A few years ago, someone gave me a book entitled, Keep Your Brain Alive. I took this to mean the anonymous donor of this book wanted to preserve my brain in a glass jar for use in a future transplant—ala Dr. Frankenstein. 

The book contains 83 Neurobic Exercises to prevent memory loss and increase mental fitness.  One of which is to brush your teeth with your nondominant hand. I gave it shot. My brain refused to cooperate. Instead of the bush moving up and down & back and forth, my toothbrush remained stationary, and my head bobbed up and down and side-to-side. Evidently, I have an Abby Normal type of brain.

Do you have any brain calisthenics you practice? If so, please list them in the comments.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our hostess is Anne Uumellmahaye Wisoff-Fields, whose brain has been pickled-purple by the use of said color.  If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

My husband, Brad, came home with a tray of small plants. 

“The guy at Lowe’s said they’re practically maintenance free. Just plug ’em in, water, and voilà—instant blooms.” 

He also bought a bag of worm castings—a polite name for worm poo. 

“You don’t expect me to stick my hands in that, do you?” I asked. 

“Try these on.” He handed me a pair of gloves. 

They were floral print with pink rubber palms. I stuck my hand in one and flexed the fingers. Not exactly Boston Strangler quality, but I figured they’d work for a crime against nature.

For Christmas, my daughter bought me a wonderful book entitled, Insults Every Man Should Know. For a man who was once told he was “sharp as a marble,” I’ve found this little tome extremely handy. Here are a few of my favorites: 

“You look great in that Facebook pic. Did you learn Photoshop recently?

“Who farted? Oh wait, that was you talking, wasn’t it?”

“He does the work of three men: Larry, Curly, and Moe.”

If you have a favorite slam you’d like to share, feel free to add it in the comments.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our hostess is the quick twitted Muggle-Wumps Wisoff-Fields.. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

Copyright – Peter Abbey

Minutes of The Wednesday Afternoon Voyeurs Club – 7 Feb, 2024

The club met in the Two-Way Mirror Room on Bawdy Boardwalk.

Everyone wore their traditional overcoats with the pockets cut out.

Peeping Perry called the meeting to order at 2pm.

New business consisted of watching the nude beach. Due to inclement weather, the only sun-worshipers were two mermaids, both of whom concealed their breast behind shells.

“Boy, this is lame,” Jeering Jerry snorted. “I could be home watching snow melt.”

Creepy Karen shot him the stink eye. “You sick bastard!”

Ollie Olger removed his hand from his pocket. “I’m going home.”

The meeting was adjourned at 2:05pm. 

Leering Lori, Secretary

Have you ever wondered how prescription drugs get their names? Me neither, but now that you’ve asked, I’ll tell you.

Big Pharma would have you believe the names are based on the molecular structure of the drug. This is only an inside joke to make patients feel stupid because they cannot pronounce the name.

Every major pharmaceutical company employs a voodoo witch-doctor whose sole purpose is to name new drugs. 

Here’s how it works. A pharmaceutical scientist points to the specific part of the body the drug is supposed to effect. The witch doctor then inserts a pin or needle into a voodoo doll at the appropriate location. Whatever he says after stabbing the doll becomes the drug name.

Translating the witch doctor’s native tongue into English is not easy, which explains why the names are so difficult to pronounce. Expensive drugs always contain the letters X, Z, U, and sometimes Y. Sprinkling in a few Js and Ks never hurt anyone either.

To educate physicians, pharmaceutical reps offer a subscription to Medical Babbel. After a few thousand repetitions, doctors can wow their patients by rattling off even the most challenging drug name without cracking a grin.

Follow me for other Huhs?, Hows, and Whys.

In all my years, I’ve never seen a deer cross the highway anywhere near a Deer X-ing sign. Some might argue that deer can’t read, but I think they’re just belligerent jaywalkers. 

To drive home the message, the highway department should paint two lines across the pavement as a designated crosswalk. Then have game wardens regularly patrol the area. Any deer not obeying the laws designed to protect them (and us) should be pulled over and given a ticket.

Once the deer get in line, perhaps the armadillos and possums would follow suit. It would also make it easier for the vultures to find a meal. All in favor, add a comment.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our hostess is that ageless wonder, Granny Tadpole Wisoff-Fields.. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

The hostess seated us in one of those semi-dark booths that screams, “This is gonna be expensive.” I had the waiter bring us a bottle of wine and an appetizer. Mary Jane ordered spaghetti and I chose linguini with clam sauce.

Watching her suck in a dangling noodle reminded me of that scene in Lady and the Tramp where the dogs are drawn together by a strand of spaghetti till their lips touch.

I offered a toast. “To the most talented and amazing partner a nekkid man could ever have.”

She may have blushed. It was too dark to tell. 

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This is an excerpt from my WIP The Bare Necessities, which is a parody of the TV show Naked & Afraid.

At our spring Ozarks Writers League conference, Duke Pennell noticed that some thoughtful soul had stocked the men’s bathroom with a can of air freshener aptly named Man-go.

The label was somewhat worn from multiple uses, but you could still make out the name of the fragrance printed over an orange sphere.  When sprayed, it filled the air with a light, fruity scent that overwhelmed whatever unpleasant odors might be wafting in the room.

