62: Relative Silliness

Prompt #62 is to start with the eight words...

A funny thing happened on my way to a parade last Carnival. Actually, several funny things happened.

The whole family went to downtown New Orleans after church to see what we could of the parades. There were several that day. We parked near the Superdome, walked through the Hyatt Regency and then headed down to see where we could find a place to watch.

So there we were, many blocks away from St. Charles Avenue or Canal Street, and there's a guy walking down the street carrying a trombone. That's not the kind of thing you see in most major cities.

I mentioned the trombone player to my oldest, and he said he didn't notice.

I don't think there are many places where you'll see a trombone player walking down the street and not notice.

But that wasn't the funny part.

We walked down to St. Charles Avenue, but it was just too crowded. There might have been room for one or two people, but not five, at least not together. So, we headed toward Canal. Canal is a much wider street than St. Charles, and the parade does a loop, so there's a lot more space for spectators.

We walked back a block or two, and then walked parallel to St. Charles toward Canal. We were not in a real hurry since it was between parades.

Along the street, walking the other way, comes a guy dressed like a clown. Not just a clown, but more like a court jester. No, more like the joker from a deck of cards. He is in costume from the top of his pointy hat the the ends of his pointy shoes, and he was wearing white face makeup.

"You know," he said to his normally-dressed friend as he walked by, "the farther we get from the parade route, the sillier I look."

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

61: A Few Relatives

 This prompt is to write 50-word-or-less profiles of 5 to 8 relatives. Here are a few folks my kids never got the chance to meet.
 

Dad: I never asked him, but I think the kids would've called him Papa Ruppe'. Once he was offered a very high-paying job, but it meant traveling too much. He wanted to be there for us. His whole life, I don't think he ever talked down to me.

Uncle James: He played trumpet, professionally when he was younger. When we were little, we believed he decorated every house in town except ours. I don't know where that came from. He was almost deaf by then time I knew him. When he watched the Three Stooges, it sounded like a gunfight.

Pardner: That was my grandfather. He called everyone Pardner, and everyone called him Pardner. He bet on the horses, and taught us kids to play poker. "Don't tell your mother," was his favorite line. He went nearly blind. He laughed all the time. He loved Johnny Bench and the Cincinnati Reds.

Baby: My Aunt Ruby (who we called "Baby") loved to cook. She made the best jumbalaya ever. Sometimes, she would to our house to make some. She'd constantly be thinking she screwed up. She never did. When I went to college, she asked what kind of slop they had there.

Nana: My grandmother wanted to be a Southern Ladies. She even married Rhett Butler (see Pardner above). Only it wasn't 1860. She got every doctor in town to prescribe her Valium for her nerves. She liked it when I played "You Light Up My LIfe" on the piano.

Uncle Wade: He was Dad's brother. Uncle Wade was a fireman. We went camping once, and it rained buckets. We used to have fun with him, and say he brought the rain. One time we were driving by his house, and I swear there was a little black cloud hovering over it.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

60: Howard Cosell's Kangaroo

Prompt #60 is to write about a big lie. Actually, it says to write about the biggest lie I've ever told. That'll be this one.

It all started one fine spring day when I happened upon legendary sports announcer Howard Cosell, taking a stroll by the West Napoleon drainage canal.

I asked him what he was doing, and he said that he lost his pet kangaroo and didn't know where it went. I told him that kangaroos come from Australia. I asked him if he looked there.

So, we got on a plane and flew to Australia.

Or, we would have if the pilot hadn't gotten an inner ear infection from waltzing with a woman named Matilda. He lost his sense of direction and we ended up in Canada.

Now, it turns out that there was a Canadian at the airport who had a kangaroo that looked just like Howard's. She found the kangaroo piloting a gondola on a canal in Venice and wondered whose it was.

Since Howard was looking for his kangaroo near a canal, we decided it must be his.

So, I got back in the plane to go home.

