.

“Commencing from this day forward, your kingdom shall be barren of all mirrors, reflective surfaces and pools of calm, standing water. Gone, too, will be your human toys… namely… NO servants to prepare fast food sludge to sate your hunger! NO handmaidens to gratify your own deeply perverted, carnal hungers! NO sycophants to, hourly, stoke and stroke your massive ego and refuel your malignant narcissism.”

So what! I can always find new subjects!”

“You think so, huh? Good luck with that, my son! From this moment forward, you are the last man on Earth. And since you fancy yourself a god, I have deemed it fitting to render you virtually immortal.”

“Virtually? Why not totally?”

“Because you will die, someday, when your Sun enters the Red Giant Stage and, not unlike your effed up fat head, expands beyond your planet’s current orbit.”

“Don’t you dare foist off fake science on me. But… uh… just for the Hell of it… how soon do ya suppose is ‘someday’?”

“7.5 billion years from now.”

“OMG, I cannot go 7.5 seconds without fawning fans who’ll idolize and suck up to me!”

“See ya in 7.5 Billion Years, Sucka!”

“Don’t go God! Now more than ever, I need thee!”

Brutus ceaselessly pleaded while standing up, once again, in the vicinity of pigsty’s mucky mud puddle.

“Just deserts, my son… just deserts!”

“Doncha mean desserts? Chocolate cake maybe? Make mine a yuge slice… hell, let me pig out on the whole goddamned cake!”

“Pig out on this, instead!”

Once more, at the snap of the Creator’s fingers, Brutus the Barbarian suddenly lost his footing and bellyflopped, face-down into the piglets’ “bio-enhanced” muck!




Stay Safe… Stay Home… Stay Healthy…

Stay Tuned, too… just in case… someday… there’ll be another Just Desserts? Just Deserts! chapter.







Short Story: The Imposter


Once upon a time there lived an imbecilic, immature, impatient, impulsive, impractical, imperfect, imprecise, immodest, improper, improvident, impolite, impure, imprudent, impudent, impotent potentate, who committed so many improprieties with impunity, he oft imperiled his empire. He also proved to be so immitigable and immune, his destructive rampage became impossible to impair and impede; not even via impeachment. While fully worthy of imprisonment within an impregnable barred or padded cell, no such fate was imminent / impending. The End?