Hopefully, the manufacturer doesn’t discriminate, and I can order a few cans of Lady-go for Connie.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our hostess is that aerosol wizard Kitty Hawk Wisoff-Fields.. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

“Won’t work,” said Caynt B. Rong, staring at the contraption in the outhouse hole.

“Will too,” argued his brother, Neville Ben Rong. “Once seated, just pull back the lever to make the first wipe. Push forward, and the corn cob will retract and rotate 90 degrees. You can get four wipes on a single cob. Hit the eject button and load a new cob. No more dirty fingers. Quick, clean and easy.

“We’ll make millions!”

The Amazing Lever-Action Cob Wiper might’ve been a success if they hadn’t let hired their brother, Putter N. Rong, as chief engineer in charge installations.

Yesterday I chewed the mailman out for leaving more of those darned Home Improvement magazines in our mailbox. All they do is cause trouble. 

Connie can spend hours studying the photos and flagging items like child selecting presents from a Christmas catalog.  Then she’ll point to each one and proclaim, “We could do that!”

If the Republicans are so bent on banning books and movies, why the hell don’t they do something about the HGTV network and those books and magazines that are hazardous to MY health? I bet most of them couldn’t even read a ruler, let alone a book.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our hostess is the kinky-haired Bobbie Ross Wisoff-Fields.. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

As a participant on Nekkid & Skeered, I was flown to a town near the Teton Wilderness and met by a man named Todd.

That night, he took me and the film crew to a fancy restaurant. The waiter seated all nine of us on the backside of a long table with me in the middle and Todd, the producer, and film crew split evenly on each end. The waiter took a picture of us that reminded me of that painting, The Last Supper. 

We broke bread and drank some wine. 

But I didn’t offer to wash their feet. 

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This is an excerpt from my current WIP, A Chip Off the Ol’ Bunyan

This week, I’ve been thinking about urban legends. You know, that modern genre of folklore where false claims or fictitious tales are circulated as true.  One of my dad’s favorites regarded the pulling of a baby tooth. “If you don’t stick your tongue in the hole, a gold tooth will grow in to replace it.”

Here’s a few I’ve been working on:

• Keith Richards is a mortal.
• If a man says something in the forest and no woman hears him, he must be right.
• Mimes are known to steal Do-Not-Remove tags from other people’s furniture & mattresses.

I’m sure you must have a few of your own. Please include one or more in the comments section.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our hostess is the 7’ 4” tall Dinka warrior,  Xena Catrina Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

I had taken my son, Brandon, to a baseball game. On the way to our seats, I noticed a WET PAINT sign on a mezzanine support post. Naturally, I had to touch it. The paint was damp. 

I froze in my tracks. 

Brandon tugged at my arm, “Come on, Dad. We’re missing the game.”

But I couldn’t leave that paint to dry alone. 

“Go ahead, Bran. I’ll be right here if you need me.” 

I stared intently at the post. Four and a half hours later, I could touch it without leaving a fingerprint. 

Boy was I needing to pee.

A few days ago, I had a thought, which may surprise those of you who know me well.  I was writing my autobiography and came to the scene where Connie and I applied for a marriage license.  It occurred to me that this was the only type of license not requiring renewal. It has no expiration date. How strange.

What if people DID have to renew them and carry a plastic card in their purse or wallet?. Would the Matrimony Patrol spot your wedding ring and demand to see your license? If caught flirting, would they write the offender a ticket and make him/her explain their actions in front of a judge and their spouse? Now you know why I avoid having thoughts. It always leads to more questions than answers.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our hostess is feisty little bruin named Shewwey Bear Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

“Grandpa, what was it like in the old days.”

“Back 2020 lots of people were dying from Covid-19. Factories closed. Trucks stopped making deliveries. Store shelves sat empty. Not a roll of toilet paper left on the planet.”

“That’s awful.” Sally scrunched her face. “What did you do?”

“We wiped on old socks, shirt sleeves, photographs of Donald Trump. Just when we thought things couldn’t get worse, our family came down with diarrhea. The only thing soft enough to wipe on was stuffed animals.”

“Oh no!” Judy covered her ears.

“Yep, we didn’t call him Winnie the Pooh for nothing.”

Earlier this week, I did one of those Cologuard tests where you poop in a bowl and send it to a laboratory to screen for signs of cancer in your colon. The test is incredibly easy for the contributor, but probably not so pleasant for the lab tech on the receiving end.

After dropping off my sample at the UPS Store, I thought about all the other people I could mail my turds to. Wouldn’t if be fun to enclose one in a candy wrapper labeled Baby Donald and mail it to Mar-a-Lago? As a sentiment of my regards for the recipient, I would include a note saying “This is the best tasting candy bar ever. Goes great with Diet Coke and is guaranteed to take four strokes off your golf score.”

Who would you like to mail one to?

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our resident authority on historical hemorrhoids is Dr. Rudy Prodder Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.

Connie surveyed the wide array of odd looking items at the Asian market, then stepped up to the counter.

“What you like?” the clerk asked.

“Give me a dozen pig eyes and two pounds of lizard legs.”

“Is that all?”

“No, I’ll take one of those monkey brains—and eight ounce of shaved serpent, if you have it.”

The clerk dipped her hand in a bowl of grey matter and plopped a handful on the scale.

“Makin’ a special dish for husband?” she asked.

“No, for my granddaughter, Erika. She bet me twenty dollars I couldn’t scare her on Halloween.”