This time, I gave the pilot directions so that we'd go home to New Orleans.

When we landed in London, I talked to a young man who was walking around Hyde Park, looking for a  swimming pool.

I told him that he should probably go back to America where there are lots of pools.

He took my advice and returned across the ocean, only to return many years later, to win several gold medals. 

That man was Michael Phelps.

And this was a HUGE lie.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

59: Bundle of Joy

Prompt 59 is to write about a joyous moment. It's been a while since I wrote a poem.

It's being who you are,

And forgetting who you are.

It's watching someone happy,

And being happier than them.

It's worth looking for,

And really hard to find.

Sometimes, it's impossible to understand.

Sometimes, it's incredibly simple.

It's a gift from God,

Where you might not think of "God" at all.

It's making a difference,

Even when it doesn't look like much of a change.

It's over too soon.

It never ends.

When I seek it,

Often enough

I find it.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

58: The Truth, as Told by a Drunk Man

The prompt is to write about what a drunk guy at a bar says when he takes a liking to me and tries to tell me "the truth."

I like you, fella'. I like you a lot. You're what they call... what they call... what do they call you?

Look, buddy, maybe I can call you a cab or something. It looks like you've had enough.

A good guy! You're what they call a Good Guy!

Well, thanks, man, but I...

No no no. You're a Good... Guy. So I'm gonna tell you something you should know.

I...

No, you should know this! You should know the Truth! Can you handle the Truth?

I've already got a church.

Of course you do! You're a Good Guy! The Truth I'm talkin' about isn't what they teach in church.

Let me call you that cab.

The Truth is that you've got to know what you want, 'cos nobody else... nobody else... (Hand me a napkin, will you buddy?) You gotta know what you want, 'cos nobody else is gonna care as much as you. Nobody else is gonna be as disappointed if you don't get it. That's the Truth. ... Nobody ... nobo-- ...

Fella? Mister? Damn it, he's passed out.

What a jerk! Maybe if he stopped playing like whatever he wants is The Truth, he'd be able to buy a clue.

Anybody here know this guy, and how to get him home?

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

57: Olympic Dreams

The prompt this time is to write a story using a few phrases: plastic bottle, hockey puck, crumpled note, dirty handkerchief, unhinged door.

The Olympics just ended. I love watching them, especially the games we Americans don't get to see much. But my friend Merrill at Sunday school this week helped me to remember a lot of other people...

Coach Janice had been expecting this conversation.

Kelly walked into Janice's office and closed the door.

No one ever closed the door unless their world was becoming unglued. The girls left the door open to complain, to celebrate, to thank her, to curse her, to give her news and to give her grief.

They only closed the door when everything was falling apart.

Janice nicknamed it the Unhinged Door. It only closed when someone was unhinged.

Kelly threw a crumpled note onto Janice's desk and barked out her indignation.

Janice didn't read the note. She knew what it said. Kelly didn't get the scholarship, or Kelly wasn't accepted, or Kelly didn't qualify. Kelly didn't make it.

The note politely said that Kelly's gymnastics career was over. Kelly's dream was dead. Kelly would never hold a gold medal in her hand while they played her national anthem.

Kelly was angry, but it wasn't real anger. It was a fake anger, and anger she'd been taught. It was the anger she'd been told to feel when she fell off the beam. It was the competitive anger her teammates, her parents, her coaches had taught so that she could face failures, big and small, and put it behind her.

Kelly had been taught an anger that could effectively cover her pain, and hide the little thing that died inside her 

every 

   single

      time.

Coach Janice let Kelly talk. She didn't ask questions, she didn't try to tell her how to feel or what to do. Kelly had a lot to say, and Janice fully intended to listen to every word. There was not much more she could do for Kelly now.

Kelly was a very good gymnast. She loved the sport and she loved the competition and it showed. She loved winning, but she also loved flying over the vault or tumbling across the mat. She was very, very good.

