Vocal Cord DNA

 

 

 



A Writer of Wrongs

 

 

 

 

Wrong place at the wrong time.

 

 

 

I thought I had one more but I was mistaken.

 

                                                                                   wrong.

 

 

 

 

 



The Curvature of the Earth

 

It's not what you thought.

 

 



Hatchet Men

It was, of course, a business decision to bring in the area Manager from Terra Haute, with his business shoes all polished.  We anticipated a soft hat and trench coat, dapper but not over done; his degrees framed and tucked under one arm.  We surely would be assembled, like some military review, and then, right after the formal pleasantries, one by one we’d be called into an intimidating, mahogany office with various artificial plants here and there; no wait – they’re real.  Of course, no area Manager would have artificial plant-life festooning their intimidating office space.  What was I thinking?

One by one we’d be summoned to see the hatchet man.  That’s what they call them you know, hatchet men, called in for no other reason than to thin the herds.  Obviously it was a task too distasteful for John, who had gotten to know us as humans, been to our homes, and shared birthday cake.  No one who has shared birthday cake would bother to polish their shoes for such an occasion as this. 

As I stood there listening, feeling isolated and intimidated this area Manager spoke to me using business words, also highly polished.  We’d gotten too big, he said.  We’d over-grown the standard model and after some time his words blurred into some Terra Haute dialect, so foreign even the fichus began to question whether or not these were really words.  I found myself becoming quite irritated standing there listening to this hired monotone speaking of us as if we were no more than blips upon his graph.  Get to the bottom line, I screamed at him, to myself of course.  He had no clue I had begun to berate him in my head.  I was mentally snickering at his business attire and began having fun making snide silent comments about the very generic artwork strategically suspended from hidden nails.

I suddenly noticed a gap.  He had stopped talking and was now staring at me.  Had there been a question?   Did I miss the bottom line?  After all this… really?

Not to worry.  He was just catching his breathe.  Rejuvenated after his much needed gulp of oxygen he fell back into his verbal cadence, sighting by-laws and presidents.  I went quickly back into my mental fog, retreating as fast as possible from this Terra Hooten. 

Nothing any of us could have done would have prevented them from splitting us up. Our Scout Troop, that day, was divided into different districts.   Bobbie ended up in District 5.  We still saw each other at school and rode the same bus and shared each other’s birthday cake.  We just no longer attended the same Cub Scout meetings.

We were bummed.

 

 

“Perhaps it’s the chauffeur’s hat.”

 

 

To know where we are helps us

find our way back -

and keeps us from running

a muck,

 

Road maps and bookmarks

a compass and stars -

bread crumbs are not

just for luck,

 

We name every planet we spot in the sky

and number the acts

in a play,

 

On the horizon we keep a close eye

and exit stage left -

as they say,

 

I’m so very lost
there’s a pain in my heart -

 adrift all alone
out to sea,

  

I've forgotten my line
don't know where to start -
 

They’ll be no moving on

to act three.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Highfalutin

  but only if your falutin count is above 700

 

 

 

Zobostic - Unplugged

What did Buddha say to the Hotdog Vendor?

 

 

 

"Make me one with everything."





Zobostic – at the speed of Write

 

 

Within the vast expanse that is the galaxy of my cognitive ability, I have discovered my thoughts to be neither vast nor expansive.  In fact, just a few light beers ago I came up with the following;

Cremation is not a right -

but something you must urn.

I believe it was that particular thought that caused me to examine my relationship with the English language.  To date, I have toyed with it, batted it about as if it were nothing more than something to be battered about.  But now, sober and alert, I can see the error of my ways.

My commitment to you is this:  Never again shall I dangle a participle; I will allow all verbs the action they deserve, and I'll treat proper nouns properly. (Some of them anyway)

Of course I may slip back into my old ways now and again.  I’m only human.  But I will give it my best, for this is my blog and it deserves nothing less. 

I leave it here, tucked towards the back of this cyberspace drawer, next to Gideon’s, to be read whenever you’re feeling a lack of silliness.  Pick it up, thumb through it.  Select anything at random and there you’ll be.

Respectfully

Your Pal

Zobostic Corwin

 

 

 

 

Never Trust an Atom

  They make up everything.

Submitted by: Sally S.

Global Legacy

What if, years after some massive disaster has wiped out all traces of every civilization on the planet, there is finally a visit from intelligent life from a distant galaxy, and all they find buried in the rubble is this?

 

 

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