A Modern Fairy Tale ... by C.L. Beck

The Early Bird Gets the Grief

Funny Stories and Humor by C.L. (Cindy) Beck

Tags: Fairy tale, funny stories

Long ago, and in a galaxy far, far away, there was an important conference. The whole area buzzed with excitement because a speaker of distinction was scheduled to talk.

Now, in this galaxy far, far away ….

Oh, all right, it was Utah, which to some people seems like another galaxy, but is actually a cool place to live. As long as you don’t mind concrete for dirt and growing weeds for vegetables.

At any rate, a man (who shall remain nameless, but for the sake of convenience we will call him Russ) wanted to arrive at the conference early. His wife, Cindy, and their dog Corky Porky Pie—both of whom shall also remain nameless—did not agree.

Cindy eyed Russ, giving him a most daunting glare—and daunting was no easy task since she was standing there in her underwear and with her hair sticking pointy-uppy-out. “Listen, do you hear that?” she said, gesturing toward the great outdoors.

Russ cocked his head, like a bird looking for a worm … which was all he would get for breakfast if he didn’t quit insisting they had to leave early for the meeting. “Hear what?”

“That’s my point exactly. You can’t hear anything. And that’s because not even the chickens are awake at four in the morning. We do not need to leave for this conference before the sun comes up.”

Now, it’s well known among fairy tale readers that Cindy never exaggerates. No, not even once. Russ, on the other hand, is prone to enlarging stories until they bear no resemblance to reality. Especially when he’s telling a lie … er, I mean … tale about Cindy.

And now that we’ve clarified that point, let’s move on. Russ pointed to Corky Porky Pie. “Look, the Corky Monster is up and running.”

Corky Porky Pie—who lay fast asleep in his kennel—gave a great snore and tucked his head against his chest. Russ would say it was to keep warm, but I say Cindy says it was to cover his ears so he didn’t have to listen to Russ. With a sigh, Russ abandoned that line of persuasion and tried another tactic. One called, “Bug Your Wife to Death.”

For the next several hours while Cindy tried to tame her pointy-uppy hair, Russ paced the floor repeating the phrase, “It’s time to go.” And every once in a while, for variety, he’d say, “Are you ready to go?”

Time flew by and a half hour before the meeting’s scheduled opening, Cindy was finally set. “I don’t see the point in being there early," she said with gentle persuasion. (Although Russ insists I tell you it was more like, "she whined.") "The place will be empty. A two-hour meeting is long as it is, and there won’t be any padded seats available no matter what time we go. If you make me sit an extra half hour on those metal chairs, my butt will go to sleep, and when we leave I’ll end up walking like Jar-Jar Binks from Star Wars.”

Russ raised one eyebrow and looked at Cindy’s butt, but with the wisdom acquired from many years of sleeping on the couch, wisely said nothing about her more than a century old firm and youthful derrière.

As they drove to the meetinghouse, traffic stood at a standstill for miles around. “See, I told you we needed to leave earlier,” Russ said, shaking his finger at Cindy. She leaned over and with a snap of her teeth, barely missed taking Russ’s finger off at the elbow. Well, that’s what she envisioned doing, anyway.

In reality, all she said was, “Humph.”

They finally arrived at the parking lot with minutes to spare and discovered the lot was full. Mumbling words that would later require washing his own mouth out with soap, Russ drove block after block, looking for a parking spot. When they found one, they dashed down the sidewalk toward the building, and in the process, Cindy lost her glass slipper, which fell into the storm drain and was neither heard from nor seen again. This was just as well, because it didn’t fit anyway, and Cindy only wore it because Russ had rushed her.

Pushing their way past the teeming masses, they tried to find a soft seat near the front, but since people had claimed entire benches weeks in advance, none were found. With Russ muttering, “I was so right,” and Cindy muttering, “This is insane. Let’s go home and maybe they’ll show it on TV,” they searched for two spots. They finally found a pair of hard metal chairs, all the way in the back where neither man nor beast could hear anything, and the honored speakers were so far away they looked like ants on a hill. To this day, neither Cindy nor Russ knows what the presenter said, and Cindy did walk out like Jar Jar Binks. Only her arms weren’t as long.

And so ends the fairy tale. Russ would say it all proves that the early bird does get the worm … and Cindy claims that the dumb bird could just as easily stay home and watch “Worms of Distinction” on Animal Planet.