But there are thousands of girls in the world who are very, very good. Only three of them every four years get to stand on a medal platform in front of the world. Kelly would not ever be one of them.

Kelly stopped to take a sip from the plastic bottle of water she had in her bag. Janice did not fill the silence.

When Kelly asked Janice if she was listening, Janice assured her that she was. When Kelly asked if Janice understood, Janice would say she did or she would say she didn't, whichever Janice thought Kelly wanted to hear.

Janice did understand. She didn't understand everything, each moment like this was different, but she knew the contours and curves.

After a half-hour of Kelly yelling and cursing and blaming her parents and blaming her teammates and blaming her friends and blaming Janice and blaming the people who wrote the crumpled note, after all that, Kelly started to cry.

Janice had Kleenex, but Kelly pulled a dirty handkerchief from her bag, stained with make-up and the tears she cried earlier, before she saw Janice, before she remembered to be angry.

Kelly told Janice that all she ever wanted was to win gold at the Olympics. She'd tried as hard as she could, she'd wanted it as much as she could. She'd gone from sleep to practice to school to practice to homework to sleep every day, knocked around her life like a hockey puck, always at full speed. Smack smack smack.

She'd go to a movie once a year or so. She'd get to sleep late maybe once a year. She didn't read what she didn't have to for school. 

Kelly worried about her parents. They'd sacrificed so much. She'd run them nearly as much as she'd run herself. They had so much faith in her. They'd spent so much money on her. They'd believed in her even when no one else did. What was she going to say to them? What was she going to say?

Then, Kelly started apologizing to Janice, telling her she was sorry for not being the gymnast Janice deserved, for taking up her time and being such a downer.

Janice finally spoke, silencing Kelly's continued pleas.

"Don't you ever apologize for the time you spent on my team or with me!" Janice said in a voice that was calm and firm. "You've been nothing but a gift and a blessing to me and this team. Your parents are lucky to have a girl like you, and they know it."

"Gold, silver, bronze," Janice continued. "What are they? They show accomplishment, yes. They show excellence, yes. But their glittering blinds people to all the excellence, all the accomplishment there is that doesn't glitter like some tawdry showgirl."

"You have given your best every day," Janice said. "You've proven to yourself and to the world that you are an amazing girl and you are becoming an amazing woman."

"Gold, bronze, silver," Janice said, allowing her voice to rise just a bit. "Forget them. They aren't for you, but there is so much more that is. You've flown through the air and made people gasp in amazement."

"Now go!" Janice said. "We're all watching to see what wonders you do next!"

Kelly got up, walked around the desk and hugged Janice. Then she opened the Unhinged Door and left with a thank you.

Janice had given something like that speech dozens of times. She believed it every time. The girls were all different, of course. Some were headstrong, some were meek. Some had been injured, many more were just not as good as they'd dreamed they were. They all ended up apologizing. None of them needed to.

Just as Janice didn't need to apologize all those years ago when Coach Flannery gave her that same speech.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.
This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

55: Not the Author

I confess to be somewhat puzzled about Prompt #55. It is to write a 150-character character sketch of someone named "Margaret Mallory". What's puzzling is that there is a published author named Margaret Mallory. She writes romance fiction.

I hope that it is obvious that this profile of a fictional woman is not of THAT Margaret Mallory. It should be even more obvious that my daughter's version of this profile is also not THAT Margaret Mallory, unless she's also a particularly cool superhero.

Dr. Margaret Mallory, Ph.D. is not that Margaret Mallory. She's a marriage counselor in Memphis, Tennessee.  To be honest, she's a bit ambivalent about having the same name as a successful romance novelist. It gets her business, but she's tired of explaining.

Ironically, she's married to Rev. Ben Bova, a Congregationalist minster who is not the famous science fiction author. They've been married five years and have no children, at least not yet.

Maggie and Ben really like movies. They often spend entire weekends watching one movie after another on DVD or online. Sometimes, they go to the theater, but they prefer staying home and cuddling. They like almost any kind of movie, except that Maggie doesn't like westerns at all, and Ben can't stand Eddie Murphy.

Maggie's family is from Chicago. She loves her mother and father, and she looks forward to talking with them each week after the Bears game.

[Dear Ms. Mallory the author: Since you happened by this page, I want to wish you the best, and give my my hopes and prayer that you are still having fun writing.]

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

54: Freewrite on Pride

The prompt is to do a 5 minute freewrite on a human attribute for "pride". I'm going to start with the word. (A freewrite is where I just write for 5 minutes, just keep typing. I don't correct grammar or spelling or even make sure it makes sense. To be nice to the reader, I went back after I was finished and cleaned up the spelling and punctuation, but I didn't edit for content, so it still might not make much sense.)

"Pride goeth before a fall," it says somewhere in the Bible. Mom always used to tell me that, over over again. Mom really didn't want me to be a proud person, someone who was so stuck on himself that no one ever liked him and people always thought he was a jerk. Pride was always wrong.

I don't think that way anymore. I think pride is wrong a lot of times, and certainly something to be careful about, but it's not bad in and of itself and sometimes it's a good thing. I'm proud of what I've done in many situations. Not  that only I could do it or that I'm better than everyone else, but I just think I did something good or pretty or whatever and I think it's good for me to be proud of it.

I wrote a story yesterday that was sort of meant to be kind of silly, but one character, Practical Guy, was a kind of voice of reason that no one listens to. He actually says what I think in the story.  I wonder if that's not a kind of pride. I didn't invent him to be my voice, just kind of a foil to the silliness of the situation, a straight man of sorts, and a guy who could bring attention to some of the more subtle gags. Still, I wonder if that's how I see myself: a guy who speaks sense when everything's silly, and who is roundly ignored.

If so, that's not a really good kind of pride.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

53: Crisis at Heroes' Hall

The prompt today is to write about what I'd cook for an enemy.

"HEROES, ASSEMBLE!"

In the council chambers of the Hall of Heroes, the Defenders of Good gathered. They flew, ran, dug, and teleported in to their places around the Table of Justice.

"Thank you for coming, men and women of power and truth," said Radio Voice, the leader of the group. "The Metropolitan Ensemble of Heroes has urgent business."

"Is this about the changing the name?" asked Practical Guy. "You know, the acronym MEH is not really the best..."

"No," interrupted Radio Voice, his golden tones filling the room. "We are here to discuss... finances!"

"Oh, man!" said Practical Guy.

"Yes?" said O Man, rising to his feet. "You called?"

"No," Practical Guy said, "I didn't mean..."

"Perhaps I can assist you with surprise," said O Man. "Oh!"

"No," Practical Guy said, "it's just..."

"Or disappointment," O Man said. "Oh."

"No," Practical Guy said.

"Or amazement," O Man said. "Ooooh!"

"NO," Practical Guy shouted. "I don't need you, O Man! I'm just disappointed that we're going to talk about finances again."

"Oh," said O Man, and he sat down.

"But we must discuss the financial situation," said Pencil Pusher. "There are serious concerns about our debt burden and the lack of fluidity in our stock portfolio."

"Where's Red Hot Chili Chick?" shouted Miss Direction.

"She's tied up in Legal," said Pencil Pusher. "Some kind of trademark problem."

"Everyone calm down," said Radio Voice, and his dulcet tones soothed the gathered Heroes. 

Radio Voice continued. "You all know that we are in deep financial trouble. People are not calling us for help anymore."

"Calling ourselves MEH doesn't help," said Practical Guy under his breath.

"We need to find some way to make ends meet," Radio Voice continued, "and some of the other hero societies have made things work by reaching out and breaking down walls to other societies of super-humans."

"Wait," said Captain Oblivious, "what are we talking about?"

Radio Voice continued, "I think we should reach out to the World Team of Fiends."

"Another group that didn't think about their acronym," Practical Guy said.