------ "A Modern Fairy Tale" © C.L. (Cindy) Beck------

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The Brain Drain ... by C.L. Beck

Funny Stories and Humor by C.L. (Cindy) Beck
Tags: brain drain, funny stories

There's supposed to be an effective technique in writing called a brain drain and since I had an upcoming blog due, I thought I'd try it. The directions were as follows:

Brain Drain Instructions
1. Find a pen and paper.
2. Write down every thing that comes to mind.
3. When the brain is drained of all pressing thoughts and has kicked into creative mode, begin work on that best selling novel.

I knew I was in trouble right off the bat because I couldn't find a pen. Or paper. How could I do a brain drain with no writing implements? I walked into the pantry, wondering if a pen sat in there under a can of green beans.

Oh, all right, I confess. I really went in there looking for a snack pad of paper. I didn't find any paper, but did happen to see a bag of pretzels and a chocolate bar.

"What the heck, a little treat always helps with a brain drain," I said to the dog, who'd just wandered in. Corky Porky Pie cocked his head in agreement and sat, waiting for a pretzel—or ten. I sat down with him and pondered the meaning of brain drain. Was it an existential philosophy?

I didn't know, but the floor felt awfully hard on my plump skinny derrière, so I stretched out next to the dog, tossed a pretzel in the air and tried to catch it in my mouth. That could've been fun, except it was a pretzel stick and ...

It speared my tonsils. Well, it speared where my tonsils used to hang out, before the tonsillectomy.

"Aaacckkkth," I sputtered, sounding like a cat coughing up a hairball. "Heimlich maneuver, Heimlich maneuver," I squawked to Corky Porky Pie, who paid no attention. I gave a mighty cough; the pretzel dislodged, flew out of my mouth and bounced along the floor, where the dog promptly gobbled it up.

"Big help you are with this brain drain," I said. "And it's disgusting that you ate an already-been-chewed pretzel." Corky blinked and then pointed at my chocolate bar with his nose. I swear that the dog sometimes communicates better than most men humans do.

"Nope, I am not feeding you any of that; it will make you sick. Besides, you don't deserve any because you're making this brain drain worse, not better."

An hour later, after the pretzels and chocolate were gone and the dog had abandoned me in pursuit of a tiny spider he saw crawling under the table, I found the needed writing implements. Despite losing my sidekick to an arachnid, I proceeded to write in an attempt to empty my already empty exceptionally busy mind....

My Brain Drain

I have a humor blog due and have nary a thought with which to write it. I keep hoping that something will pop into my mind if I clear it of all other thoughts.

Hard to drain it of all other thoughts. All my stupid mind wants to do is concentrate on how it doesn’t have any topic for my blog. Yikes!

This brain drain is not working. Maybe what I need to do is go find a donut and eat it. Donuts are brain food, right? Okay, maybe it's fish that is brain food. But, you'd have to have fluff-for-brains to eat fish for a snack.

Ghosts. Ghosts are on my mind, and that’s no help, either. There’s a minor league baseball team named the Casper Ghosts. Cute name, huh? But certainly not something I can write a blog about. If only I had a ghost in my house … now that would make a good story. A ghost who ate fish because he had no brains. Ha ha, get it? Ghosts don’t have brains ‘cuz they’re dead.

Don’t give me that look.

Technically speaking, ghosts do not have brains. Unless they're spirit brains. Yup, 100 proof spirit brains. Okay, so you didn’t get the 100 proof comment either.

I was soooo having fun and now my mind kicked back into the, “YOU don’t have a blog written yet and you certainly can’t use these brain drain ramblings for a blog!”

Shut up, Brain! Take a hike. Let me finish this!

Back in the days when I used to belong to an in-person writer’s group, I got a lot more things written. Only I can’t think of what they were right now, because I’m doing a brain drain exercise. Sheesh. Apparently emptying the mind means you only empty it of unnecessary things like … did I pay the electric bill on Friday? Oh yeah, maybe that’s why I’m writing in the dark today.

Whoever came up with this brain drain idea was obviously brain dead. I’m no closer to a blog article than I was ten minutes ago. But hey, I have to say that at least my mind is clearer. Maybe.

Oh wait; did I remember to take that carton of outdated milk out of the fridge? Hmm, perhaps that explains the roadkill smell wafting through the house.

Well, who cares? At least I'm done with this brain drain. And now that my mind is clear of all unessential bits of information, I realize I'm in trouble ... I can't recall where I hid my emergency chocolate.

------ "The Brain Drain" © C.L. (Cindy) Beck------

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