 

"Ingenious!" cried Pencil Pusher. "The WTF could help us with our maintenance costs by sharing our janitorial staff. We could get by with half as many people!"

"What???" cried Underpaid Woman.

"The question is," continued Radio Voice, "how do we reach out to them?"

"Maybe we can do something good with them," said Practical Guy. "Maybe work with Freeze Pop to put out people's burning houses."

"But first, we should council the homeowners on paying down their mortgages," said Pencil Pusher.

"I think," said Radio Voice, in his deepest, most sonorous intonations, "that we should send a team to discuss the matter with the villains and see what they would be comfortable doing."

With the tone of command, Radio Voice announced, "The team members will be: Well-Endowed Horror Babe, Red Shirt, and Mr. Forgettable."

"You are kidding, aren't you?" asked Practical Guy.

***

 

Two hours later, Radio Voice addressed the MEH again.

"I am sorry to announce the demise of the team of emissaries sent to the Lair of Evil," he said in somber tones. "Well-Endowed Horror Babe was killed by Axe Murderer and the Scary Mask, and Red Shirt was disintegrated by Kill Phaser."

"Wasn't there someone else?" asked Practical Guy.

"So," Underpaid Woman asked, "we get to keep our jobs?"

"I think we should, like, get them all to, like, come over for a, like, party or something," Party Girl said, ending the sentence as if she were asking a question.

"Yes indeed!" sang Flaming Gay. "That's a great idea! I'll go get us some chicken sandwiches!"

"You better let Party Girl do that," said Radio Voice. "How about we get some potatoes too?"

"HULK SMASH!" cried a large green muscular hero.

"That's enough from you," said Pencil Pusher. "Legal says we can't afford to license anything."

"Wait," said Practical Guy, "isn't the location of our headquarters a secret?"

***

A week later, the superheroes gathered yet again in the Hall of Heroes. There were significantly fewer of them.

"Thank you for once again assembling," said Radio Voice. "In hindsight, it was a pretty bad idea letting the World Team of Fiends know the location of MEH Headquarters."

There was grumbling around the room.

Radio Voice continued, "I want to formally thank Flaming Gay for making Testosterone Skull so uncomfortable that he cut off his attack and left, Red Hot Chili Chick for taking down Drama Queen and the entire Teams Edward and Jacob, and Underpaid Woman for cleaning up afterward."

"Do I get a raise?" asked Underpaid Woman.

"That said," Radio Voice continued, "I don't know what to do. We are still having trouble with our finances."

"Will you listen to me for once?" Practical Guy said. "If we focus on what we don't have, we'll fail for sure. We've got to do what we do well, and be willing to change a little. Let's focus on having some fun, doing some good, and making some friends, and, if the finances don't get better... well... we'll have had a great time and do some real good while it lasts."

"Maybe we can all chip in a little more," said Radio Voice. "You know, everyone increase their pledges a little."

"Hey! That's my signature pose, Practical Guy!" shouted Commander Facepalm.

"I'm not getting a raise, am I?" asked Underpaid Woman.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

52: Alliteraton Always Ascends

The prompt is to write about the "fickle finger of Fate." I'm old enough not to be able to hear that phrase without thinking of Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In and their Flying Fickle Finger of Fate Award. This is something different.

Aria-averse Americans barely believe bohemians can confidently compose dreamy drum duets. 

Edgy experts esteem Fate's fickle finger, giving generous goodies.

Happy, healthy hedgehogs ignore icky iguanas just jumping joyfully.

Killer kitchen kittens love lapping low-fat milk, merrily mewing.

Nobody's nose notices other odorous oafs playing painful pranks.

Quintessential queens quickly rock righteous roadies, sweetly strumming sitars through tiny theaters.

Undertakers usually use very vibrant vacuums while watering willows. 

Xavier xeroxes X-rated yellow yucky yearbooks, zeroing zealous zebras. 

 

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.